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iceeckos12 · 3 years ago

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and he sees dawn before the rest of the world

or: a fucked up little au of 200. intended to be unsettling so just be warned warnings for: unreality (i think that’s the appropriate term? please lmk if not), implied self harm, fucked up relationship dynamics; lmk if i should tag anything else

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face, as though he could stop the barrage of sound just by covering his eyes. His alarm was unsympathetic to his whinging, continuing to scream its daily mourning dirge, grieving the end of another period of blessed rest. “Fine, fine! I’m getting up, christ…”

He reached clumsily for the phone on his bedside table, only for his fingers to scrabble uselessly around the ghost of its presence. He was momentarily so stymied by the absence that it took him longer than it should’ve to remember that he’d moved it to his desk, to prevent him from giving into the temptation to hit the snooze button just one more time.

Letting out another slew of curses, Martin shuffled onto his other side and reached for

A jaw-cracking yawn near split Martin’s face in two as he hunched over the gleaming tea kettle, steam beginning to pour from the spout. He shuffled his feet, eyes meandering sightlessly over the cow-shaped mug drying on the counter, the cluster of crumbs that he must’ve missed when cleaning up after dinner last night.

He hated mornings. Maybe it was the preemptive dread he felt at the thought of going to work; maybe it was because he hated having to be upright this early in the morning. Either way, he felt strangely disconnected from his morning routine, each motion carried out with habitual, distant efficiency as his thoughts raced along like a hamster on a wheel just below the surface.

It...was a bit silly for him to be worried about work, though. The stuff he was doing was interesting, and he had the loveliest coworkers a guy could ask for. They’d even offered to teach him a thing or two about artifact restoration once they learned the truth about his CV.

He drew himself up to his full height and rolled his shoulders back, clouded sigh mingling with the fog from the boiling water. Things were going well. Hell, he was actually going to get top surgery sometime in the next year or so, which was amazing considering his teenage self would’ve laughed at the very idea of being out.

There was no reason to dread going to work.

Martin carefully poured the water into the mug, letting the tea steep before adding a splash of milk and sugar. When he picked the mug up, the heat from the tea had bled into the ceramic, so warm as to be uncomfortable against the delicate skin of his palms. He didn’t let go, just kept on gripping the mug, like trying to contain the last gasp of a dying star.

Martin stared around his kitchen. The waterstains on the inside of the cow mug slowly evaporating into the still air; the crumbs that had sat there for who knows how long. The empty, blank face of his fridge.

Martin lifted the mug, and steam collected on his glasses as his breath wafted over the surface of the tea. He drew away, waiting for the lenses to clear, before leaning in for another sip.

His reflection stared back at him, a monochrome facsimile of his face rimmed in white smoke, and he recoiled, the mug slipping from

Working nine to five, what a way to make a living…

Martin stared out the window, his hand pillowed in the palm of his hand as Dolly Parton crooned in his ears. Split second by split second, he let his eyes catch on a point in the darkened surroundings, only letting his vision blur into incoherence when that fixed point whipped out of sight. It was a game he sometimes played when he got bored of reading or playing cards on his phone.

The old woman across from him let out a quiet grunt and shuffled, drawing his attention back inside the train. She was a gnarled old thing, bowed by the gravity of grief and time and life, though Martin couldn’t say for certain whether it was one well-lived.

Barely getting by, it’s all taking and no giving...

That was the thing about people watching: Martin was never quite sure if it was disrespectful to make assumptions about a person’s life based on a passing glimpse. He could never be sure if the person with the grumpy expression had a foul attitude, or if they were just a kind person on the tail-end of a truly awful day.

The old woman was knitting though, and Martin generally found it safe to assume that knitters were nice people.

For a moment he thought about taking out his headphones and striking up a conversation; the pattern looked devilishly complicated, and as a beginning knitter, he always appreciated tips. There was an unfinished set of fingerless green gloves in the back of his closet; it was easy for hands to get cold in the Archives, and the color suited

“Alright, Martin?”

Martin startled, his pen clattering to the floor. He looked up to find Sasha perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. Or, he thought she was. His eyes kept skittering from one corner of her face to the other, like a smooth stone skipping across a lake.

“Uh…” Frowning slightly, he let his gaze travel over the shelves of books, the humming lights, his cluttered workstation. He removed his glasses so he could rub at his aching eyes, and let out a deep sigh. Probably just the stress. “Yeah—yeah! Sorry, I’ve been distracted all morning.”

Martin got the impression of Sasha’s grin being tempered with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything okay?”

“I think so. Just...work, and my mum…” he gave an expansive you know sort of gesture at life in general. “Thank god the weekend’s coming. Anyway, is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to come get drinks with Mel and Tim and I after work, but…” She cut him a meaningful glance, the bottomless holes where her eyes should be boring bright spotlights into the back of his skull. “We’d understand if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“Is Georgie coming?”

Sasha shrugged. “Probably. Mel didn’t say so, but they’ve been all over each other since they started dating.”

Martin laughed. “True.” Tried to gauge how he was feeling, whether or not he was up to a night of socializing. You should go, a strangely posh little voice murmured in the back of his head, and he found himself saying, “Actually yeah, I would like to come. I could use a night out.”

Sasha clapped him on the shoulder, and the impact rattled through him like a gong being struck. The echoes of it vibrated all the way down to his toes. “Excellent.”

Martin hesitated, and then, not entirely sure of what he was asking, “What about J

“Thanks for waiting with us,” Georgie said, smiling beatifically up at him. Passed out on her shoulder, Melanie let out a drunken snuffle and curled over, like she was thinking of climbing through the spaces of Georgie’s ribcage and sleeping in her chest cavity forever.

“Not a problem,” Martin replied, scratching the back of his neck.

To be honest, waiting with her was as much for his benefit as theirs. At first, he’d thought it was just stress; now, he was very sure that something was wrong. It wasn’t anything specific, or even bad; more like there was a sepia camera filter tinting the world dusty and nostalgic.

After his third drink, he’d looked into Tim’s laughing face and thought he might burst into tears. And he still didn’t know what Sasha was supposed to look like.

But he didn’t want to worry her, so he just bit his lip and rocked back and forth on his heels, even though the motion made his head spin that much worse.

(Maybe he needed to take a couple of days off. Have a lie-in. But that would—that would delay his work. The Institute’s work. Delays were bad; he felt strongly enough about that to carve it directly into his skin so that he’d never forget. He could roll down his sleeve and take a peek at it whenever his motivation slipped, like checking a watch for the time.)

For lack of anything else to say, he nodded toward Melanie. “She’s really out, huh?”

“She’s always been a lightweight.” Her tone was wry, but her eyes were soft and fond as she brushed Melanie’s bangs back from her face. “Never gets hungover though, the lucky bastard.”

“The nerve!” Martin said, affecting offense, which sent them right into another giggling fit.

Once he got his breath back, Martin mentioned offhand, “You know, considering how similar they are, I’m surprised that her and J̷̧̱̜͕͕̤͉̣̺̺̝͖̠̹̜͙̣͉̩̺̤̟͉͓̞̹̗́̆̂̋͆̊̎́͂̑͋̌͊͘̚͠ͅo̶̧̨͕̖͔̬̖̝̪͚̻̟̠̜̣̰̅n̶̥̉́̎͑̀͂͆̿̾͛̾̔̐͌́̅̂͂̒̆̐́͊̄̾̍̅̅͝

“Stop it!” Martin screamed, grabbing the mug from the counter and throwing it across the room. It shattered against the wall, scattering shards of ceramic across the floor. “I know

“What you’re doing,” Martin gripped the bathroom counter, ignoring the persistent ringing of his alarm, staring deeply into his reflection, “Stop it, stop it, nononon̴̡̡͚̮̠͙̻͔͎͈̜̓̈́̈́͜͜ͅǫ̸̯̠̱̖̲͙͍͎͒̇̑͒ṅ̶̨̩̳̩̝̹̳͎͈̬̦͆́̈́́͐̏̈́̕͝͝o̸̡̻̱̗̥̮̙̳̞͗̄͋̈́̀͝n̸̢̛̟͙̘̱̩͕̦̫̤̮͆͑̊͋́̂̽͜o̶̘̱̗̘̘͑̿͜ņ̶̥̞̠͕͓̠͔͚̮͈̬͕̀͗̄̓͑͑͛̕ͅő̸̮̫̓͌̾̌͋́̂̏̒̃̃̄̚n̵̗̫͕̺̻͔̭͖̉͒͗̀̈́̃̅o̴͓͉͉͗͋̎̕—”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s okay—”

“No!” Martin shrieked, shoving Jon’s hands away, skittering backward across the broken and cracked stones of the Panopticon. Through the arched windows, the sky was a poisonous green and black, and multitudes of eyes orbited the room, watched his every movement with sickening fascination. “Just—stop.”

Luminous gaze weary and resigned, Jon did as he was bid, dropping back onto his heels.

Rubbing sweat and grime and tears from his face, breathing harshly through his mouth, Martin took a moment to remember where he was, why he was here. It always took a moment for everything to come back.

As though unable to keep silent any longer, Jon asked, “So what was it this time?”

“Don’t,” Martin hissed, dragging his hands through his greasy hair.

Though his expression went mulishly annoyed, Jon raised his hands placatingly, a silent, alright, you win. It was a familiar gesture, one that he’d done so many times while they were living in Scotland, while they were traveling the devastated landscape of the apocalypse. It made Martin ache for when things were simpler, when his heart didn’t just feel like one big bruise.

He gently set the thought aside, and turned a more assessing eye on the Panopticon. Normally the changes were insignificant, but something thick and red and black had started to coil around the windows, weaving in and out of the floor, cracking the stonework. Martin traced the strange things with his eyes, frowning—

“Christ, Jon,” he whispered in horrified realization. “Are...are those corpse roots?”

Jon bobbed his head. “They’ve long since overtaken the rest of London. It’s just us, now.”

Martin sucked in a long, frustrated breath through his teeth. There was no point trying to talk any sense into Jon, not after so long, and force would only result in immediately getting kicked back into that horrible dream world.

“And the others?”

Jon shrugged, tracing the cracks in the earth with his fingers. “Still alive, and living happily in the dream I made for them.” He didn’t say, unlike you, but the implication was so loud he might as well have screamed it.

“Shut up,” Martin muttered, pushing to his feet and limping to one of the windows.

Corpse roots, as far as the eye could see. They covered the city of London in a blanket of tangled black, so thick that it was impossible to see the buildings beneath.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, sagging against the side of the window, too tired to be angry.

When the silence persisted a second too long, Martin turned around to find Jon with his head tilted back, examining the corpse roots consuming what had once been the Beholding’s seat of power, expression distant and thoughtful. The eyes, ever-watching, never understanding, drifted closer, greedily drinking in the sight.

When Martin realized that Jon wasn’t planning on answering, he let out another sigh, ruffled his bangs away from his face, and said, “You’re never there.”

Jon’s gaze snapped to him with a laser-edged focus. “Sorry?”

“If you’re going to trap me in a dream,” Martin said, each syllable clipped and precise, “You could at least be there.”

Like it always did, Jon’s face crumpled, and he looked away. “...I don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, we’re well past that and you know it!” Martin shrieked, striking his fist against the stone. “You made your fucking decision to damn the world, to hell with whatever we thought, the least you could do is stop hiding behind your pointless guilt and act like this is what you actually want!”

It would’ve been better, if Jon had simply become drunk with power and was no longer listening to reason. The fact that he’d made this same decision every single day with clear, unclouded eyes and sound judgement—as Jon the human, rather than Jon the lynchpin of the apocalypse, pupil of the Eye—made Martin want to scream.

“I do want it!” Jon snapped back, then quieter, “I do.” He looked up at the corpse roots again, eyes going misty. “I just—I should witness every second of misery and pain that I’m causing. I don’t deserve to just...forget.”

Wind snapped and howled around them like a creature mad with rage, and Martin idly wondered what would happen to this world once Jon died. If it would all go back to the way it had been before, or if the shell of the apocalypse would remain until the end of time, a corpse husk of a reality warped beyond repair.

“You shouldn’t have to experience this alongside me though,” Jon continued, rallying. “So I would really appreciate it if you’d stop breaking your dreams.”

“Tough,” Martin snapped back, folding his arms obstinately over his chest.

“You could be happy!” Jon reiterated, stabbing his index finger into the palm of his hand. “You could just...live your life! Forget! There’s no point in being here.”

“It’s a deal, remember? Where you go, I go. Fuck you very much, but I don’t break my promises.”

Jon stared at him for one beat, then another—and then promptly burst out laughing, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Martin stared at him, utterly bewildered, as the laughing slowly began to dissolve into desperate, heaving sobs, as he began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself in a mockery of comfort.

“I miss you,” Jon gasped out, half-crazed. “So much. I miss you every day even though you’re right in front of me. But I can’t go to you, because I don’t deserve to, not when I’m the one who trapped you here. I’m everything that’s wrong with the world. I always have been.”

“Jon,” Martin sighed, low and tired.

Jon buried his face into his knees. “No, you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t forgive me just because you pity me, that’s not what I—I don’t—”

“Who said anything about forgiveness?” Martin shook his head. “Fine. You’re an asshole, and I hate you. But it’s like I said.” He gestured toward the Panopticon, the roots, the poisonous sky. “When has deserving ever mattered?”

Jon lifted his face from his knees, though his gaze stayed rooted to the floor. “...I suppose.”

“Right,” Martin agreed. “I’ve accepted that you’re not going to change your mind, but...at the very least, I don’t want to die alone. So can you please just…”

There was a long, weighted pause.

They’d had arguments like this what felt like hundreds of times before. Martin begging for Jon to change his mind, Jon refusing with that same resigned, determined expression on his face, before sending Martin back into his dreams.

Maybe it was because Martin wasn’t asking him to change his mind this time. Maybe it was because they were so close to the end of all things, and soon they’d be the last two people on earth. Maybe it was because Jon was tired, had been for so, so long, and he had won anyway, so there was no point in fighting any longer.

“Alright,” Jon whispered.

…

...

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face.

Somewhere in the far distance, the toilet flushed. A moment later, a pair of feet padded lightly into the room, hesitated at the edge of the bed, and then made their way over to the desk. The alarm abruptly went silent.

Martin uncovered his eyes and grinned up at Jon as he tentatively slid back between the covers, every movement careful and deliberate, like he was reading stage directions from a script.

“Look at Mr. Workaholic, having a lie-in,” Martin teased, pulling Jon into his arms and inhaling the scent of his coconut shampoo. “Must be the end of the world, or something.”

Jon stiffened for just a moment, before turning around and burying his face into Martin’s chest. “Or something.”

#iceeckos12 writes #my writing #tma #jonmartin but make it especially tragedy flavored

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wiltingdecay · 2 years ago

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it's wip wednesday!

today's wip: "my child is fine!" "ma'am your child is the personification of the tower", aka síofra being a source of rowan's Teen Angst and regretting it very quickly.

"So what if you don't want me? Who fucking cares?" Ruadhán practically spits, her words tasting like acid in her mouth. Her brain feels like it's starting to simmer inside her skull. "In case you haven't noticed, nobody fucking wants you here, either. So why don't you just piss off already? For good this time."

Síofra sighs, irritably, pinching the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb. "Oh, for gods' sakes. You're impossible to talk to when you're acting like this. I don't know why I bothered even trying."

The heat in Ruadhán's head reaches boiling point. Her shaking hands clench into fists. Trying? She calls this trying?! "I dunno why you're still standing there. Get the fuck out already, ye bitch."

"Ruadhán!" Síofra snaps, gritting her teeth. She ducks her head, strawberry-blonde strands falling down to hide her face. "Don't call me a bitch. I'm still your mother."

"You are in my hole," Ruadhán fires back. "How many times do I have to fuckin' say it to ye? Get out! Get out of my house!"

"It is not your house," Síofra retorts, voice low and dangerous. Though Ruadhán can't see her face, her hands are clenched into fists as well; it looks as though she's fighting not to lash out and slap Ruadhán across the face. Ruadhán almost wishes she would. Then she'd finally have an excuse to unleash this terrible, suffocating heat, this inferno that she can feel building up and up inside of her. "This shop belongs to Gráinne. Unless you'd like to try and whinge at her until she throws me out herself, I'm not going anywhere for the time being."

Inside Ruadhán's mind, she almost feels something snap. Her vision tinges red at the edges. Even her eyes feel hot. Her fingernails cut into her palms, her teeth clench almost hard enough to break them. Her whole body trembles with the effort to contain her rage, keep the destructive power she knows bubbles and boils under her skin at bay, lest she reduce her own home to a charred husk.

No, not like this. I'm not going to break because of her. I can't.

Ruadhán takes quick, deep breaths through her mouth in a last-ditch effort to rein herself in. Every exhale releases another mouthful of thick, acrid smoke through her clenched teeth, burning her, choking her. It's not just from her mouth; she can feel it pouring out of her nose, her ears, perhaps even her eyes as well, that could certainly explain why her vision is suddenly so warped and blurred.

Síofra's taken a step back from Ruadhán, hands raised just slightly. Under the heat of her daughter's rage, her irritation has melted away; her eyes are now wide in fear, or something close to it. The sight should make Ruadhán feel sick. It should make her feel guilty. It should make her stop.

All it does is give her an almost thrilling sense of satisfaction.

"Fine," she growls. "I'll leave, then."

She stalks purposefully past Síofra towards the stairs, roughly and deliberately checking her shoulder with her own as she passes. Under the crackling of raw power and the roaring of her own blood in her ears, she just about hears Síofra's gasp of pain. Ruadhán's not surprised. If she's started to smoke, her skin must feel like an oven by now.

Gods above, what's wrong with her that the thought almost makes her want to laugh?

#oh it feels good to write aggressive bitchy rowan. healing even #wip wednesday #fern's writing #rowan aisling #síofra nic giolla phádraig #rowan lore

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wheresmybuckyhoes · 4 years ago

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The 3 forbidden words

Summary: What does Bucky do when you accidently let slip the 3 words everyone fears to say first in a relationship?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: Angst, loss of loved ones, swearing, references to sex, depression, numbness

This is another wonderful ask from @summerdaughter. This is quite an angsty fic, but as promised I ended it with a lot of fluff. Enjoy my lovelies x

*2 years ago*

You let out a satisfied sigh as you finished leafing through the mission briefing, sliding a rusted paper clip onto the thick stack of paper to hold it all together. You tossed it carelessly onto your bed side table, reaching over with a small groan to switch of the night light. You fell back into the warm embrace of your bed, eyes fluttering shut. Finally some rest. Finally you can silence your thoughts and drift off into blissful sleep. Finally you can quieten thoughts that you don’t dare let yourself think of even for second, for fear you will spiral back into the numbness that had consumed you since Thanos... Finally, you can sleep. But almost as soon as relief washes over you, your body tenses up once more and you see their faces in the darkness, eyes snapping open, you almost cry out into the silence.

You always hear people blaming a restless night or two on stress, insomnia or having a lot on their mind. No one ever talks about what losing that which you love can do to a person, when you’re all alone in your bed, accompanied by only the still silence of the empty room you spend most of your time in and your own prison - cell of a mind. It’s then, in the dead of night, that you miss them most. You miss their playful jokes, the way they would laugh with you, the way they would cry with you, the way their touch felt upon your skin. You missed Tony’s stupid inventions he gifted you when you were sad. You missed the feeling of Nat’s careful fingers braiding your hair when you were too tired to do so. You missed feeling like nothing could hurt you ever again when you were in Steve’s arms. For most, when darkness fell like a blanket upon the Earth, it was time to go to sleep. Not you, apparently.

You pushed yourself out from between the blankets, exposed feet making contact with the cool wooden floor. You swept the hair off your neck into a loose ponytail, the slight draft from the open window tickling your nape. You didn’t mind it in the slightest. You cringed at every creak and whinge of the floorboards, knowing you wouldn’t forgive yourself for waking Sam or Peter who both also barley got enough sleep as it is. You mindlessly made your way to the kitchen, lost in thought. You wanted some sort of alcoholic drink, something to dull your senses and numb your body. Maybe you would make some tea and spike it with vodka, or maybe you would just skip the tea and go straight for the vodka. You were surprised to find Bucky pulled up to the bar as you turned the corner, sipping generously on a whiskey, your breath catching as you took in his moon - lit frame. He was wearing grey sweatpants, tied loosely, but evidently he had chosen to wear nothing to cover his toned back which you found oddly calming to watch as he inhaled and exhaled slowly. You tried to match your speed with his, only just now noticing how quickly you had been breathing. He turned around, not a single hint of surprise or shock registering on his face as he beckoned with his head for you to sit beside him. You obliged gratefully, happy to have some company for once.

*one week ago*

‘and Wanda?’ you ask, Doctor Strange’s hologram stood in front of you as you nibbled on some toast. ‘We’re not sure. Last we heard, she had broken into some SWORD facility. I’ll update you if we find anything else’ he replied, giving you a sad smile with a million different meanings behind it. ‘...and how are we dealing with Morgan?’ you asked, voice breaking as you tried not to think about how she has to grow up without a father, just like you did. ‘Pepper is doing just fine with Happy’s help. Don’t worry about her, y/n. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is’, Strange replied sympathetically. You nodded dutifully, thanking him and switching off the device. ‘They’ll find her, y/n. Don’t worry. They have to’ Peter comforted you, patting your shoulder apologetically. He may not have known Wanda for long, but he knew how close you two were, and don’t get me started on how closely he sympathised with Morgan Stark.

Peter soon left after he had downed a few cups of shitty coffee, promising to return in the afternoon. You had seen him try to grab his suit without you noticing, but you decided to leave him be, saying nothing to Sam as he also left to go help out with something in Wakanda. You had been alone for an hour or so at most when Bucky strolled in, humming to himself a song which seemed all too familiar. ‘What’s that song. I know it’ you questioned, patting the couch as Bucky slumped down beside you. ‘I don’t know the name, doll’ he sighed, swinging his arm around the back of your shoulders, in a way that almost seemed like he was sort of shielding you. You always felt safe beside Bucky. You pulled his face against yours, kissing him softly as he cupped your face gently with his metallic fingers. ‘I was worried Spidey boy was going to hog you forever’ Bucky laughed, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip making you giggle. You sighed contently as you melted into his warm embrace, inhaling his heavenly, euphoric scent. Without thinking, the 3 forbidden words poured out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. I love you. Withdrawing his hand abruptly, you noticed Bucky’s eyes widen slightly in a panic, his hands meeting each other in his lap, flesh fingers tracing over metal ones as he always did when he was uncomfortable. ‘...this couch. I love this couch’ you corrected yourself awkwardly, not wanting to make eye contact for fear of tears from your eyes at once, like blood from a wound. Uncontrollable, painful.

But as Bucky laughed nervously, getting up to grab a mug of tea, you bit your lip in deep thought. You had been dating for almost 2 years, now. It was easy, and made sense, finding comfort in each-other after suffering the same loses. It had been going well, even better than well. Great. You had slept together after only a few weeks, finding his touch not only pleasurable, but comforting, almost filling one of the many holes puncturing your heart. You never felt the need to label yourself, confident that Bucky wanted and felt the same as you, reciprocating your love for him. But what if you were wrong?

But if he felt the same as you, why then, was he so scared of saying ‘I love you’ back? You got up, shaking slightly as you walked around the kitchen island to stand in front of him. ‘I love you, Bucky’ you stated, looking him straight in those big blue eyes. Bucky on the other hand suddenly found his cup of tea super interesting, staring at it intently. You shook your head with frustration, taking the cup out of his hand and placing it down harshly on the countertop with a sharp bang, tea spilling over the sides. ‘Why won’t you say it back, Barnes?’.

Bucky almost choked on air as ‘Barnes’ fired from your mouth. Now he knew you were angry, but he didn’t understand. ‘I don’t understand’ he said truthfully, finally finding your eyes with his own. ‘Why do we need to say it out loud when we’re both thinking it anyway?’ he asked you, a look of genuine confusion splayed across his face. ‘That’s what people like us usually do’ you replied, reminding yourself to hold your tongue carefully and not let your bad - temper take over.

‘What do you mean, people like us?’ he continued with his previous style of stupid questioning, and you wondered how someone could be this daft. ‘A couple, Bucky! Boyfriend and girlfriend. People who are dating. Lovers. Partners. Must I continue?’ you replied, losing your patience with him. You had already been through so much pain, did he really need to inflict even more. ‘I told you when we started this thing, doll, I wasn’t ready to date. I had just lost Steve...’ you noticed a slight waver in his voice at the mention of Steve, and you too slightly winced upon hearing the name of your beloved friend who had left you both when you needed him most. At the same time, hearing him call you doll when you were so enraged just ticked you off even more. ‘...and I wasn’t ready to be romantically involved with anyone’ he finished, waiting to see your reaction. If ever there was a time for Bucky to be scared, it was now.

You bit down harshly on your tongue to stop yourself from crying, because you knew once you let the pain in, it would never stop. ‘But it’s been 2 years Bucky. I thought...’ you waved your hand dismissively in the air as if you were waving an actual thought away. ‘So it was just sex to you?’ you finally dared ask, the question almost a punch to Bucky’s gut, causing him to writhe under your burning gaze. ‘No, doll, no it wasn’t just sex I never -‘ he tried to scramble for some sort of logical explanation, but you were hurt beyond belief.

You exhaled humorously, laughing to yourself. ‘You’re the winter soldier, Bucky. Enhanced to live many more years than the average human. You and Steve both. Need I remind you I’m just a weak mortal, like them. Just like Tony, and Nat, and look where they ended up. Dead’ you spoke the last word with such pain and sharpness, it was like you had stabbed Bucky with one of his own knives, and Bucky almost trembled. You forgot he could hear your heartbeat, part of the perks of being ‘enhanced’, as you called it, and your heart was racing faster and faster with every passing moment. All he could do was listen to it race away, and try not to let his own one break.

‘You may still have battles to fight. People to avenge, people to make amends with. But I am so done with this bullshit Bucky. I’ve lost enough to know that I never want to kill another soul again. Thanos was the last. Thanos is the last. I want to settle down. Maybe even start a family one day, I don’t fucking know. I was hoping it could be with you’ Bucky tried to interject but you held up a red tipped finger, silencing him.

‘If your not ready, that’s fine. I’m ok with that. You know why, Barnes? Because I fucking love you, and I’ll never stop loving you, till the end of the line’ your lip quivered with that last sentence, shoving him back and racing to the elevator to escape this place, to escape him. You don’t know how many hours you were gone for, but when you came back, he was gone.

*now*

‘It’s not your fault he’s gone, y/n. Don’t you dare blame yourself, he made his choice’ Sam spoke gently, a solemn, understanding look passing between him and Peter. You plastered a fake smile on your face, one not quite reaching your eyes as you reassured them you weren’t blaming yourself. A lie.

Bucky was gone when you came back the day of your fight, all that was left was a note scrawled in his old-fashioned handwriting. You noticed parts of the ink was slightly smudged in an odd sort of way, like salted tears had fallen upon it. I’m sorry doll. I love you so much, I really do. I’m just so unbelievably scared that if we became serious, I would just end up hurting you, just like I did them. You blinked back tears, realising he was referring to Steve, Nat and Tony. ‘It’s not your fault baby’, you whispered to the empty room.

The ringing of the doorbell stirred you from your thoughts, causing you to jump. ‘Wait here’ Sam commanded you as him and Peter entered the elevator and travelled down to see who was bothering what was left of the avengers. You watched the numbers go all the way from 6 down to 0 as the elevator evidently reached the ground floor.

A few minutes passed. You sat at the kitchen table, sipping gingerly on that shitty coffee you all loved so much before you heard the elevator ding as it slid open to reveal Sam, Peter and Bucky stood inside. It was then that Peter suddenly decided he had to help Sam with ‘stuff’, as the spider boy so poetically and subtly put it. You glared at the boys as they shuffled around in the small elevator, swiftly making a getaway, as Bucky timidly stepped out. You crossed your arms.

‘Back again so soon? Here to hurt your other friends?’ you shot at him, pushing down the feeling of guilt as soon as the words left your mouth. You seemed to have forgotten the words of his note as quickly as you had read them. Bucky walked up to you, nervously to say the least, reaching into his pocket. You raised your eyebrows in confusion awaiting his response, as he took a deep breath.

The look of confusion soon morphed into shock as the super soldier gracefully got down to one knee, pulling out what you recognised with awe to be a ring. ‘I’m so sorry I hurt you doll. Took me a few days to get my shit together, realise Steve would kick me for leaving if he was still here, find the right one (he nodded towards the ring held so carefully in his hands), and I couldn’t let you down again...won’t let you down ever again. I love you more than I could ever put into words and would love nothing more then to be with you...till the end of the line’ You struggled to hold in tears as you hands flew to your mouth, the first real smile of many days growing to cover your face. Your shaky breaths only quickened as Bucky smiled at you like a happy puppy, at last sure of where he wanted to be, and who he wanted to be with.

‘Y/n S/n, will you make me the happiest super soldier alive and...’ Bucky tried to say as he held the ring out to you from beneath you, but a high pitched ‘Yes’ escaped from your mouth muffled by your trembling hands as you nodded, cheeks now glistening with tears. ‘You didn’t let me finish, will you...’

‘Yes’ you stopped him again as his sweet eyes crinkled at the sides from both laughter and frustration, as e stood up and you quickly brushed your lip against his impatiently.

‘Marry me, doll’ he finished, as he slid the ring perfectly onto your finger, diamond sparkling in the sunlight as you heard a small squeal from the direction of the elevator followed by the sound of a man elbowing a teenage boy playfully in the ribs. Before he could get another word out, you pulled Bucky in by the collar of his tight leather jacket with one arm ripped off, kissing him deeply, pouring in all your love and affection. You pulled back, reaching for his hand and pulling him towards the bedroom, away from a few certain someones prying eyes.

‘I thought this relationship wasn’t about sex?’ the handsome motherfucker grinned. ‘Oh so you don’t want to fuck me then, Barnes?’ Oh, now he was in trouble. ‘I never said that...’ he replied smugly, tossing you over his shoulder bringing you both to your room, onto the bed and under the covers.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky imagine #bucky barnes one shot #falcon #peter parker #spiderman #bucky barnes fluff #avengers fanfiction #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #wandavision #the winter soldier

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blog-for-merlin · 3 years ago

Text

I Can Count His Goosebumps

Author's Note: You will quickly come to realise that I can't write endings for shit but apparently a writer is his own worst critic so, idk.

Lots of of fluff and if touch is your love language, you'll get it. That said, enjoy!!

♡♡♡

"This is a cave, Arthur!"

"Oh Merlin, so dramatic! Cave... inn... they're virtually the same thing," Arthur grins with that glint in his eye which manages to simultaneously worry and please Merlin at the same time. The king doesn't tend to grin like that very often these days. There isn't much to take pleasure in. Even Gwaine's mindless idiocies failed them to the point that the knight rarely did much else than his duties.

The satisfaction of having prompted a smile from the king quickly dissipates as Merlin remembers the issue at hand. He crosses his arms, "I'm not sleeping here," he scoffs.

"Stop being a whinge, Merlin. Look," Arthur waves in the general direction of the floor, "Firm ground to rest on," he gestures to the roof of the hollow, "And a shelter from the rain. What more could you want?"

As if coordinated, a fat droplet plummets from the ceiling onto the king's face. Merlin stifles his giggle—he's not going to let Arthur think he's been convinced. A shiver runs down the his spine and he huddles tighter into himself. The winters seem to be getting more and more unbearable as the years go by, "It's cold."

Arthur groans, too tired to tease his manservant any further. Patience seems to be rationed as of late. Not just for the king, but for everyone. The gloom of Morgana's death seems to sweep over the entire kingdom. The ugliness of who she transformed into doesn't easily erase who she once was, the darling of Camelot. Swiftly, Arthur whips off his cloak and throws it at Merlin, "There. Now will you please stop complaining and just get some rest? If we're to reach Ealdor by the evening, we have to leave at first light."

He unties his scabbard belt, setting it down and attempts to seek out a dry spot to sleep on the damp ground, finding only a small space against the back wall, hardly enough to fit two men. It's not like we haven't slept in worse, Arthur thinks, remembering an uncomfortable night involving a dead rabbit, a tight hanging net, limbs intertwined so closely it felt like they were extensions of each other. A secretly fond memory from times long past. What would he have done if there wasn't a rabbit wasn't trapped between them? If there was less distance, if their faces were mere millimetres apart, if they'd felt each other's breath on their faces. What would he have done then?

Merlin's voice startles him from the rather inappropriate wanderings of his mind, "You know Arthur, you still haven't given me back that cloak I gave you,"

The king pivots to face Merlin who is wrapped adorably in his cloak, only some unkempt tufts of hair and twiggy feet poking out from the scarlet fabric, "What cloak?"

"My cloak. The blue one. The only blue cloak you have?" The king feigns confusion.

Merlin huffs and rolls his eyes, Arthur can be so childish at times, in an irritatingly endearing way that makes you forget that he's the head of an entire kingdom, "The one that you keep wearing to your hunts and getting dirty and then never returning because it needs to be washed?"

"Oh right, that one," Arthur smirks sheepishly, tugging at the back of his hair, "It's dirty,"

"Yes, I bet it is."

"Wait a minute, you know I'm the king here, right?" Arthur grabs his scabbard and throws it on the dry space in the back as Merlin follows him.

"That's what they tell me,"

"You can't talk back to me like that, Merlin. That's treason."

"If you were going to arrest me every time I committed 'treason', Arthur, I'd be long gone by now." Which was true enough, Arthur figures, as he takes Merlin's satchel from him and throws it next to his own while Merlin tries not to trip on the cloak or the slippery rock.

"Perhaps I should have, then," Arthur mutters, settling himself down next to the cave wall. Merlin pauses a moment as he realises that the tiny space next to Arthur is the only remaining hint of dryness left on the cavern floor, "Arthur!" he exclaims in dismay, "How on Earth am I going to fit here?"

"Oh shut up Merlin, you're scrawny,"

"I'm not that scrawny!"

"You're just going to have to make it work, then, aren't you?" Merlin's eyes are blazing now, and he's not amused.

"Arthur I didn't ask you to come to Ealdor with me, I could have come on my own; I've come to Ealdor a hundred times on my own already. If I were on my own, perhaps I wouldn't have to sleep in a cave in the middle of who-knows-where on the soaking ground," Arthur should be furious at his manservant's words by now, but Merlin's cheeks are turning pink to match the cocoon of cloak around them in a way that Arthur can't help being charmed by, and it doesn't sound like Merlin is slowing down at all to give him a chance to butt in, " In fact, I'd probably be there already, in dry clothes and with a full belly. So if you don't move your giant bum over right now, you prat, and give me the side of the wall, I'm leaving."

If the cold wasn't making Merlin breathless enough yet, that mouthful of a rant definitely did. Not managing to muster up any more than a tired chuckle and an "Okay, okay... calm down Merlin," Arthur shuffles himself away from the wall and lets Merlin pull himself over into his place.

Merlin gets grumpy when he's tired, and it had been a long day. This is enough to convince Arthur to let his manservant off, just this once. In reality, Arthur knows that 'just this once' has happened at least six times in the the past two months alone. Clearly, Merlin isn't as feeling as nonchalant about his sister's passing as he tries to let on. Sighing, Arthur removes his jacket, folding it into a pillow and wriggles down onto his side. He pushes himself as far away from the slimy moss as he can, digging his back into Merlin's. The unexpected contact, which is not unpleasant in the slightest, draws out a gasp from the king, which he hopes was drowned out by the sound of the pouring rain outside.

"Arthur, you're squishing me,"

"Oh would you stop complaining?" Arthur grunts. He spins himself around so that he's facing Merlin's back, draped in his own cloak. His breath hitches as he imagines Merlin huddled under the hills and valleys of red made by the fabric.

The sheerness of his shirt under it, so sheer and wet that it might as well not be there at all. He tries not to think about the paleness of his skin, and the goosebumps that must be all over it in this freezing cold. He lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding and with it, a shiver.

Merlin feels, no, senses, Arthur's head near him. He goes as still as a stone. They're so close. But not close enough. The distance is excruciating. He feels the king's shudder and realises his privilege––not so much a privilege, but a barrier. Darn cloak. "You're cold," he says, as bluntly as he can muster.

"What? No I'm–" Arthur is cut off by another shudder.

Arthur watches as his servant struggles to unwrap himself from the cloak. Should he refuse? He is the king, after all, perhaps he does want the cloak. But these thoughts are not what appear at the forefront of Arthur's brain. Skin. All he can see is skin. Skin everywhere. So close. So damn close. "Here, take it."

It does have goosebumps, his skin. A hell of a lot of them. And he's shuddering like a flag in the wind, "It's fine, Merlin. You need it more than me."

"You're the king. Gods forbid, I get arrested. Isn't that right, Your Highness?" Merlin throws the cloak to Arthur, who seems to be fixated on his back. His now almost bare back. He shifts himself, moving himself back, ever so slightly, closer to Arthur. Not close enough.

Gods, Arthur. Pull yourself together. It's Merlin we're talking about. The king clears his throat, "We'll share," he announces, as nonchalantly as possible and throws the cloak over the two of them, shifting closer still, his arm arching over Merlin's shuddering body, touching ever so slightly. He can count the goosebumps now. One, two, three four, five... if he moves his head just a tiny bit more...

Arthur's hair feels soft and inviting on Merlin's back, as if enticing him, and his breath––hot and cold at the same time. Not close enough. One small movement and it'll be his lips. Without thought, Merlin seizes the king's wrist where he's holding the cloak over them, bringing it into himself in an embrace. Or into a trap? He pushes himself back into Arthur, feeling both bodies yield to the touch. Merlin keeps Arthur's hand, strangely warm, clasped tightly in his own, pressed against his chest.

Skin. SO much skin. Arthur lets Merlin push his body into him. He lets his back press into his lips. At least that's what he tells himself. He's only avoiding resistance, not participating. You can't be participating if you don't have control. And Arthur has no control, none at all. Only his body does. Only his lips. Only his hands, his chest. And so he lets his arms wrap around Merlin's stomach pulling him in tighter, closer. He lets his lips wander all over his back, searching for the skin, skin, more skin under his shirt.

Merlin feels Arthur's lips running all over his back, as if they're searching for something lost, desperate to find it. And they do, as Arthur's mouth finds itself immersed in Merlin's shoulder. Merlin forced his lips to stay closed as to not make a noise, and a deep breath is all that he allows to escape. He dares not turn back, he can't face Arthur, not like this. He lets himself bask in the darkness of the night and the secrecy of the pounding rain outside the cave. He wonders what this means, all of it. This fire is his heart, what will it amount to?

Arthur lets his lips, and hands and body and the flame in his heart take control. He lets himself forget everything. Camelot, Morgana, everyone. For Him. For His skin. For His touch, he'll let himself forget the whole world.

And under warmth of that flimsy red cloak, in that small cave, on that rainy night, the two flames finally collided. And no one could have guessed how much damage it would cause.

♡♡♡

#merthur #touch #bbc merlin #fanfic #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #love language #merlin #merlin bbc #writing #fic #shorts

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unnamedelement · 3 years ago

Note

even the WORDS studio ghibli steampunk inspired 4th age au is intriguing to me - I’d love to hear more about it!

I am so pleased you asked and I will talk about it forever. Basically, the idea is just something I write on--a paragraph or two here or there--when I'm feeling down and need a pick-me-up, though I haven't done so since May now as I've been so busy! It's set in a 4th Age Middle-earth in which all the basic things are the same, except that the technology advanced slightly differently, as if every major cultural and intellectual hub in history hadn't been wiped out in the first two ages. I mean, they have been, but the ideas were revisited and propagated instead. Which puts us in a bit of a steam era, a bit more modern warfare, I suppose (I imagine it as, like, Legend of Korra equivalent technology, but subtracting the radio broadcasting). I call it Studio Ghibli inspired because, in my head, thats the way its "animated," with similar color palettes to, say, Howls' Moving Castle, My Neighbor Totoro, and Spirited Away. The same sort of observational attention to detail, but not overwrought, and an air of the magical in the every day... It's really just a domestic sort of thing, with an added twist of the Straight Road being shut for purposes that aren't entirely clear to me yet but, somehow, tie into the technological aspect. It, at least, explains to me why the elves are so goddamn committed to technology and Middle-earth in the 4th age, in this universe, in a way that aren't in non-AUs because, well, Tolkien. The lore of this ridiculous sandbox is only very slowly evolving, but giving elves unresolvable sealonging is a certain type of hurt/comfort that is highly attractive to me. Whoops. And it is Legolas- and OC-focused, of course, because that's just who I am as a person. There is also a university in Minas Tirith because I say so, and because I need to project my woes about academia somewhere, but I try to justify this to myself by tying it into that preservation and propogation of knowledge aspect. Anyway, that was way more than you asked for! Ah well. Here is the first scene I ever wrote in this AU, because I've never actually shared it publicly, I don't think. I believe @roselightfairy has been the only one privy to my nonsensical AU drafts thus far! I usually just ramble about it in tags, but you caught me this time, ha. Thanks again for asking!

Legolas twisted the ring on his index finger distractedly as he waited for the train. It had been a long day in Minas Tirith and he was ready to return to Ithilien, to take in the rolling plains that edged the river as they flew past, for it was always only then that he could reflect, in uninterrupted silence, without hobbit tourists at his heels or the accidental shove of an impatient lady in the shops.

There were too many people in Minas Tirith for Legolas. Accordingly, and much to Aragorn and Gimli’s chagrin, it was not his favorite place.

But they understood, and that was all he could ask. He tried to schedule all of the city errands on the same day or two, because longer than thirty-six continuous hours in Minas Tirith and he became an absolute nightmare with which to coexist. For the most part, his friends and family had accepted this and he was trying, after all, but that did not make it any less obnoxious for the rest of them.

It did not help that the only place in Gondor with Sealonging-certified healers was on the fourth level of the city. A wildly insensitive choice, in his opinion, though he kept that perspective well enough to himself after Ithildim and Gimli had tried to advocate, a few years before, for the relocation of the clinic to the Healing Houses on the Sixth, in a string of rejected proposals at City Council.

Gimli would not look at Aragorn for a month after that, and so Legolas had quit his whingeing and suffered in silence the abrupt buffeting that occurred in the busy streets after his appointments. He made it his own prerogative to schedule at the end of the day so he could spend the morning with enough wherewithal to do his errands and take care of whatever sundry things he had managed to commit himself to. It kept him relatively sane and it kept his friends on speaking terms and, so, that is what he did. (And it was not as if any of them had control over the West-way being shut, so there was no point in any of them falling out over it.)

Legolas heard the heavy-huffing of the train approaching long before its lights rounded the bend of the river. He preferred to walk to the stop at the Docks than get on at the Gates because it gave his mind time to settle. Waiting that close to the river after therapy was, perhaps, not his brightest idea, but the pros outweighed the cons and what Ithildim didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Besides, it was Summer, and the cattails were up again all around the station, and a family of osprey had made the light pole by the river their nest, and it did lift his spirits to watch these things alone as the world moved on about him...

A few more people rushed the small platform as the rumbling of the train on its little steel bridge above the banks increased. Legolas only readjusted his ring, unbuckled the satchel in his lap and rummaged around for the hardtack he had bartered for Ewessel. (She would have no idea how many pieces were there originally—what she didn’t know also wouldn’t hurt her). He was just tugging on the pair of oversized leather earmuffs Gimli had given him a few years prior when he started taking the train routinely when two pairs of very familiar shoes suddenly appeared in his line of sight, and he froze—

There was no point in hurrying—he had been found out so he adjusted his earmuffs and tucked the hardtack into his cheek, noticing vaguely that the sturdier pair of boots were well-shined and dirtless, while the more slender, elvish ones were caked in mud along the edges and splashed up the shins.

He had thought Ithildim was in the Emyn Arnen buildings today. He had seen him head off that way through the trees and he had obviously been there for that was forest mud and yet here he stood with Gimli, clearly just come from their Minas Tirith office so...

He had apparently been wrong. It would not be the first time he had lost track of other people’s schedules.

The train rolled up slowly, then, and Legolas finally looked up from his seat on the bench to find Gimli at eye level—glaring at him with arms crossed—and then, looking further up, was Ithildim—hair neatly pinned back despite his other uncharacteristic untidiness—and he looked down on him with a bemused and mildly irritated expression.

Legolas did his best to offer a guileless smile.

It did not work, and Ithildim pulled him to his feet. “I thought your appointment was at 4(?), auren.”

“It was,” he said, and he shrugged. He was tired and did not want to talk yet. “I prefer walking the plains for an hour or so after, to calm my mind. I did not know you would be here.”

“You do this every time?” Ithildim asked with eyebrows raised, and then Gimli was chivvying them forward as the train doors opened and the inward-bound commuters poured out and the outward-bound ones moved forward.

“I did not know you would be here,” Legolas only said, shrugging, as they found a small table in the back of the car and piled around it.

Ithildim opened his mouth to ask again but Gimli interrupted—

“That is answer enough, Ithildim,” he said softly. “Leave him be, hm?”

“But—”

“He is always back to himself by the time he gets home, is he not? Let him do what he needs to do. He is his own keeper, Ithildim.”

Legolas was no longer watching them, and he instead stared out the window as the train moved forward and he was rocked slightly as it picked up speed. He did not notice the sound of a crinkling bag or the half sandwich Gimli slid in front of him. He did not notice Ithildim watching him wearily but intermittently as he arranged his notes on the small table, comparing a neat chart to x’s drawn on a map spread across its surface.

Outside, the sun was dipping dark but his mind was far away, and his mouth felt dry as he finally blinked and turned away from the flashing landscape.

Gimli had placed a reassuring hand by his thigh as he leaned over Ithildim’s map, and Ithildim was watching him unashamedly, silver eyes narrowed as Legolas glanced at him.

He pulled a travel mug from his backpack and handed it across the table to him.

“I take medicine for this now, you know,” Legolas said quietly, and he considered the coffee and tilted his head, waiting for Ithildim’s reply.

“I know,” he said immediately. “But you have that look in your eye that you get when…”

“Ithildim, he is his own keeper,” Gimli interrupted firmly, and Ithildim looked away. “That being said, Master Elf, it is summer again—“

“I know that—“

“—and the weather folks are predicting a mighty storm this week, which is probably why you are like this.”

Legolas picked up the coffee without a word and reluctantly drank it, and he twisted his ring again as Gimli continued:

“I’ve told Aragorn again and again that he would be much better served employing you lot for storm prediction than the fellows he has but…” he trailed off, and Legolas smiled.

“But he thinks it is unethical to use a bunch of Sea-longing elves for the protection of king and country, yes,” Legolas finished. “Honestly, those of us who are afflicted are going to suffer whether or not he consults us, so I’ve never understood his reticence.”

Ithildim looked up again and was finally smiling. “You are a bit like a barometer, in that,” he admitted. “Gimli has a point here.”

Legolas laughed. “So, what? We wait until I become uncommunicative and morose and a general pain to be around, and then we send Aragorn a warning letter? What, set smoke signals?”

“This is our stop,” Gimli was saying as he folded up Ithildim’s map and notes and shoved them into his hands. He stood up and gestured at the elves to join him. “Normal people would use the message systems, Legolas, but since you refuse to—”

“Really, Gimli?” Ithildim had pulled Legolas to his feet and was dragging him by the hand out the door. The wind was heavy beneath the eaves of the trees that overhung their stop. “We are lucky he only uses birds. Otherwise it would be constant updates about the exchange rate of rye, or flash-pictures of bread, or flowery descriptions of some lady he met in the gardens!”

As they started down the side path to the houses they shared with Saida and the children Legolas laughed again. “It is mushrooms I am fascinated with right now, Ithildim. It is painfully obvious sometimes that you do not listen when I speak.”

“Mushrooms?” he asked, turning to Gimli.

“That is his current passion project, yes. Have you not been in the downstairs bathroom recently?”

“Thank you, elvellon. I am so relieved someone listens to me.”

“Eru, Legolas, you know the downstairs bathroom is supposed to be for Ewessel so she doesn’t slow anyone else down in the mornings.”

Legolas had walked past them now and was several feet ahead as the main house came into sight. He shrugged and turned, walking backward. “It was her idea, Ithildim. You can take it up with her. I am in her good graces now, and I am not playing with the fire of adolescence to tell her no on your behalf.”

Gimli was laughing now and then Legolas had turned and took off toward the house. By the time they arrived a few minutes later, the lights had all been turned on or lit and Legolas was at the kitchen table with Ewessel herself, helping her with her schoolwork.

He barely looked up as they entered. “Stew on the stove,” he said quietly, and Ithildim sighed to hear the distance in his voice.

The door swung in again as Saida came in with Alfirinion at her heels—

“Smells like rain,” she announced as she slipped off her shoes and dropped her bag to the ground.

Alfirinion was just unloading his bag and armful of books onto the table inside the door when the house shook with a loud crash of thunder, and the building sound of rain—gentle to pounding and persistent—began to beat at the house.

Ewessel looked at Legolas, who had gone still beside her, and turned to her family. “I have known for days it would rain tonight. He is better than any weather report, if you are paying attention.”

“Ewessel,” Saida said with quiet admonishment, and she walked up and pressed a kiss to her niece’s forehead before settling down beside Legolas. “How about an early night?” she said to him quietly. “We can talk about our project tomorrow evening.”

Legolas cleared his throat and looked at his hands. “Yes, I think that would be good. The table isn’t…”

“Ewessel will set the table, won’t she?” Saida said lightly, and Ewessel closed her ledger and sprang to her feet. The dining room and kitchen were suddenly in motion and Legolas sat silent in his seat, until he dropped his head, defeated, into his hands, waiting for the sound of the rain to stop sounding like the crashing of waves at the shore.

“Tell us next time you notice, child,” he could hear Saida saying from the stove, and there was muttering under breath before Ewessel and Alfirinion were back in the room, placing a bowl at each seat.

There was the scraping of chairs around him, and then the feel of a cool glass pressed against his hand.

“It is just water, Legolas,” Ithildim was saying at his shoulder. “Drink, auren. The wide world is still here.”

And so he drank and ate and listened to his friends talk.

Alfirinion had had an argument with a peer at Rangers (though he had won, because debate team and shadowing Arwen over the summer had apparently paid off), and Ewessel was displeased no one wanted to see her forestry project (which, to be fair, was a log covered in mushrooms she had taken from Legolas’ project in the bathroom, so no one was particularly empathetic). Saida had made progress on curriculum redesign in her department at the main university, and Gimli and Ithildim had gotten clearance to start a project they were partnering on, to bring heated, running water to a new town outside Osgiliath.

Legolas, however, had only made stew. Had run errands for the family and for his business. Had gone to his appointment. Had lost himself to the wind and left his family fumbling.

But the stew was, at least, enjoyed, and that was better than nothing...

After dinner, everyone gathered in the sitting room to listen to Alfirinion practice his closing arguments for his competition and, eventually, Legolas fell asleep between Ithildim and Gimli on the couch. The last thing he was aware of was someone slipping headphones over his ears and dropping the needle on the phonograph so his senses were flooded with crackling birdsong, and then there was a blanket about his shoulders, and he was gone.

#nerysvevo #asks #my au #my fanfiction #this fic has accidentally gotten a plot tho which made me mad #because i was writing it to be comforting #but it is fun #and i wish i had the art skills to illustrate it #because it is absolutely and unbelievably a beautiful little world in my head!#long post #sry

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sirensmojo · 5 years ago

Text

Fluke - Uhtred Of Bebbanburg x Reader

Summary: You're sold to Uhtred on his way to Bebbanburg you're described as a Seer with great power. Thus he tried not to, he ends up paying for your freedom.

Warnings: fluff, slight mentions of abuse, confused!Uhtred

Word Count: 1,409

Masterlist

"She's a Seer, Lord" "I'm not in need of a Seer," the man grunts, his nostrils dilated as he starts walking away. "The woman can see things," the merchant tries again, running behind the Dane. "Is that not the minimal requirement for being called a Seer?" A brawny arms guy steps side to side with the merchant, patting his shoulder with his palm.

"Maybe she'll curse you, Finan, for making fun of her." A man dressed in monk robes chortles. The so-called Finan glances at you before murmuring in the monk's ear, "you said my name on purpose, didn't you baby monk?" His big arm embraced the neck of the other man. The latter starting to whinges.

"I'm not in need of a woman! Plus I'm not here to spend any silver," the man with the accent stopped from walking and faced the seller, frowning. His icy stare seems not to hold back the man in front of him, because he came closer, patting the warrior's chest with his index finger.

"You don't understand, she's a gift, to you, Lord." The Dane's eyes flickering between you and the merchant before him. "I've recognized you, Uhtred son of Uhtred. Take her as a gift from a humble citizen to you, Lord." Uhtred let himself being brought closer to the case you were sitting on as was watching you from afar, with a faltering gleam in his eyes.

Your eyes drop downcast as the two men approach. The gusty breeze pulled away of your face a strand of hair, revealing your glowing complexion to the warrior. You raise your chin after shutting close your lids, taking a deep breath in.

He watched the scene with an unfocused gaze, the rays of the sun perfectly falling on each of your traits. The lamps of the Dane twinkle with sparks animating them as he gawks at you. When you opened your lids and connect straight to his heathen soul, Uhtred's posture changed, heavily and slowly balancing his weight on his feet each step closer he takes.

How could a slave be so unfazed, radiant, and endowed with an abyssal stare that bares a foggy taste of unfathomable?

"Your dad and I were close friends back in our youth, but we lost sight of each other when he became a King." The warrior shifted and scratches his wrinkled nose, his head tilting to the side as the words left your master's mouth.

He was rethinking the offer, to the displeasure of his men, standing helplessly at the back. "Lord," the rat-looking man called, eyes filled with worries. "We have had it with Seers, Lord," Finan raised his brows at Uhtred.

"How much?" Asks the Dane. "It is a gift, Lord," the old man repeated for the ultimate time. He then starts shuffling your way. "Eight pieces of silver," renewed Uhtred as he got to his purse and toss the pieces on the chest of the slaver.

"Thank you, Lord," he stutters, a smile brightening his dirt-covered face. The three other fellows watched, exhaling to voices their displeasure.

Uhtred frantically steps to you and seizes the rope that wrapped your hands together before slices it with his blade. He carefully grabs your arm and makes you walk past him, followed by his men.

"Hope she's not as powerful as Skade," Finan hisses for himself. You stayed quiet, even if asking who Skade was itched your tongue. You're clearly unwanted among them, but you're finally able to hear something else than a raspy screeching cry trying to bargain you.

The troupe carries its way to an inn, obliging you to enter behind them. Once inside your new Lord pointed a bench, "you wait for me here, understood?" His eyebrows rose, only to see your nod. You go to the table and sit down, grabbing a cup of ale and lift it to your chapped lips.

You knew what was happening, your new master is talking to his men, trying to resonate with them, even if they don't seem convinced in whatever he was saying. You saw the one with the Irish accent, Finan, strongly blowing before swigging his mug in one go, whereas the one with the monk robes was talking still to Uhtred.

"You're alone, miss?" A call draws you back to reality. A newcomer was perching fair next to you, too close. His lips divide into a distorted smile which reveals his yellowish teeth that clearly require more hygiene. He stinks alcohol, his breath, onion, and sour chicken.

You hardly swallowed and sip some more ale, before you decide to talk back. "No, I'm with them," you signed towards the counter and the four men. "Oh, I see, all take their turn with you," the drunken man vigorously bounces his head up and down.

"Excuse me?" You muttered. "Orh, I won't complain about you being their whore, but who's taking care of you now?" He shrugs as he bends to you, dangerously close. "The ale," you scornfully returned, securing your head backward to avoid the putrid stench emanating from his being.

"This sit is not yours. You better be off" The man grunts and grumbled insults as he took his body out the sit. "Whore," he launches at you. You nodded in approval and grinned, "yet, not yours." Uhtred slid alongside you and poured some extra drink inside your cup before helping himself.

"You're not going to ask me why I buy you?" "I do not wish to know," you snap back as soon as the liquid ends its race down your throat. "You don't know yourself," you continued, heeding he wasn't going for any response.

"Did this man laid hands on you?" He awkwardly swifts away your remarks. "What if?" You rear your eyes to his face. He winces and wriggles on the bench, trying to be comfortable despite the sweltering atmosphere you set, "listen, I don't want anything from you. I mean, whatever you used to do before, it stays there. Now you can choose who you want to be," he declared, swallowing another sip of the white drink.

"I was cursing people," you sing, muffling a laugh. Uhtred looks at you at the corner of his eyes, a gleam of reluctance in them. "Nothing more, I can assure you," you nudge him with your shoulder. You glimpse at his face, gauging his reaction. "I indeed was a Seer, not a slave. I ended up there in mysterious circumstances I must admit," you playfully coughed, a hand cupping your chin.

"I did not like it," you hassle to add as you read into his eyes. Uhtred gasps loudly, fiddling with the empty cup of his. "I didn't ask," he strives to justify himself. "You didn't need to," you affirmed. His stare raises to you, he wondered if you could read his thoughts.

"I cannot," you drop your drink on the table. "Then, how...?" He motioned his hand. "Experience. When a bunch of people knocks at your door always waiting for you to respond to their deepest wants, you kinda learn some tricks," you shrug.

"We don't have to talk about that," he says. "I'm Y/n," you crash your drink on his in a thud before finishing it. The man looks at you, overrun by the recent events. "I'm a warrior" "Yeah I know," you napped. "Seems like your men are not appreciating my company," you press your hands to your cheeks as looking down.

"It's not that," the Dane breathed, "We just got through some stuff with another Seer." "Skade? well, it's true we are all wicked and covet for occasions to make hell the life of whoever comes asking for our help." You give a dismissive wave of your hand. Uhtred makes a steeple of his fingers, eyes fluttering in confusion, "I mean, you just reported you were cursing souls ere being enslaved." "Perhaps I was forced to? You didn't try to know why"

He breathes in with his brows raised, trying not to lose tracks on this atypical conversation. A hand on his neck, his lashes fluttered.

" Alright," he stood back up, straight like a tree, with his eyes trembling. The corner of your lips curved up at the view, and you get up. "I am Uhtred Of Bebbanburg, the Danes know me as Uhtred Ragnarson," he presented himself, bouncing his weight on his other foot. "I'm Y/n, aka, The Seer," your pupils expanded, reamed into his pagan's heart.

#The Last Kingdom #uhtred #Uhtred Ragnarson #uhtred of bebbanburg #uhtred x reader #uhtred dane slayer #another seer for uthred #he gets to meet a fierce woman #confused uhtred

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crowbarstodd · 5 years ago

Text

Course Of Nature (4)

Chapter Summary: *banging pots together* DAMINETTE! DAMINETTE! Word Count: 3,272 Rating: G Paring: DAMINETTE!

Rena Rogue gagged as soon as she opened an aging door, hands covering her nose and mouth as she took a large step back. “This place stinks!”

Marinette felt inclined to agree with Rena Rogue, nose wrinkling as a foul stench invaded her nostrils, so strong her eyes stung from unshed tears. “You’ll have to get used to it,” Marinette said regretfully, “we’ll be spending some time here.”

Rena moaned, edging inside carefully, nose still pinched between two fingers.

The little off-white townhouse they’d been sent to investigate in Paris’ nineteenth arrondissement was almost charming at first sight. It sat trapped between a high fence marking the end of the street, and a baby-pink, connecting unit with a strip of green at the front only just large enough to fit a few common elder hedges.

The place itself was only slightly overrun by weeds, not enough to appear unseemly, which was probably why it was left alone by most of the unsuspecting neighbours. Marinette herself would have overlooked it completely had it not been for the large mold stain on the bottom right side of the door, and the putrid stench that coated the home. Oh, and the mission sent by Batman and Master Fu.

The inside was drowned in dust and rust, and none of the lights would turn on, so she and Rena resigned themselves to exploring the place with the limited light their torches provided.

“This is literally the worst villain hideout. Unhygienic and unaesthetic is what this place is,” Rena griped, searching through shelves for anything that looked mildly useful.

“There’s no proof this was a hideout. Just that Queen Bee sent a package here about two months ago.”

Rena stopped in her tracks. “Queen Bee? Like, Chloe?”

“No, like the politician.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

Marinette sighed, tilting her head to the sky, eyes shut. “I thought Chat gave you a debrief?”

“Sure, but he didn’t use any names. Just said that another villain sent a package probably for Hawkmoth.”

Wily cat, making her do all the annoying jobs. She’d get him neutered the next time she saw him. “Queen Bee is a corrupt Bialyan leader, part of the light.”

“So not Chloe?”

“Not Chloe,” Marinette confirmed.

“What do we call Chloe then?”

Tired of the conversation, and without any real answers to give, Marinette returned to searching the room for clues. “Call her whatever you want, Rena.”

“Bitch it is!”

“No.”

She zoned out Rena’s following playful whinges, focused on the wooden desk that sat alone in the otherwise empty room connected to the living room that Rena was investigating.

With careful hands she pulled the drawer of the desk open, worrying her lip as her heart pumped with excitement. Where else would one keep a package but their desk?

It was empty.

Disappointed, she shut it closed, only to hear Rena’s resounding shriek.

The living room was a mess of white.

An upturned milk bottle appeared to have fallen from atop the cupboard above the stove. It must have been balancing precariously already, relying on the shut door for stability, and tipping over when Rena pulled the cupboard open.

She stood in the center of the kitchen, an orange lighthouse in a sea of white, utterly drenched, and completely miserable.

In her hands, Marinette spotted something promising.

“Is that a USB?”

“Are you okay Rena? That sucks for you Rena, but don’t worry too much about it,” Rena muttered, peeved.

Marinette scratched the back of her head and let out an awkward laugh. “Sorry. You alright, Rena?”

“I’m drenched in milk, LB. But I found a USB and I managed to keep it dry.”

Marinette cheered under her breath, getting closer to inspect the gadget. It was a simple single-toned grey stick, made by LexCorp. “Only four gigabytes?” She mused aloud, expecting something more monumental.

Rena paid her no mind, wringing her hair over the sink, and yelping when the water that poured out of it was brown in colour. “Ugh, I should have just let Chat take this mission,” Rena grumbled. “Might have even enjoyed the milk.”

Marinette shrugged, a lazy smile painting her face. “I don’t think anyone’d enjoy an unexpected milk-bath, Rena, even silly kitty’s like him.”

Rena shook her leg clean, watching with wry eyes as droplets splashed onto the floor. “You always call him Kitty or Chaton,” Rena commented. “It’s kind of cute.”

If it was Carapace saying it, Marinette wouldn’t have batted an eye, but Rena was sort of pushy, and undeniably not-so-secretly interested in Ladybug’s (love) life. Marinate could see the teasing glint in Rena’s eyes and hear the mischief in her voice, enough to get what she was suggesting.

“Yes I do,” Marinette agreed. “Because we’re partners.”

“You don’t have nicknames for me!”

Marinette raised a brow. “You’re not my partner,” she sung.

Rena pouted, jutting her bottom lip out dramatically enough that for a second, Marinette saw her mask disappear and make way for her best friend who she knew was behind it. She’d never say it aloud, lest it encourage her friend’s more dangerous habits (running headfirst into attacks without a mask or protection) but Alya’s determination and vivacity had always been qualities that Marinette admired. That, and how lush her thick locks always seemed to be.

“What about your new partner then? Lark?”

Marinette snorted. Guess Alya held some second-hand anger on her boyfriend’s behalf after all. “You mean Robin?”

Rena rolled her eyes, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah sure, Robin.”

“What about him?”

“Well if not Chat, then?” Rena trailed off, but Marinette was sharp enough to know what she’d been suggesting.

Involuntarily, her cheeks burst bright red. Memories of last night that she’d tried so hard to forget — moonlight, a surprising confession, and lips —nope! She shook the thoughts out of her head, bringing her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to cool them down.

“Oh my god! Girl!”

“N-no!” Marinette stuttered out, adamant to explain things before Rena got the complete wrong idea. “It’s not like that! I don’t like Robin! Not even in a friend way!”

“Clearly not in the friend way! Girl, does he know?”

Stupid Robin. Stupid dumb Robin and his stupid dumb lips and their stupid dumb conversation and the terrible, awful, cringe-inducing, stupid-dumb ending to last night! “No! Alya!”

“What happened to no secret identities on the field? I don’t even know yours so you’ve got an advantage there.”

“I don’t think that’s the point, Rena.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “The point is are you gonna tell him?”

“No, there’s nothing romantic happening at all!”

Knowing better than to push when Marinette was sure she looked ready to explode, Rena simply wiggled her brows cheekily and returned to searching for hints. “Okay LB,” she said as she passed, patting Marinette on the shoulders almost patronisingly.

Marinette had to bite her lip to prevent a scream.

Perusing the little unit was much less eventful than either of the two girls expected, and in the end, they found nothing of use apart from the single USB stick that Rena had risked milk-dousing for.

“Literally the worst hour of my life,” Rena commented, inhaling deeply when they finally locked the rotting door behind them. “Never again.”

“You okay to get the USB to Master Fu by yourself?”

“Sure thing Ladybug. You go ahead and get your Z’s, you’ve got patrol tomorrow night as well.”

Marinette moaned at the reminder. Damn, and she was getting excited to make a new dress-shirt too.

—————————————

School the next day was interesting, to say the least. The class was abuzz, all gravitating around Chloe’s desk where she was sat bragging (no surprise there) about some celebrities her dad’s hotel was hosting.

“The Waynes are ridiculously famous and important,” the blonde said, leaning back against her chair as if she didn’t care at all. (She cared very much, and wasn’t as good an actress as she thought she was, Marinette noted.) “Bruce Wayne is like, the most eligible bachelor, and he brought three of his sons with him!”

“Three?” Marinette mumbled under her breath, taking her seat beside Alya. “Why does she say it like he has more?”

“He has five,” Alya supplied helpfully, flashing her a smile in greeting.

Soon enough Alya’s head was down, and her chemistry notes were out, but it was obvious that she was paying more attention to what Chloe was saying than what was on her page, but a tad too prideful to admit to herself that Chloe had anything of particular worth to say.

Chloe’s voice was loud enough that Marinette could join her friend in pretending to overhear, rather than listen to the blonde. “They’re going to be staying at my daddy’s hotel for two weeks,” she boasted.

“Wow Chloe, that’s so cool!” Rose awed. Even from the other side of the room, Marinette could stars forming in her eyes. It was like Prince Ali all over again. “I’d love to meet them! I heard the Wayne foundation helps hundreds of people every year, and that Dick Grayson is nice to everyone!”

She nudged Alya lightly with her elbow. “Dick Grayson?”

“Eldest son, I think.” Was Alya’s simple reply.

Chloe sneered, “someone like him would want nothing to do with you.”

“Well, I’m going to say hi anyway!” Rose replied hotly, learning from last time. Her chest puffed out in pride, leaving her to look like a bright pink penguin, but Marinette was happy for her. It looked like she wasn’t going to let Chloe talk her down anymore.

Chloe opened her mouth, probably to dish out an insult, but straightened as if remembering something important. “Fine,” she said instead. “Do what you want.”

Alya raised a brow and made a face that looked to a cross between impressed and disbelieving.

In a weird way, Marinette felt almost proud. Sure, each awful word out of Chloe’s mouth gave her some sort of vindication (who doesn’t love being right?) that always lead to her feeling guilty, but every time Chloe acted politely, against Marinette’s expectations, she was being influenced by Ladybug. There was something humbling about seeing her impact on the small scale, however minute it was.

“Will you all come with me?” Rose asked, wide eyes directed at the girls of the class.

Don’t look, Marinette urged herself. The moment she looked into Rose’s big Bambi eyes she’d be gone, and however much she loved Rose she needed to go to bed before patrol that night.

“Please?”

“Sure thing, Rose!” Alya agreed. “Marinette and I’d be happy to come.”

Raising her head to refute Alya, Marinette found herself staring right into Rose’s baby blues. Crap. “Yeah Rose, I’d love to come!”

Marinette’s mouth moved faster than her mind, and by the time she’d realised what she had done it was far too late. Rose had already turned to ask Alix.

God, if only Rose was a tablespoon less cute.

(“You’re going to see Dick Grayson? Can I come? I love Dick Grayson!

“Sure, Kim!”)

—————————————

Dick Grayson really was nice to everyone he met, and it didn’t take long for Marinette to understand why all of Paris seemed to swoon over him.

He was charming, had eyes bluer than blue, and a smile that looked so familiar, Marinette could have sworn she’d seen it directed at her before. Really truly, he was great. But all she could focus on was the screaming that was happening somewhere further down the hotel that nobody else seemed to care about.

Marinette inched backwards until she was out of sight, bolting down the nearest corridor, following the sound the best she could.

Tikki peeked out from inside her bag, gazing at her with questioning eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to transform, Marinette? It doesn’t sound very good.”

“I just wanna check first, Tikki. It might not be an attack.”

It wasn’t one. What she’d mistaken for innocent lives threatened by some Akumatised being was, in fact, two boys screaming at each other in the hotel hallway. Or rather, one boy screaming as the other responded, just as heated, but not as loud.

“You will regret this, Drake!” The shorter boy seethed at the other, who stood across from him, clearly unimpressed, back slouched and left hand in his corduroy pants.

The taller one, Drake, raised his hands in apparent frustration. “It’s a room. You’ll just have to settle with sharing with Jason.”

“I had the room with Grayson first. Return it immediately!”

“You sound like a brat.”

The shorter boy huffed, launching a well-aimed kick at the taller boy’s head, which he somehow managed to block, hand still in his pocket. “Your attack will be returned tenfold,” the shorter one announced, leaving ‘Drake’ alone at last. Marinette squeaked as he walked in her direction, slipping around the corner as his eyes narrowed.

He didn’t seem to care though, walking out of the hotel without another look back.

Concerned about a potential Akuma victim, she trailed after him.

She felt childish to have been lulled in such an obviously false sense of comfort, but she was genuinely surprised when he disappeared from her sight after exiting the hotel, only to reappear behind her. He had one hand around both her wrists, keeping her from fighting back with her arms.

“What business do you have following me?”

Marinette spluttered, struggling not to let her eyes dart to her bag in concern as she felt Tikki’s concerned shudder. “I was just making sure you were okay!” Marinette insisted. “I just didn’t want you to get akumatised!”

He let go of her wrists, but his eyes were still in slits, and his knees were bent as if ready to bolt at any given chance. “Explain yourself,” he demanded.

He was pretty snooty if Marinette was being honest, but she supposed she’d be paranoid too if someone was following her. “If you get too upset, Hawkmoth will be able to use you to destroy the city,” Marinette explained, omitting some important parts about certain Miraculous’. It was weird he didn’t know any of this yet. “Are you new here or something?”

The boy sniffed in disdain. “My family landed here this morning.”

This morning…

Marinette gave his outfit a quick once-over.

Black skinny jeans; Givenchy, black shoes; Armani, Burberry jacket, and Wayne-Tech watch. Wayne tech phone peeking out from his pocket too… Rose was going to be so jealous.

(His target-brand Nightwing t-shirt confused her, though.)

“You must be a Wayne!” Marinate exclaimed, extending her hand to greet him. “I’m Marinette.”

He looked at her hand with a raised brow.

He didn’t move until her face shifted into a glare. “Damian.”

He was a little rough around the edges, but he was also mad, and she wouldn’t be Ladybug if she left some innocent person alone to be akumatised. “Nice to meet you, Damian. Do you like ice-cream?”

“I’m not fond of sweets.”

“I’ll find something for you.”

She grabbed his wrist, ready to tug him along, when he snatched his hand right out of her grip. “Unhand me!” He bellowed, looking angry again. Marinate wanted to slap a hand on her forehead, feeling idiotic for upsetting him even further.

“I’m not going to do anything weird, I promise. I just want to take you to my family’s bakery, get you some tea or something to calm you down.”

He looked on the verge of protest, but she must have said something right because he deflated soon after. “Some tea would be acceptable.”

They sat across from each other on the table nearest to the front window, seats comfortably cushioned with little round pillows that were decorated with flowers; one of Marinette’s own creations.

The bakery was one of her favourite places in the world. Little personal splashes made the place warm, from the cushions she’d made, the three small tables on the right side of the bakery for inside dining that she’d suggested herself, and the small red stain on the underside of the front counter that she’d created by spilling dye while making red-velvet cupcakes. She and her mom had spent almost an hour trying to remove any traces of it, but that little mark, shaped like a coma, was far more stubborn than either of them.

He liked rice tea, she learned. Rice tea and plum dacqouise.

Well, he never said he liked plum dacquoise, but he clearly didn't dislike plum dacquoise. Her dad had asked if he’d like anything else with his tea, and when he looked to her for suggestions, there was one thing she couldn’t not recommend.

“I’d like the Marinette,” he’d said, voice frank. Her heart had pounded at how the sentence sounded, but she didn’t correct him or mention it in case it’d embarrass him. He wasn’t a native speaker after all, so it was impressive enough he could maintain a conversation and order all on his own.

“It’s my favourite cake,” she informed him after his first bite. He replied with a ‘hn.’

Easy silence befell them as Damian sipped his tea, looking out the window with slight interest. She was eating his cake, well her cake that he bought, content to sit in silence, appreciating how he simply nodded her way when he caught her, not too miffed at her eating his food. “Did you come here for a holiday?” She asked, striking up a conversation.

He tilted his head to the side, thinking. The bright lights seemed to highlight his jawline perfectly, because Marinette couldn’t stop her eyes from trailing downward. “For business mostly, but I suppose Gra— my brother might consider this a holiday.”

“Must be nice to have so many siblings.”

Damian huffed, folding his arms the way Alya’s younger sisters did when they heard something they didn’t like. “They’re not my siblings.”

“You just said you had a brother though?”

Damian spluttered, mouth moving as he protested mutely, unable to come up with a convincing response. “It’s not fun,” he said instead, replying to her initial comment.

Marinette smiled behind her hands at his petulant behaviour, not yet brave enough, or close enough to him to laugh at him to his face. “I wouldn’t know,” she shrugged. “I’m an only child.”

“I was too, once.” Damian’s eyes had a misty quality to them that Marinette wasn’t sure she wanted to touch on. Instead, she latched on to what felt like the only tangible part of what he said.

“Are you adopted?”

Damian all but hissed, leaning over the table to exclaim his response. “I’m the blood heir! The rest of them were adopted!”

She leaned back into her seat, surprised by his outburst.

Prepared to spend the rest of the hour suffering in heavy silence, Marinette was almost grateful to see a large, thorn breaking through the bakery window, engraving itself deep into the floor.

It shook the building down to its foundations, leaving the counter and the cakes it displayed utterly obliterated. Marinette coughed, inhaling a lungful of dust and debris caused by the projectile, wheezing out a breath. Her heart thrummed as she readied herself for a battle.

“I have to go!” She and Damian said in sync. She let him leave, expecting his worry for his family, and preoccupied with planning how to get to the Akuma.

Marinette let out a quiet “sorry,” as she trapped her parents in the back room, locking the door on them so they would be safe without noticing her absence.

“Tikki, spots on!”

End Notes: hhhhhhhhh so this is actually only half of my original plan for chapter 4 so I guess you can expect chapter five soon. I was so excited for the fight but chapter 4 got so long and I felt that the fight deserved it’s own chapter and I didn’t want too many events in one chapter because it’d feel too cluttered oh man.

But also! Daminette!!!!!

Classic Bruce gets there secret identities to arrive later than their hero ones to avoid suspicion. We got our first peek at Tim, and a mention of Jason. If anyone’s wondering why Chloe only mentioned three sons,,, Jason’s legally dead so ye theres that.

Daminette!!! They met!!!!!!!!! For those curious, his acceptance of tea was thanks to his appreciation of Alfred. Daminette!!!

Things to look forward to next chapter: Akuma fight!!! Addressing the ‘Queen Bee’ situation completely, kind of addressing what happened the night damian stormed of jealous and MORE maridami goodness. (Is it obvious how much I love chapter 5 and how much I wanna get it DONE?

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dancingsparks · 5 years ago

Text

The Harry Bloody Potter Jar

Inspired by the Drarry Discord

A huge thanks to my wnoderful beta @april-thelightfury115

Also on A03

“Merlin Pansy you won’t believe who they decided on as guardian for my parole.” Pansy doesn’t look up from where she’s painting her nails. That’s fair enough - nail painting is a delicate art and she would only raise an eyebrow at him anyway. Still, Draco pouts. One would think Pansy could at least pretend to care about the future of her best friend. Even if said future doesn’t look quite as grim anymore as it did a week ago.

Thanks to Potter’s outraged speech in front of the Wizengamot, Draco wasn’t faced with a lifetime in Azkaban anymore, but a mere five years under strict parole guidelines; he was to return to Hogwarts, find a way to become a vital part of society, and perform reparations for his families war crimes, all under the constant supervision of a trustworthy guardian, responsible for his every action. Draco had expected they’d assign him to some old fool, him being not important enough to bother someone competent with; a means to give people they can’t insult something to do, maybe one of those people they gave medals to after the war even though they hardly did any of the fighting - someone like Slughorn maybe. Draco was wrong.

“Potter, they named Harry bloody Potter my legal guardian!” He pauses for effect, to let his words sink in and the horror take hold - but Pansy just paints a new shiny layer of black on her thumb. Draco stares her, incredulous and hurt. Dos she not grasp the tragedy of this development? Before he can question her on her silence, Pansy idly points at somewhere behind him, says jar, and gives her nails a critical look.

Draco groans, but he turns around anyway, searches his pocket for some coins and dumps them in the jar labelled Harry bloody Potter. He remembers how proudly Pansy had presented it, saying if she was forced to listen to his whinging she might as well get something out of it. At first Draco laughed it off… Until he woke up with blue hair. Pansy was utterly unsympathetic, refused to lift the charm and amusedly watched him pour over books to find something to counter it. He hadn’t. So, when Pansy graciously offered to take the charm off, if he accepted and honoured the jar, Draco had no choice but to agree. He hadn’t dared ignoring it since.

“This is terrible Pans, he can tell me to do whatever he wants! He could humiliate me or force me to do all his assignments - he has complete control over me now! And you know Potter, he was never the best at keeping his temper in check, what’s to say he won’t take it out on poor helpless me? It’s not like we ever got along, they should just have sent me to Azkaban.” At that Pansy finally looks up, nails forgotten, all her attention on him.

“Don’t say that, don’t you ever dare say that!” There is a sharp edge in her tone, a fierce glint in her eyes. Draco lifts his chin defiantly, ignoring the urge to back down and do whatever it takes to appease her. “Azkaban is a terrible place and it would break you, you wouldn’t last a month. Is that what you want? Because I am sure they have a cell free if you ask nicely. Or they could just throw you in with your father, would you like that?”

It makes Draco flinch, violently and with his entire body. No, he would not like that. Having his father locked up is the only good thing about all this, and even that isn’t as clearly positive as Draco would like it to be. Lucius might be cruel and selfish and always vocal in his disappointment in Draco, but he’s still his father, and Draco rather suspects if it was possible, he would free him.

Pansy seems to realise that she went too far with that, because she visibly softens. “This is a good thing Draco, and you know that it is. Yes, Potter is a git and with the power he holds he could make your life a living hell – you’ve given him enough reason to do so. But Potter is also The Saviour, The Golden Boy; do you honestly think he would abuse that power instead of rubbing how good he is in everyone’s face?”

She pauses, gives him time to think it over. When Draco still sullenly refuses to answer, she adds, “And he spoke at your trial.”

She presents it as if it’s the ultimate proof, as if that changes everything. To be honest, it does.

Pansy makes a good case, Potter is far too good to take advantage of his position. He would probably even insist that he doesn’t want this, that he would have preferred anyone else to be given the task. Potter wouldn’t be too bad, keep a close eye and tell him to behave most likely. And Draco can’t deny that he always liked having Potter’s undivided attention.

***

This is unacceptable! It’s offensive and rude and belittling! Draco stares up at the wall, fuming and yet unable to do anything about it. The stupid wall won’t let him pass through to the platform, he’ll miss the train, break his parole and be sent to Azkaban after all. Fantastic. Pansy might come back to look for him if he doesn’t follow her in ten minutes, but in the end, there’s nothing she’ll be able to do either.

The Muggles are still staring at him, laying on the ground amongst his schoolbooks and robes. It’s an undignified position to be in, even more so that it is witnessed by Muggles, but Draco lost his ability to care about that somewhere in the war. He also lost his blind hostility against Muggles, but their utter disregard of his obviously hurtful fall makes the urge to hex every single one of them surge up in him. Nothing malicious, only delay them, just enough so that they miss their train.

Still glaring, Draco starts to get up; he rolls on his side to press himself up on his arms as a searing pain shoots through his arm. Gasping in pain, he collapses again, right back down onto the hard floor. Draco didn’t expect this. He thought he might have hurt his head, that his balance might be affected, but not that he’d brake his arm. Still, a broken arm is nothing to cry over, especially if there’s no one around to see and pamper him. He’d experienced worse, things Draco tries not to dwell upon, so this shouldn’t be a problem. He’s about to try again, grit his teeth this time and get through it, when there is suddenly a hand in his face.

“Here let me help you.” The woman smiles down at him, warm and not overly pitying, and Draco takes her hand. Maybe he wouldn’t hex all of them. She pulls him up and Draco clutches her due to a sudden spell of vertigo.

“Are you alright?” She sounds honestly concerned, steadying and holding him. “Should I call a doctor?”

Draco has no idea what a doctor is, but he doesn’t need one. What he needs is to get through that stubborn wall. “Thank you, no, I am fine.”

She frowns at him but doesn’t insist, for which Draco is grateful. He smiles at her in reassurance before carefully crouching down to pick up his things. Unexpectedly, the woman sits down next to him, picking up books. She raises her eyebrow at the titles but doesn’t comment. Between the two of them, they gather his things quickly. Draco thanks her again and with a smile she’s gone, leaving back where he was, standing lost in front of the wall.

Maybe he could send an owl to Hogwarts, tell them that it wasn’t his fault; he tried to be there and would appreciate another way to come to school. Yes, that’s a reasonable, mature response to this ridiculous situation.

“Something the matter, Malfoy?” Draco freezes at the voice. Potter. Just what he needs right now. But then, if Potter is to be responsible for him, he might as well fix this thing.

“Yes, Potter, this stupid wall is broken and won’t let me pass. And it broke my arm.” Potter has the gall to look sheepish, then he snorts. Draco glares at him.

“Your arm isn’t broken, you are just being dramatic. Give me that.” Ignoring Draco’s protest, he roughly pulls his arm from where he cradled it against his chest. It hurts, and Draco says so, but Potter mumbles an apology and doesn’t look up from his examination. Draco keeps up his complaints; he wouldn’t want Potter to think he approves of the treatment.

Potter draws his wand, still holding Draco’s arm in a tight grip, a concentrated frown on his face. Draco must have made some sort of noise, because Potter looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. It’s clearly a question, but it’s also a challenge. Draco could never resist a challenge from Potter. He nods and Potter looks back down. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even move his lips, but Draco can feel the magic. It washes over him in a warm haze, calming the pain and leaving a pleasant numbness.

Carefully Draco moves his arm. It doesn’t hurt, not even slightly. Who ever thought Potter could heal? Potter smiles at him. He has a nice smile, small but sincere and full of possibilities. Draco smiles back, can’t stop himself.

Until he realises who exactly he is smiling at. “That still doesn't explain the wall.”

“Ah yes, that. I knew you wouldn’t like it. I told Kingsley it’s stupid, that you could go on the train on your own, but he insisted. I have to go before you, to authorise you or something. Kingsley explained it but I wasn’t - anyway. I have to go first and you can follow me.” There are several things that grate on Draco in that sentence. First the nonchalant way in which Potter speaks, as if he isn’t the cause for this mess. Second, the implication that Draco could not be trusted to enter a public Wizarding space without supervision. Third, Potter didn’t - what? Pay attention? Care? Is Draco’s fate not entertaining enough to hold his attention for the minute it would have taken to explain the process?

“Terribly sorry to inconvenience you like this but would you be so kind to move through the wall now, so I finally can too?” Potter glares at him, as if Draco is the one being a prat, when all he wants is to be done with this. Draco glares back and makes an impatient noise for good measure.

Potter mumbles about unchanged gits and Draco has a feeling he means him, but before he can be properly offended, Potter passes through the wall. Draco takes a moment to be bitter about how easy everything always is for Potter, neatly using the wall as a metaphor, before he makes sure his clothes sit right, his hair is smooth, and striding through the wall after Potter.

It goes seamlessly, as it should, and Draco spares no glance for the happy reunion between Potter and his friends that he almost walks into. It’s only then that he realises Potter had been alone when he arrived, and how unusual that is. But he doesn’t linger, doesn’t spare them a glance as he makes his way to find Pansy.

He tries to ignore the suspicious looks, the vicious words thrown at him, how parents shield their children as if they need to protect them from him. Draco holds his head high and pretends it doesn’t hurt.

Still, he sighs in relief when finds Pansy in an empty compartment. After levitating his luggage he slumps down into a seat next to her. “Apparently Potter has to move every door for me now.”

He expects her to be interested, to ask maybe, but she only looks at him and pulls the jar out of her pocket.

***

Draco stares at the list. This isn’t surprising, he expected this, and yet here he stands, thinking this must be some kind of sick joke. “Pansy, would you be so kind to tell me who I’m roomed with?”

“No, I have my own problems here Draco, get over it.”

“Potter, why can’t they ever give me some space? Why force me in tiny living quarters with the git?” Draco gasps as the elbow of someone shoves into his side violently. Sure, there’s not much space and people are uncivilised so there is a lot of pushing involved in this horde, but Draco is convinced this was no accident. Looking around doesn’t help much - too many people glaring at him for daring to insult their Saviour. Draco glares back and turns around again, intending to check the list again. He finds that darned jar under his nose again. Where does she even store it?

He must have taken too long, because she gives the jar an impatient shake and him an ominous stare. Draco pays her.

“I don’t like it either Malfoy, but apparently you are a dangerous criminal and need supervision every hour of the day and night. Now move, there are other people who want to see the list and you’re blocking the view.” Potter doesn’t wait for Draco to move, but instead takes him by the shoulders and firmly moves him away. His hands feel nice on Draco’s shoulders, easily manoeuvring him around. Draco scowls at him, pushes his hands way and rights his clothes again. Potter watches him with an unreadable expression.

“I don’t sleep much, and when I do, I sleep badly. Just a fair warning. Don’t worry though, I’m proficient with my Silencing charms and won’t disturb you, your beauty sleep is safe.” Before Draco can protest, he’s gone, following Weasley up the stairs in their new 8th year common room. This whole thing is ridiculous; they should just have stayed in their own houses where people don’t run the danger of being choked to death with their own pillow in their sleep.

But McGonagall, now headmistress, had presented the idea as if it were the cure to all evils and there’s no arguing with her; especially given she’s a scary old hag. Draco just tries to be mostly unnoticed by her. In fact, he wouldn’t be back at Hogwarts at all if it wasn’t part of his parole. He would have learnt the curriculum on his own and only come back to take the final exams here. Not that anyone would hire him anyway, not with how his reputation was dragged through the dirt by his father.

“Are you alright Draco? You are staring.” Pansy’s standing in front of him, actually looking worried. She does that far too often, Draco is fine, there is absolutely no need to be concerned.

“Yes Pansy, I am fine, quit fretting. Who did you say you’re rooming with?” She gives him a suspicious look, as if he might change his mind a fall apart right in front of her before ranting about being put in a room with one of the Patil’s. Draco let’s her talk, hums at the appropriate places, but his thoughts are on Potter. Draco had problems sleeping immediately after the war himself, still does on bad nights. What demons are keeping Potter awake?

***

Potter hadn’t been lying about sleeping badly, but his Silencing charms leave much to be desired. He’s been tossing and turning for an hour now, rudely waking Draco from a blissful slumber with his choked whimpers and muffled screams. It’s utterly heart-wrenching to listen too, but Draco can’t bring himself to ignore him either. It is stupid, but through listening to him, he feels like he acknowledges Potter’s pain, like he isn’t suffering alone.

Draco had endured his own share of nightmares directly after the war, facing cold landscapes of blood and screams alone, with nothing to defend or warm himself. He’d woken up screaming and in panic, tried to fend off sleep as long as possible to avoid the darkness. As much as Draco still doesn’t like the git, he knows what Potter’s experiencing well enough to know he deserves better.

Suffering from sleep deprivation and unwilling to go on like this, Draco finally took to drinking Dreamless Sleep, well aware but uncaring of its addictive quality. He could deal with that if it ever got bad enough to actual warrant the worry. Maybe he should advise Potter to do the same. It’s not as if Pomfrey could deny him, being their Saviour he can do whatever he wants.

Draco lays awake the entire night, trying not to imagine what has Potter crying and yelling while simultaneously wondering what Potter saw, what he had to live through that still haunts him now.

***

“You look terrible. Didn’t I tell you to put your books away and actually sleep at night?” Pansy sips her coffee, looking at him over the rim of her cup. Draco feels dead. He didn’t get a second of sleep after Potter woke him, and now he can hardly keep his eyes open. Pansy, Merlin bless her, judges him pathetic enough and refills his own cup with tea. He immediately swallows half it, scorching his tongue but downing more anyway. He’ll need it, if he doesn’t want to fall asleep in his classes.

The only thing even remotely positive about this morning is Potter, slumped over his own cup, deaf to Weasley’s attempts to grab his attention. On second thought, Draco preferred him fully awake. Seeing Potter like this, unmoving and exuding a silent misery, is in many ways worse than witnessing his nightmares.

“This is not my fault, it’s Potter’s.” His sleep deprived mind takes longer than usual to understand what she wants when she holds the jar in his face. When it finally clicks he glares at her.

“That’s not fair, you asked! I just answered your question and as it so happens, Potter is the key to your answer.” Next she would deliberately goad him into mentioning Potter, slowly chisel his entire fortune out of him. If she were to prey on anyone else, Draco would appreciate the scheme. This way he’s more annoyed than impressed with her slyness.

“I think I’ll colour them pink this time. Or red for your favourite Gryffindor?” Pansy is cackling, thinking herself oh so funny. Draco just surrenders a few coins, taking her threat seriously and turning his thoughts back to Potter. He doesn’t like seeing him like this at all, it doesn’t feel right. Potter should be full of energy, talking obnoxiously loudly with his friends and laughing at their dumb jokes. Draco won’t accept this lifeless shell.

***

“Draco, come on. It’s a nice day, sunny for once, even. Why can’t we do this outside? You can still brood over your books there and I can enjoy the sun.” Pansy has been whinging the entire time she’s followed him through the library and Draco’s had enough, he needs to concentrate here.

“I already told you to leave if that is what you want. Hold these though if you stay, would you.” Pansy grunts as he shoves the books at her. Totally exaggerated of course they aren’t that heavy and there’s only three. Maybe giving them to her was a bad idea, because she starts snooping almost immediately. But Draco needs his arms to search for more, and she wouldn’t shut up anyway, might as well talk about something interesting.

“Muggle fairy tales? I even didn’t know they have Muggle books here, let alone fairy tales. Why in Salazar’s name would you read them?” Draco scoffs at the question, though it’s not long ago that he would have asked it himself.

“Because, my dear Pansy, I’m letting go of my prejudices and try to be a better person.” That was half true. He really is trying to be better, to not judge and treat people the way he was taught, but that is not why he is looking at fairy tales. No, the reason is more simple than that, and more embarrassing. He wants to start reading them to Potter. He figured out quickly that Potter calmed down when talked to, so he started telling him stories his mother used to tell him when he was little and didn’t want to go to sleep, which was all the time. She would smile at him and ask him what he wanted to hear and Draco would choose something. The fact that he often wanted to be told of Harry Potter is besides the point.

It worked well enough, kept Potter calm and content, but Draco ran out of stories to tell. He thought it would be fine, that Potter settled down enough to sleep without Draco’s stories. He paid for that naivety dearly – laying awake at night, once again helplessly listening to Potter’s suffering.

“I don’t think so, why are you really looking at dusty books?” Damn Pansy and her ability to detect even small lies. His life would be so much easier if she wasn’t such a nosey cow or at least only half as smart.

“Fine, I read them to Potter, he sleeps better that way. Put that in your jar and leave already.” He shouldn’t have admitted to reading to Potter, she wouldn’t stop asking now until she knows everything. As expected, she doesn’t leave but smirks at him, looking like the kneazle that got the cream.

“And since when do you care about if Potter gets enough sleep? Though I have to say, it is really sweet of you.” That’s it - Draco won’t tell her a thing.

“I don’t care, but his constant tossing and turning keeps me awake. It is very rude, but I have the feeling that confronting him about it wouldn’t end well for me.” He also doesn’t need Dreamless Sleep after telling a story and watching over Potter, but Pansy would only worry if he mentioned needing it before. Moreover, he likes being the one to calm Potter, likes being directly responsible for Potter being more alive, even if no one knows. Strangely, and against everything he was told to strive for, it didn’t bother him that he doesn’t receive credit and praise for it. He is content seeing Potter smile and know that he slept six nightmare free hours that night, is content with calming his quiet whimpers by nothing more than talking to him. This side of Potter is all Draco’s, and he won’t let anyone take it from him.

Pansy doesn’t believe him, still smirking and raising an eyebrow at him. He thought he gave her just enough of the truth, the bare and most selfish bones of it, to satisfy her. “Don’t tell me then, but take those books back. I know how to enjoy myself, so I will be leaving. Come find me when your books bore you.”

***

“They shouldn’t have let you back, my mother said. You belong in Azkaban with all the other pure-blood scum, rotting there, not terrorising good honest people again.”

“Harry’s heart is too soft to do what is necessary, he sees good in everybody, even dirty Death-Eaters like you. But you can’t fool us.”

Draco tightens the grip on his quill and clenches his jaw, keeping his head down and eyes focused on his essay giving no indication that he even hears them. They’ve been here for a few minutes now, hurling insults at his head and feeling tough. Draco would stand up to them, would tell them to back off and not talk about things they don’t understand – but instead he sits frozen in his chair.

The problem is that they are right. Draco was stupid; he made some horrible choices out of ignorance and fear without comprehending the consequences. He made those choices, no matter the circumstances, and people died. They were tortured, beaten bloody, and murdered. Their families were hunted down and murdered. And Draco stood by, doing what little he could for the prisoners, otherwise silently watching, condoning, or being forced - under threat of pain to his family - to participate.

When they call him a Death-Eater – they’re right. The word makes Draco nauseous, ashamed, freezing cold and burning hot at once - but they are right. When they say he’s scum – they’re right. Even though, or maybe especially because, Draco was told all his life that he’s something better. When they say he belongs to Azkaban – they’re right. Despite the fact that the thought of that place alone makes Draco sick.

Draco got off lightly; he deserves to be punished.

“Shut up, all of you. I didn’t die for the hate to continue. I didn’t die so little brats like you could go around, hurling insults at whoever you please. I didn’t die so our world could remain split by our beliefs and prejudices and deliberate blindness.” That’s Potter’s voice, lecturing and scolding. Draco looks up, needing to make sure that he isn’t delirious, that he isn’t hallucinating or imagining things. Potter stands in the window like a fallen angel, dark against the light, chewing out people Draco can’t see, can’t focus on. He stares in awe at Potter, defending him.

“You don’t know anything about Malfoy or the things he did or didn’t do - so don’t you dare judge him for them.” Potter sounds like he wants to go on, like he wants to yell at every single person here. Draco can’t allow that - not that he doesn’t enjoy watching Potter outraged, but screaming at harmless brats will even get him in trouble.

“Potter, I appreciate the sentiment, but you need to sit down now.” With that he yanks Potter down into the chair next to him and pushes a book under his nose, gives him something else to focus on. There is a tense silence in which Draco thinks Potter is going to stand up again, utterly ignore him and continue, but then Potter pulls the book closer and everyone standing frozen in his wrath scrambles away as fast as humanly possible. Draco doesn’t even try to hide his smug smile before going back to his essay. They might have been right in what they said, but they were inappropriately rude about it. They got what they deserved. Also, if Potter disagrees with them, maybe Draco should rethink that himself - Potter is seldom wrong on matters of right or wrong.

Draco’s still thinking about what Potter said, why he would defend Draco again, when he realises Potter is very much still sitting next to him, not reading anymore but watching him. Draco doesn’t know what to do with that, Potter only ever glared at him, scowled and frowned and looked with suspicion. But this is something else, more contemplative than damning, not as hostile. Draco feels as if Potter is really looking at him, cutting down to his soul with that discerning gaze. It’s unnerving, he doesn’t like the thought of what Potter might find. “See something you like, Potter?”

The question was meant to be teasing, to make Potter blush and stammer and give Draco something that might not exactly be familiar but still safer, less uncertain unsettling. Instead a slow smirk creeps on Potter’s face, making Draco blush. “Fishing for compliments, Malfoy?”

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that, even if he were capable of speaking at that moment. It doesn’t matter, because Potter becomes serious once more, face changing back into that unreadable mask. “Why did you let them say stuff like that, why didn’t you defend yourself?”

Why couldn’t Potter stick to the unexpected flirting? Why does he have to ask real, substantial questions when he never cared about Draco as person before? He was always fine with assigning him whatever fitted best with his view, why change that now? Draco sighs, reluctant to explain his reasons but more unwilling to ignore Potter’s question. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Malfoy, come on. You used to throw fits over things more trivial than this. What changed?” Draco glares at him, suddenly angry at Potter’s condescending words. What changed? What didn’t? Draco realised he was a terrible person, he tortured people and watched them die, he lost a friend and thought Potter was dead for those terrifying moments. And now Potter dares to question why Draco doesn’t say anything about some morons shouting words they don’t understand?

“Don’t pretend you know me Potter. You have no idea what I went through and what I suffered. I suppose it doesn’t matter to you, does it? The Great Saviour, you probably saw them spouting their insults and thought this is a good opportunity to show how much better you are, caring even about the poor Death-Eater. Well let me tell you this, if I so wanted too, I could have scared them off myself. I don’t need your pity.” Draco’s gripping his quill tightly, furiously whispering so as not be thrown out but unable to keep the rage in and his mouth shut either.

“It’s not pity and I know you could have, the question was why you didn’t.” Potter is irritatingly calm, looking at Draco, unimpressed by his outburst. It makes Draco feel self-conscious; foolish. Just like that the rage is gone, as quick as it came, leaving him deflated and with a question he doesn’t want to answer but will anyway.

“Because they were right and I saw no reason to shut them up, is that what you wanted to hear? Will you leave me in peace now?” Potter looks at him, no pity or fury in his eyes, considering Draco and taking him in. Draco has seldom felt as vulnerable as he does in this conversation.

“No, that is not what I wanted to hear at all. I don’t think they were right; I think they got a rush out of picking on someone who won’t fight back and that you were a convenient target. I think you heard so many people tell you that you’re worth nothing and what you did is inexcusable, that you’re irredeemable, that you started to believe it yourself. And I think you deserve better than that.” Potter doesn’t wait for Draco to answer, he just says that, turns Draco’s whole world and understanding on its head, and goes back to his book. Draco sits staring at him for far too long, thinking over what he said and wondering who gave him the right to make him question everything he thought true with nothing more than a few sentences.

He finally catches himself, forcing his eyes back onto his essay and his thoughts back on the effects the moon has on Dragon Blood.

Potter’s still sitting next to him, immersed in a book Draco never thought he would be interested in, too heavy and ancient for that, ignoring the stares and whispers he attracts. Draco can feel himself getting agitated over them, shifting in his chair and throwing glares over the book. He doesn’t know what to do with that. On one hand, the attention might cause Potter to leave, giving Draco the peace and freedom to ignore everything he said, which is harder when the living and breathing proof sits right next to him. But on the other, Draco really doesn’t want Potter to leave. It’s - nice, having him here, sitting in companionable silence, Potter reading and Draco surprisingly actually able to work.

Without thinking much further on it, Draco casts a Silencing charm. It settles over them, shutting out the voices and enveloping them in a peaceful quiet. Draco thinks for a short moment about telling Potter this is how a Silencing charm is supposed to work, but he shoots Draco a grateful smile and he doesn’t want to ruin this moment of understanding. He also doesn’t want to have to explain that yes, I do spend my nights taking care of your nightmares because listening to you physically hurts.

They sit in their little bubble, working quietly next to each other until Potter suddenly curses. Draco looks up, finding Potter already standing to leave. “Sorry Malfoy, this has been - surprisingly pleasant actually - but I’ve got Quidditch and Ron worries too much already, I can’t show up late.”

Draco doesn’t answer, doesn’t think Potter needs him to answer – they’ve just been sitting next to each other, he doesn’t owe Draco an explanation or anything - but Potter stills, looking at him, waiting. “Oh, sure, no problem. Go and relieve the Weasel of his worries.”

Potter smiles crookedly at him and then he’s off, hastening through the library and past tables of staring students. Draco never noticed before, but now he wonders when, if ever, Potter isn’t observed by everyone around him. It doesn’t seem fair, that he gave so much already and they still want more, to intrude on his life, leave him without a single quiet moment. Draco loudly clears his throat, glares at all of them and frightens them into looking back down. Having the reputation of being a murdering Death-Eater does have its perks - even if it’s just scaring people into leaving their hero alone.

Finished with his essay and not wanting to stay there after Potter left, the table now empty and cold, Draco packs his things. Pansy probably won’t make an appearance anymore. She was supposed to be here an hour ago, but something must have kept her. Draco is secretly relieved, he wouldn’t have wanted her to interrupt this time with Potter, whatever that was, but he’ll still complain about it later.

“Oh good, you are still here. I am so sorry I’m late, but I found something better to do.” Draco raises an eyebrow at her, but she raises her own right back at him. She won’t tell him anything. That means most likely she fell asleep but is too embarrassed to say so and too lazy to come up with a believable excuse. Or she sneaked into the kitchen and begged some sweets from the house elves, who, for some reason she refuses to share; they adore her and give her everything she asks for. Draco would complain about that too, but first he has to talk about Potter, before he can convince himself it never happened and he imagined it.

“Well, hand over that jar then, because I have to tell you something.” Pansy’s eyes light up, greedy for the coin and the gossip.

***

The jar is almost full, the newest addition piling on and threatening to spill over. Draco asked her once why she didn’t charm it, it would be easy enough, but Pansy rolled her eyes at him, telling him that would defeat the purpose because it wouldn’t show the unbelievable frequency of which he talks about Potter; using a charm would ruin the aesthetic.

Draco has to admit, the picture of the jar filled to bursting underlines her point quite well. Maybe he should have listened to her when she complained that he talks about Potter too much – but there are more important things than stroking her ego right now. He had a very good reason for paying this time.

“So you’re going on a date with him, you said?” Pansy climbs on his bed, legs folded under herself, making no move to pick out clothes. Draco sighs.

“Yes, I’ve said it five times now, it’s not that difficult to understand.”

Pansy pouts at him, crosses her arms and still doesn’t do anything to help. “I would advise you to be nicer if you want my help to choose the perfect outfit. I need more information first, did you force a love potion in him?”

Draco gives up, Pansy needs her gossip or she won’t move a finger to help him. Usually that wouldn’t be a problem, he usually loves telling her every detail to hear her judgements - but this feels too fragile, too intimate, to share. Draco would have to talk a whole lot of nonsense to distract her from the fact that he’ll tell her practically nothing.

“I am affronted that you think I would need such vile means. No, he simply admitted that I was right when he said he doesn’t know me and never did but he wants to change that now.” That was alright to share, the bare facts, giving not much away while still enough it’s not too obvious he’s not telling her something, like the fact he isn’t telling her how Potter was blushing and stammering, falling over his words in such a striking contrast to that day in the library that Draco couldn’t believe it. Or how he isn’t telling her Potter accidentally admitted to talking so much about Draco that Weasley got fed up with it and threatened to ask Draco out for him if he didn’t find the guts to do it himself. And he definitely isn’t telling her how endearing it was, how charming.

“And I suppose you were the picture of nonchalance while the person you have been pining after since we were in 4th year asked you on a date?” Draco wasn’t. He’d been blushing too, trying desperately, and ultimately, vainly, to suppress a smile before making a fool out of himself by asking why in Merlin’s name Potter would possibly want to date him. Potter, the bastard, found his footing somewhere and told him that if he wanted to know he would have to agree, because he was not going to satisfy his thirst for validation in some random corridor in-between classes. Despite the implication that Draco depends on Potter’s validation, he agreed, Potter’s blinding smile making the whole thing worth it. None of this is any of Pansy’s business.

“Yes, but that is besides the point. I asked you to help me choose something to wear, not to analyse the start of our relationship.” He didn’t expect his attempt to get her to start being useful to work, especially after realising that even mentioning a relationship was the wrong move entirely.

“Someone is confident.”

“Of course I am! How could Potter possibly resist me once he truly gets to know me?” That Draco is terrified Potter will realise that he doesn’t want to learn more about Draco after all isn’t something Pansy needs to know either. Neither is the fact that Draco isn’t quite sure yet that this isn’t an elaborate prank. Potter seemed sincere when he asked Draco out, and he’d never been this kind of cruel, but Draco worried nonetheless. That’s something he really understood for the first time during the war; fear isn’t a rational thing.

“Of course, how could I ever doubt your charming personality?” Draco throws one of his robes at her, making her laugh and finally stand up to help him. Thank Merlin, Draco’s thoughts are all over the place; he doesn’t trust himself to choose something even halfway decent like this.

***

A few years later

“Calm down Draco, I already told you, you look fabulous.” Pansy keeps tugging at his suit, righting his tie, pulling on his sleeves. “Stop fidgeting, you’re ruining my hard work!”

Draco can’t help it – he’s nervous. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many things that could sabotage this whole day. “What about the flowers, did that incompetent moron of a florist get them right.”

“Yes, I told you - it’s all perfect. Merlin, had I known what an insufferable groom you would be I would have denied you when you asked if you could host the wedding here.” She repeats; indeed she’d told him nothing else this entire morning. Apparently everything’s going according to plan. But Draco isn’t allowed to leave this room; the moment he arrived he was pushed in here, some nonsense about seeing each other before the ceremony being bad luck. It left him with no way to control things and too much time to envision what could go wrong.

“You have known me all my life Pansy, if you still didn’t expect this, that is on you. And it’s only fair we get to celebrate here, the view is gorgeous and I practically paid for the thing.” He loves reminding her the house she bought should at least half belong to him, having financed it almost all by himself through those ridiculous jars. Still, Draco tries to focus on their conversation, to trust that she is right when she says things are well and enjoy the feeling of anticipation.

“I didn’t force you to talk nonstop about Potter.”

The mention of Harry makes Draco stop in his frenzy, bringing a smile to his face as he remembers Harry’s smiles when they planned this, how much Harry loves this house, how he pulled Draco with him to see if the room would be big enough to dance in, a terrible transparent excuse Draco didn’t call him out on. “Have you seen Harry? Is he-”

“Draco stop! Now listen to me.” Pansy takes his face in her hands, forcing him to still and look into her eyes. “This day is going to be perfect. You planned every single detail with Narcissa, and there is no one who can throw a better party than her. The flowers are lovely, the food is exactly how you ordered, all the guests have arrived and are currently slowly taking their seats. Potter loves you, Draco. He will say yes. You will stand in front of that altar and declare your love for each other, you will have a wonderful day with only people you love here, and they will congratulate you, giving you more presents than you know what to do with. Everything will be perfect. And even if not, you are marrying the man you love today, what does anything else matter?”

Pansy is right, what does it matter, as long as Harry’s there? Calm floods through him, leaving him still exited and giddy to get out there, but taking all the nervousness and worries. He’s marrying Harry today, they will spend the whole day dancing and laughing and kissing and will dedicate their lives to each other. “Thank you Pansy, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Oh hush, save the sentimental gushing for your husband.” Pansy’s clearly not unaffected either, but she waves it away and hugs him before pushing him towards the door, towards a lifetime with Harry.

#harry potter #drarry #my writing #enemies to friends to lovers #fanfic

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rimmers-swimming-certificate · 5 years ago

Text

Red Dwarf fanfic - Comatose (6/?)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

Lister was halfway through a movie when Kryten entered his quarters with an empty laundry basket tucked under one arm. His other hand clutched a full-looking teapot with steam rising slowly fro the spout. The mechanoid stopped completely still in the doorway and stared at Lister.

Lister, laying in his bunk, head propped up on one hand, smiled at him. “Alright, Kryten?”

Kryten didn’t reply. He remained where he was, staring at Lister as though transfixed.

Lister’s smile turned into a confused frown. He glanced behind him, checking there was nothing there that might have captured the mechanoid’s interest. Finding just the usual wall, he turned back. “Uh, Kryten?”

His hand moved self consciously to the large letter ‘H’ on his forehead. It was the only thing in the whole situation that was different, and it had taken him a while to get used to seeing it on Rimmer, so it stood to reason that the others would find it strange on him.

“Kryten, what’s going on? Is something wrong?”

Finally, Kryten blinked. “No sir. Stare mode cancel. I’m sorry, it’s just so good to have you back, Mr Lister. For the past six months, I’ve been trapped on the ship alone, with only Mr Rimmer and Mr Cat for company.”

Lister shrugged unsympathetically. “Yeah, been there,” he said.

Kryten walked busily across the room, placed the teapot on the table and the laundry basket on the floor next to it. “So, sir, I trust you’re well? How are you adjusting to your hologramatic status?

Lister gave the question serious consideration as he took a swig of his hologramatic lager. The drink was nothing like lager, not really. It wasn’t even like having a drink. There was no feeling of quenching his thirst, because he had no thirst to quench. The drink didn’t feel cold, but it didn’t feel warm either. It was somehow completely without temperature. There was no fizz either, and he was reasonably certain that the taste he was detecting was constructed entirely from his own memory and expectation of the flavour, rather than from the drink itself.

“Sir?” Kryten asked

Lister shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, it’s…” he shrugged again, struggling to put it into words. “It’s not been very long,” he said. I’ve done nearly this long before, when me and Rimmer swapped bodies.”

Of course that had been different. There had been a time limit on that arrangement. They had agreed to swap for two weeks, although in fact it had lasted much less time. This was completely open ended; he had no idea how long it might last, or when it might be over.

Kryten nodded. “I imagine this is a little different to that, sir.”

“Well, yeah. For a start I’ve got you looking after my body instead of Rimmer, so that’s definitely better.”

“But sir, you’re in a coma.”

Lister nodded. “Even so. The whole thing’s not great though. I think it’d be easier to put up with if I knew how long it was going to be for.”

“Of course.” Kryten opened one of Lister’s clothes drawers as he spoke. “And I wish I could give you that information sir. I really do.”

He knew Kryten didn’t know. He took another sip of pointless lager, just for something to occupy his hands. Vaguely, he wondered whether Holly would be capable of simulating a pack of cigarettes for him.

“I’d forgotten what a pain in the arse it is to not be able to do anything for yourself. You want to pick something up? Nope, gotta ask the skutters to do it for you. Want to push that button? Too bad, ask the Cat. And this stuff?” He raised the can of holographic lager in the air. “It’s like vaguely beer flavoured nothingness. I don’t even know why I keep drinking it.”

He took one final swig, then tossed the half-empty can across the room in the direction of the bin. It spun through the air for a second, then disappeared just before it hit its target.

“I see,” said Kryten. “Sir, I don’t know whether you’re aware of this, but historically, new holograms were given a minimum six weeks of weekly therapy sessions by the Space Corps, as well as company mandated rehabilitation.”

Lister frowned. “Why?”

“Well, sir, it was found that holograms were prone to depression and bouts of existential crisis. Of course, much of that was linked to the knowledge that they -- the person that they were -- was dead. That is not the case for you, of course. Still, I would expect there to be a certain adjustment period. A significant portion of the rehabilitation involved learning ways of doing things without the ability to touch, as well as coping with the emotional impact of that.”

Now that Lister thought about it, that all made perfect sense. “I don’t suppose you have any of those therapy sessions built into your programming, do you?” he asked.

Kryten shook his head. “Me, sir? No, I’m afraid not. You might find some relevant literature in the ship’s databanks, but, as loathe as I am to say it, most likely the best person for you to speak to would be Mr. Rimmer.”

“I don’t think so,” Lister said, immediately.

“No. Honestly, even thinking that suggestion felt ridiculous,” Kryten admitted. “But unfortunately, he is the closest thing we have to an expert on the subject.”

“He’s also a complete smeg head,” Lister countered. Rimmer would probably love it if he went to him for help. After all, Lister hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to make things easy for Rimmer when he had first been switched on.

“Granted, sir,” Kryten agreed. “He did, however, visit you almost every day when you were in the medi-bay. He does appear to care. Although honestly I doubt he would make an effective therapist.”

No kidding. Literally anybody that had ever been born would make a better therapist. With the possible exception of Cat.

“Although, frankly, given the circumstances, it’s a miracle that Mr. Rimmer is still sane.”

Lister scoffed. “Kryten, Rimmer was never sane to begin with.” He had been teetering on the edge long before he had even died. Although, maybe that only proved Kryten’s point. “So how’d he do it then? How’d he manage to not go any crazier?”

Kryten appeared to think about the question as he reached into Lister’s drawer, pulled out a handful of neatly folded t-shirts, screwed them up, and dumped them in the laundry basket.

“I suppose the only way to be certain would be to ask him. I do have my own theories though. Perhaps Mr Rimmer’s personality, deficient though it is, is actually suited to being a hologram. I mean, he is stand-offish to the extreme and cowardly to the point where not being able to be touched, and therefore not be hurt, may actually be considered beneficial. Also, while admittedly I didn’t know him in life, I don’t imagine him to be the kind to be touchy-feely with his friends.”

“What friends?” Lister asked, then sighed. “I didn’t know any of this stuff.”

“No reason you should, sir.”

But there was. He had been bunking with a hologram for five years, and what had he done? Nothing useful, that was for sure. He had repeatedly told Rimmer to stop whinging about being dead; actually point blank told him that he wouldn’t touch things for him, because he’d seen what Rimmer liked to touch; and occasionally threatened to switch him off in favour of someone better.

Honestly, if Rimmer did want to gloat about Lister’s current situation, he would probably be justified.

From another cupboard, Kryten removed a packet of biscuits, took one out, crushed it between his hands and dropped the pile of crumbs into the laundry basket with the clothes.

Lister watched him, bemused. The mechanoid picked up the teapot he had brought into the room and tilted it, ready to pour the contents into the basket. “Kryten,” Lister asked. “What the smeg are you doing?”

Kryten looked from the basket of screwed up, crumb-covered clothes, to the teapot in his hand, and finally back to Lister. He appeared to consider the question carefully. “Laundry,” he said.

Lister frowned. “I’m no expert or anything, but even I know that’s not how you do laundry. Not unless we’ve landed in the backwards world again.”

“I...I...I…” Kryten opened and closed his mouth in a compulsive way that made Lister think he was about to have a serious malfunction.

“Kryten…”

“You just don’t understand what it’s been like, sir. You were unconscious, you didn’t need me to do your washing because you simply weren’t generating the same amount of mess that you usually did. Add to that, I only had half the number of dishes to wash, and absolutely no detritus to pick up after you, and I was quite literally going out of my head with boredom!”

Lister frowned. “So why didn’t you just find something else to do?”

“I didn’t want to do anything else! It was laundry day and I had nothing to launder, so I went into your quarters one day, emptied out your drawer and… well, it was such a relief to get back a bit of normality. Since then, I’ve been doing two loads a week.”

“Right,” Lister shook his head in bafflement. “But couldn’t you just do the Cat’s laundry instead?”

“He wouldn’t let me. He said he didn’t trust me with his suits.”

“Look, why don’t you just put those back, and watch the end of the film with me?” Lister suggested. “Or I can get Holly to rewind it to the start, I don’t mind watching it again.”

Kryten shook his head, still brandishing the teapot above the basket. “I can’t, sir. I need to get these clothes dirty so that I can get them nice and clean for you.”

Lister sighed. “Whatever makes you happy, I guess,” he said, but as he spoke he noticed a yellow t-shirt among the biscuit crumb-covered pile. His eyes widened in panic and he leapt down from the bunk to grab the basket out of Kryten’s hands.

He remembered at the last moment that he couldn’t. Instead, he waved a hand at the yellow t-shirt in the middle of the pile. “Hang on a minute, what’s that?”

“A pile of laundry, sir. We just discussed it, remember? Perhaps I need to do some additional tests to ensure you didn’t sustain brain damage in the accident.”

“No, what’s that,” Lister tried to clarify. He pointed at the yellow t-shirt again, knowing that he only owned two t-shirts of that particular colour and hoping that this one wasn’t the one he thought it was.

Kryten put down the teapot to free up his hand, then pulled the shirt out from the centre of the pile and held it up for Lister to see. “A t-shirt, sir.”

Lister looked at it, and his heart sank. “Smeg,” he said.

You could barely see the stain anymore. He moved his head a little closer and squinted. He could just about make out the mark where the blob of vindaloo had dripped from an overloaded piece of naan three million years ago, but it had faded almost to the point of disappearing.

“Kryten, how many times have you washed this t-shirt?” he asked.

The mechanoid looked at it, doing a quick calculation. “Between the beginning of your coma and now? Approximately twenty times.”

“You’ve nearly got the stain out,” Lister told him.

Kryten looked at it. “Which one, sir?”

“That one,” Lister pointed at a barely-there stain on the left side of the t-shirt. “There was a stain there from where I dropped curry on it. It was the first time Kochanski spoke to me, and I was so surprised I dropped curry and it made a stain in the shape of a heart. That was the first time I knew that we were meant to be together.” And now it was gone.

Kryten looked at the t-shirt again, a guilty look appearing on his face. “Oh sir, I’m sorry! I had no idea that stain had sentimental value. I didn’t rotate the wash, I just kept taking the clothing from the top of your drawer. If I’d dug down a little deeper, maybe this wouldn’t have happened! Although, frankly, I was a little afraid of what I might find in there.”

Lister sighed. “Forget it. Just, don’t wash that one anymore, okay? Leave it alone, it’s clean enough.”

The mechanoid put down the basket of ‘dirty’ washing, shook off the crumbs and carefully folded the yellow t-shirt and put it back in the drawer where he had found it, then picked up the remaining t-shirts and left quietly.

Lister watched him go, and sighed to himself, then turned to address the middle of the room. “Holly, give me another beer, will you?”

(next)

#red dwarf #red dwarf fanfic #dave lister #david lister #kryten #lister's getting a bit down #poor guy #my fic

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whump-it · 4 years ago

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Augine and Callum. A Collection Box AU.

This is an au with @broken-horn and featuring their OC Augine, who takes no crap from Hayden and rescues pets who need her help!

CWs for this. Hayden is sick and tired of Callum and has decided that he will have to kill him, so there is mention of this but it doesn’t happen thanks to the wonderful Augine who is not going to stand for this!

Tagging @pepperonyscience If anyone would like to be added then please let me know!

Hayden had left Callum in the basement. Snivelling and wretched and useless. The noises were background to him, easily set to one side as he climbed back up the stairs, shutting and bolting the door behind him. It stopped the sniffing and whinging behind its weight. He almost ignored the pinging of his phone in his pocket as he marched into the living room, almost too cross to bother. With a sigh he pulled it out and tapped in his pin code. He had better things to do with his time. He had the world’s most useless, most wretched Donor to get rid of.

How are you? Been up to much? And how’s that boy of yours?

Augine. It was from Augine. It was a distraction but not an unwelcome one at least. And it at least gave hhim a moment to compose himself. To not rush anything. He prided himself on his efficieny. His forethought. He’d be damned if he let that stupid, slow little basement wretch get the better of him now, at the very end. He fired off a reply, fuelled by frustration and anger and sheer disbelief at the incompetence of his basement wretch.

He's slow, stupid, useless. They should've put THAT on his file. Let's just put it this way. He's about to reach the end of his list.

When the reply pinged up on Augines phone, she was smiling, just slightly, just hopefully. Ready to hear all the good things that were happening. Ready to hear that Hayden was no longer disappointed with Callum. That their differences were aired out and maybe, just maybe, the violence that simmered between them, entirely enacted out on Hayden’s side only might have simmered itself down to nothing. She worried about it. She wanted good news.

Thumbing her phone, the screen lit up and brought with it exactly what she didn’t want to see. Her reply was swift. No thought. Just type. Just send. Just get there.

Fuck the list. You best have tea and a living pet when I get there, you hear?

She was practically already on the road by the time she hit send.

The phone pinged back almost as soon as it hit the couch. Hayden narrowed his eyes at it. Glared at it. Considered taking out his frustration on it upon Callum. A means to an end at any rate given that his time had run out. Forget the list. He had to go. Growling out, he picked the phone up and thumbed in his passcode, his smile an uptick of malice at the edge of his mouth. Tea and a live pet. She aways did have a funny way of showing her concern. He typed out a quick answer and sent it.

Tea? Sure, little basement idiot can make himself useful one more time I guess.

He knew the way that Augine drove, particularly if someone or something had got under her skin. Trust his pet to annoy her. It was exactly the sort of thing that his stupid and slow basement creature was capable and he wasn’t even in the same house as her. He unlatched the basement door catch and stamped his way down the stairs, slowly clapping as he went. When he go to the bottom step he stood and watched, as Callum cringed away from him, crying openly. Sobbing piteously.

“This is embarrasing,” Hayden said, making Callum flinch as he moved to stand next to him twsisting his fingers into the curls that had grown too long, using them to haul Callum to his feet. “I have a friend who has a fancy for some tea and to see you alive. We can make that happen without it being a total disaster can’t we? Because despite you being a complete disappointment, she still wants to see you.” He shook Callum by the hair.

“Y...ye...yes Master Hayden, aghh....it...it...yes I’m sorry yes.”

“Good!” He let go of Callum’s hair and grasped at his neck, around the back, and used it as leverage to shove Callum towards the steps that led up to the main house. “You’re making the tea. I trust that you can do that without ruining it somehow.”

“I can Master Hayden I promise you,” Callum spoke quickly, desperate to reassure his Master that he could be good and do better. “I won’t let you down.”

“First time for everything,” Master Hayden sneered at him. “Go on then, get up and get going. I’ll let you have your wrists in front once you’re up there.” He turned from his stupid little wretched creature, not wanting to look at him for longer than he needed to, and stalked back up the stairs, sighing at how long it would take for him to follow along behind him.

Hayden paced the house while Callum snivelled and made too much noise in the kitchen. Every sound was like nails down a blackboard, setting his teeth on edge. The sooner this tea was done, the sooner that Augine had seen stupid wretch once more, the sooner this could all be done with. He was keeping one ear out for the sound of her car which he knew would be rocketing his way up the drive at a speed that it shouldn’t be doing. That, at least, made him genuinely smile. Despite his mood, he was looking forward to seeing his old friend. His smile grew when he heard it finally.

Augine had pulled in almost the instant the kettle had whistled, parked haphazardly and half on his lawn. He called over his shoulder to Callum at the quick rapping on the door.

"I'll get it, you stupid slow idiot. She'll be stood out there until tomorrow if I send you.” He didn’t even bother to stay in ear shot long enough to hear any whinging apologies. He had heard more than enough whinging apologies. His silly creature couldn’t even say sorry in a way that wasn’t infuriating.

“Augine,” he said pleasantly as he swung the door open. He was starting to bend towards her in order to kiss her on the cheek and welcome her in when she pushed past him and in to the hallway, speaking as she went.

"He best be packed and ready to go by the time I've had my tea and signed the check."

“Hello to you too,” he said, as he closed the door and followed her towards the back of the house. In the living room, Augine was shucking off her coat and settling down on the couch, while Callum was knelt next to the couch shaking and trying to be invisible, the tea that he had served sat on a tray on the coffee table, steam rising gently from the spout of the teapot. Hayden stood in the doorway and looked at Augine in disbelief.

"Excuse me?” he said. “You've got your drink. He's still alive. That's all you asked for in your message. What exactly do you mean packed?"

She sat down with an eyeroll at him, pouring herself a cup of tea as she spoke.

"I'm making an impromptu addendum to the end of your list,” she said, calm and even, not a waver in either her hands or her voice. “Hmm...does two thousand sound enough? I doubt you want much for him if you're on the verge of being done with him in a more violent manner than my interjection."

"Two thousand?” Master Hayden said, stepping around her feet to sit in his usual place next to Callum. “You know these things come free right?" He kicked at Callum as he spoke, and Augine’s jaw twisted at the kick. "This one's barely worth two, let alone two thousand. It's useless. You're not exactly getting a bargain."

He reached over and twisted his fingers in Callum's hair, pulling down to force his gaze up.

"Hey, little wretch, My friend thinks you're worth two grand." Shoving Callum away, he looked at Augine again. "Why do you care so much?"

"Well, with your insufferably high standards, you're going to need some money for a worthy replacement." The words came out from over her cup like she was a snake spitting venom. "I'm not about to deal with you whining you're lonely after killing another failure that you caused with those damn white and red and blue and black days. You call him slow and make him slower." Her teacup shook slightly in her hand, alhough she kept her volume low, dangerously low.

Hayden turned his attention away from Callum, leaving him trying to stay silent through his pain. Trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Trying not to flinch at the idea that anyone would talk to his Master the way that his lady was.

"He's here because his face was right. All he had to do was what he was told. Stupid thing can't even bleed right." He looked back at Callum, scoffing at his shaking and shivering form. "Take him if you like. But I want three thousand."

Augine rolled her eyes, but set down her now empty cup to pick up her coat and take out a chequebook from a pocket, along with a slim little gold pen. She filled out the cheque and ripped it out quickly but efficiently. Perfectly. Not a tear or crease that shoudn’t have been there. She held it out.

"Here's your money. Three thousand for the boy."

Hayden watched as she filled out the check, one eyebrow cocked at what he saw as complete nonsense. Once she'd signed off and held it out, he plucked it from her fingers.

"I don't understand you Augine," he said. "But if you're happy to part with thousands for this lump of pointless then be my guest. I'll cash it tomorrow, won't keep you waiting." He turned to Callum, hands up in false surrender. "Guess I can't touch you now wretch. You should at least show your gratitude that I'm not killing you right now."

"Th... thank... thank you Master Hayden for letting me live. I'm I'm v... very very grateful." Callum forecd the words past the white noise of blind panic that was clouding his every thought. Donated, Selected. Tortured and nearly killed. Sold then bought. And who by? Who was Augine? He had no idea what was expected of him anymore and it terrified him beyond rational thought.

"I have earned twice that in less time than this. I won't notice the absence of a few thousand, Hayden." Augine stood, puttig her coat on and pocketing her chequebook and pen, then turned her gaze to focus on Callum.

"Alright, come along, Callum, “ she said.

Callum looked up barely, just enough to see her stood above him. He didn't know if eye contact was allowed. Didn't know if he should crawl or walk or go on his knees. Didn't understand what was happening to him.

"Umm...y... yes miss. How should I...I mean I'm not thinking I promise. I just...how is best for me to...umm if it's ok to ask? I don't know how you want me to move?"

"You can walk with me, Callum,” she said, voice gentle now that her attention isn't on Hayden. She bent to unbuckle the cuffs around his ankles and his wrists, giving them their first taste of real freedom in so long that he felt as good as naked without them. He swallowed and let out a small sob at the feel of his bare skin. Augine looked at him for a long moment then stood and beckoned him up with her.

“Come along then, you don’t need to look at Hayden,” she said as she left the living room and went down the hall to the front door, then out with Callum once he had caught up, leading him over to her car. "In the passenger seat, alright?"

Callum walked slowly, unused to being unfettered. Unused to being allowed out. The birds and the insects and even the air seemed too loud. Too heavy. He crouched in on himself, trying to be small. Trying to be what was right in the vacuum absence of rules. At the car he stopped. Blinked.

Crumpled.

"I...I...I... not me... I'm not thinking... but...i....qu..." He broke off, breathing hard and heavy. No rules. No rules. Too much freedom or maybe no freedom but how could he know when no one had actually told him.

Augine gently exhaled, stepping back over to him, a gentle hand going to Callum's shoulder to guide him back, the other opening the car door once it wouldn't hit Callum.

"I know it's strange dear," she said as she gently guided him into the seat, nothing more than soft touches and words to settle him, her own steady hands helping his secure the seat belt and close the door before she stepped around to the driver side and slipped in with a discreet finger raise towards the house, knowing that Hayden would be watching them. As the car started to move, he realised. As they drove further down the drive he knew it couldn't be kept inside. He didn't have permission. He didn't have rules.

He wanted rules.

But he wanted his teddy more. He'd break all the potential unknown new rules, take any punishment. He needed his teddy. Unbidden and without conscious permission he yelled out. Howled and cried.

"I need my teddy! I can't go without my teddy and Master Hayden will find it and hurt it I know he will pleasepleaseplease! Anything I'll do anything please!" Augine blinked, but did not show a a single sign of upset. She merely spun the car around and drove back, stopping delieratlhy on the lawn this time.

"You stay here, alright?” Augine said, giving him a warm smile and opening her door. “I'll be right back with your teddy." She gave him the words, the kindness, before stepping back up to front door and knocking loudly. When Hayden opened it, she stayed outside.

"You forgot to pack him up. He informed me he has a teddy. Go get it and bring it here." Hayden laughed. Hard. Cruel. A bark of amusement at Callum's expense.

"That thing? Yeah sure I'll go get it." Augine stood and tapped her foot, waiting as Hayden disappeared from view into the basement. For the smallest of moments she considered shutting th door and latching it before just driving away. But she knew, she just knew, that Callum would be devastated by such an action. And it wasn’t her style. Not what she wanted to actually do. Eventually he came back, a matted and filthy teddy caught between the pinch of his finger and thumb. He held it out to Augine and smiled.

"One teddy, just for you two. Here's the thing though. He thinks I don't know about it. He thinks it was left there by mistake and he adores this teddy. He hides it from me. It's his entire world. But guess what. I put it there. Do you know something? I did it so that no matter what happens to me, he'll always remember me. That soft teddy of his? All that lovely softness? It makes him think. Of. Me."

Augine simply took it in one hand, smiled, and said "Not for long."

She slid back into her car and handed it to Callum, then drove off again.

#whump #whump community #box boy #box boy au #bbu #oc callum #oc callum morrow #broken-horn #augine #oc hayden reeve #oc master hayden #oc haz the teddy #Callum wants to perfect for his master #callum is frightened #callum is nervous #callum is ashamed #tw death threat #tw death

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goatkingwc · 5 years ago

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CONSUMED THE FIRE - Episode 001 of GKWC

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

CONSUMED by Nathan Hull

I had been typing frantically for hours, maybe even days. The never ending task of reporting the news consumed me.

Word after word, it was nothing but a blur of letters on the screen. I don't think i glanced away for a second. I was deep into my work, hands trembling from near exhaustion. The second bottle of house brand scotch two thirds empty, seven packs of cigarettes down. Light trickled in through the slit in my curtains signaling the start of another day. It didn't matter to me time had lost all meaning.

I sent the article through to my editer and demanded another job, ignoring his pleas for me to slow down "Just send through the fucking assignment" I yelled down the phone, knocking the bottle of scotch from my desk. The frustration almost over flowing into frenzy I stormed out of my small home office into the filthy kitchen adjacent.

Upon entering a pain I'd never felt before shot through me, i ignored it and swung the fridge door open, grasping at the six pack of beer sitting alone on the shelf. I stumbled back dizzy before falling into oblivion. It felt like the floor had disappeared I heard the bottles smash but felt nothing at all, just a calming warm sensation pulling me gently into slumber, a peaceful darkness replaced the manic flashing of ideas that had been fueling me for far to long.

I awoke to silence and the bright florence lights of a hospital ward beaming obnoxiously into my eyes. I had snapped, trying to finish a never ending task is a sure fire short cut to madness and apparently I had reached that level. The Dr explained that I had collapsed due to sever exhaustion and that a dangerously large mixture of alcohol and prescription grade amphetamines had been reported in my system. He gave me a stern lecture and ordered I rest up for some time to come.

I begrudgingly took his advice and relaxed with the days News Paper skipping through the first few pages like a book I had read many times before. At page eleven however I stopped a small laugh burst through my lips, there it was the most ironic thing I had ever seen. A small article titled "Local journalists dangerous decent into chaos" a two hundred word piece about yours truly.i smiled, how beautiful it was, i had been so consumed by the news that eventually, i had become the news.

THE FIRE by Sean Conway

The fire is burning through the bush quicker than I was expecting, the heat is not the most fearful part but the thunderous noise of the wood burning, sounds like a thousand cat of nine tails cracking all around us.

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT, WHY DID YOU ASH ON THE GROUND” Devon, the lippy British back packer bellowed “it’s just a little bit of fire mate, relax” I replied reassuring him through my tears unconvincingly. “WE’RE GOING TO DIE, WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE” Devon kept screaming in an urgent cry. Jesus Christ this back packer has not stopped complaining since I met him at the hostel, I wanted to tell him to fuck off but I had more important things to worry about, like getting out of this mess and suing the tobacco companies and the government’s cigarette pack warnings for not once making me aware of the potential for bush fires by their product. They literally have warnings for everything else except the one thing that can kill you immediately.

Ah man when I sue these political fat cats I’m totally going to buy a sweet double storey house with my winnings, I imagine suing for Bush fire warnings would be a landmark legal case, I’d probably make the front page of the Newspaper. I might even have enough money left over to buy a chrome Lamborghini, fuck yeah that would be sweet!

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO? HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET OUT OF HERE?” cried out Devon waking me from my daydream and bringing me back to this deadly reality.

This whole waiting around to die must be playing with my head because I have never thought this before and it seems weird thinking this now, but fire is hot, like ridiculously hot. I looked over to Devon as he continued frantically searching for a way out of the path of the fire “Hey Devon, how hots this fire ah” I said as it fell on Devon’s deaf ears, he blatantly ignored my observation. Sure these are dyer times but that doesn’t mean you have to be rude.

I guess Devon is done searching for a way out because he is collapsed into a ball on the ground “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die OH MY GOD I DON’T WANT TO DIE” Devon screamed over dramatically to the skies like a soap opera star, fuck his voice is annoying.

The situation is becoming increasingly stressful and the anxiety is starting to get to me, I really need a cigarette but knowing Devon he’s probably going to have a bitch and moan about it, but fuck him I paid $50 for these Winnie Reds and I’ve only smoked one. I am not going to die letting a perfectly good packet of cigarettes go to waste.

Reaching into my pocket trying to retrieve my lighter without Devon noticing, Jesus where the fuck is it? Are you serious? in all the commotion I must have lost it. It’s moments like this that make me appreciate how crazy and random the world is sometimes, we’re literally surrounded by fire and if we weren’t on the verge of being burnt alive in this hell hole I would consider myself lucky.

The first breath of that sweet sweet Winnie red is always my favourite, it’s almost magical how that first intoxicating breath can make even the most terrifying situation bearable “ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS CUNT? YOU’RE SMOKING! YOU’RE SMOKING!” Devon screamed as he rose from the ground with murderous rage “Do you Poms do anything other than fucking complain” I belched back through a cloud of Winnie Red Smoke. I’m really sick of his whinging, I would have given him a piece of my mind but I was too busy trying to do the maths in my head on how long it would take for me to smoke all these cigarettes before the fire consumed us, but before I could figure out the answer Devon’s hands stained from fake tan are wrapped around my throat. “What are you doing?” I gargled, the heat of the fire made his hands super sweaty, It feels like an eel and smells like coco butter, two things I despise especially when they are crushing my wind pipe. “Get off me Devon, your hands are sweaty and gross” I said chokingly and wishing I said something tougher “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU” Devon spat in a salvia filled scream. Man I wished I had said something cool like that rather than your hands are sweaty and gross. I should really fight back but what’s the point, this will probably be a better way to go out, better than cooking alive in the middle of nowhere. I also think I should punch Devon in his Geordie Shore face because in these stressful times he has been a bit of a cunt, that’s how a hero would go out.

I mustered my remaining strength and clenched my fist as hard as I could and wham right in his kisser, to my surprise this worked because Devon jumped off me screaming in pain, he sounds like a dying lama “Ahahalaladahdahdal”. I must of really brought the pain for him to make such a cowardly cry.

The noise Devon is making sounds more and more pathetic, being the asshole that he is I thought he’d be use to people punching him in the head “YOU BURNT MY FACE YOU CUNT” his venomous mouth spit. I must have punched him with my cigarette still lit in my hand. Looking at the ground and seeing the remains of my crumbled cigarette infuriated me, it didn’t matter that I still have a full pack in my pocket, Fuck Devon! If I can’t beat him physically then I will have to beat him mentally, by saying the most badass line imaginable before we both disintegrate to dust “GET USED TO IT ASSHOLE! BECAUSE IN ABOUT 2 MINUTES YOU’RE GOING TO BE NOTHING BUT FUCKING ASH” I screamed aggressively but chuffed with myself for thinking of such a badass line so quickly “so will you, you fucking twat” Devon responded throwing me off my guard with his even quicker rebuttal “Yeah well, fuck you” I responded immediately knowing I had ruined the badass line prior and losing this battle of mental warfare.

Devon is celebrating his verbal stoush win by charging at me like an angry Bull in Pamplona. The thought of having Devon’s gross manky swamp hands wrapped around my throat again was what was helping me fight him off, but it was too late his uncooked sausage paws latched onto me sending shivers down my spine. The only thing going through my mind is how disgusting his sloppy hands are as I slowly fade in and out of consciousness.

The fire must be really close now because I can feel beads of sweat pour off his head from the heat, I felt Devon release his hands from my throat, I’m not sure if I’m dead but I’ll pretend I am so Devon doesn’t put his icky squid fingers around my throat to finish the job.

Playing possum was working until I was awaken by a liquid spraying on my face “AH WHAT THE FUCK DEVON ARE YOU PISSING ON ME?” how much more disgusting can this cunt get? “I’m not pissing on you look” Devon said pointing to the Heaven’s as the water started flowing down our faces like a baptism from God. “What’s happening?” I mumbled, this must be the DMT releasing into our brains because we’re dying, I listen to a lot of Joe Rogan so I’m familiar with this situation, “I don’t know I don’t know” Devon responded in his cunty British accent. The fire around us was being extinguished as the water continued raining down on us, I quickly got my Winnie reds and put them in the front of my pants so they wouldn’t get ruined by the water.

Out in the distance, through the Smokey haze I can see the flashing of blue and red lights, that could only be from fire trucks. “WE’RE SAVED, WE’RE FUCKING SAVED” Devon shouted with tears of joy and excitement. I was less excited because staring at the flashing lights of the fire trucks I came to the sudden realisation I probably didn’t have a case against the tobacco companies and the government fat cats and I was probably facing a lengthy jail sentence for negligence for starting a bush fire.

“OVER HERE OVER HERE” Devon began screaming to the fire fighters “over here over here” I screamed with a lot less enthusiasm. I’m not sure if it was the fire or the choking or the overwhelming confusion of being saved and facing a long prison sentence but something is making me woozy, like that fine line of feeling drunkenly happy to spewy drunk.

Waking up in an ambulance is not a new experience for me, but being surrounded by fire fighters and ambos looking at me like a freak show attraction is definitely an odd feeling. “So what happened, you guys have no idea how lucky you are to be alive” the Fire Department Chief said to us in a stern but congratulative voice. Lucky wouldn’t be the word I would use to describe the situation, I’m facing serious jail time, I haven’t been to prison before and wasn’t looking forward to finding out if all those prison rape stories are true. The idea of it made me more and more anxious.The only thing I could think to do was reach into the front of my undies and pull out my full pack Winnie Reds cigarettes, must look like a creep to the fire fighters and Ambos, but I’m too anxious to care “Do you have a light?” I said to the group surrounding me. The spark that was lit in front of my face didn’t do much for my anxiety but I thought it was fitting that what was potentially my last cigarette as a free man is being lit by The Fire Department Chief.

Breathing in that sweet sweet Winnie Red takes the sting out of any uncomfortable situation “So what happened out there?” The Fire Department Chief said with a controlled curiosity. I was sensing their excitement so I took a long deep breath of that Winnie Red for dramatic effect, blowing out the smoke I could feel I was giving off a real James Dean or John Wayne kind of vibe.

“Well fella’s, here’s the story”

The End

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rogermeddowsx · 5 years ago

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office parties suck - part 3

word count : 2k

contains : bad language - not really, mentions of anxiety, drinking

authors note : helllllo. here’s part 3. ben isn’t actually in this part, i tried to give a background of reader and her roommate, miles. ben WILL be in the next part obviously haha. hopefully it’ll be out soon, i’ve got a bit of spare time at the moment :) hope you enjoy this part. please don’t forget to like and reblog.

“I still don’t understand why you can’t come Milesy.” You whinged at your roommate from across the kitchen counter.

You didn’t usually sit up there, mostly because the mornings were a haze of grabbing your toast and coffee to go.

Miles was making pancakes this morning though and that was something you couldn’t miss. His French heritage made his cooking skills mind-blowing. So now, you were sat at your kitchen island, stuffing your face with Nutella filled pancakes.

“Because, my little friend, I have a big boy’s date this evening.” Miles replied, pouring some batter in the pan.

“It’s Gracie’s engagement party though, can’t you reschedule the date?"

He sighed excessively.

“And say what, ‘Hey Emily, sorry I can’t come, my roommate wants me to go to an engagement party which could potentially be us one day.’” He said dramatically, flipping the pan.

You coughed on your food, “Us as in us?”

“Yes, us as in us.” He flipped you off. “Of course not, idiot. Us as in Emily and I.”

“Obviously.” You laughed.

Miles sat opposite at you with his pancake. You kept your eyes on your pancake, the melting chocolate dripping from your fork, but he nudged you gently under the table with his foot, making you look up at him from your plate.

“Wanna go shopping or something?” He asked.

“Don’t you have work to do, Miles?”

“Rather hang out with my best friend and co bill-payer.” He playfully kicked you a bit harder.

You punched him in the shoulder, “Ow Miles!”

He pouted, mocking you.

“I’ll come shopping though, I need an outfit for tonight.” You said as you stood.

“Oooh, looking to get some, are we?” Miles teased.

“Ha, fuck off.”

***

“I’m not wearing that Miles.”

He held up a barely existent dress and smirked, “You’ll show up the bride that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, because everyone will be able to see my boobs.”

“I don’t see the problem here.” He laughed, shoving the dress towards you.

You blushed furiously, taking the dress and putting it back on the rack. You ran your fingers along the different garments on the rack. A suede, olive green skirt caught your eye. You made a beeline for it.

“That’s pretty.”

You held the skirt against your body and examined yourself in the store’s mirror. You hummed to yourself in question.

“It’s quite tight, I’m not sure I’ll suit it.” You turned to Miles, who was watching you intently.

It seemed Miles snapped back into reality as you addressed him.

“Sorry, uh, you’ll look great. You, er, always do.” He replied.

You furrowed your eyebrows at him, turning back to the mirror and watching him through the reflection. He didn’t seem convinced, which didn’t fill you with assurance. Miles began to play with one of his curls. You looked back at yourself and sighed loudly. You didn’t have the confidence to wear this skirt.

“Okay,” Miles said, sensing your hesitation, “I’ll buy this skirt, you’ll buy something else and then you’ll have a choice.”

“I can’t let you buy this Miles.”

“Nonsense, plus you paid for our last take-away so I kinda owe you.”

He smirked, a fleet upturn of the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, okay. Deal.” You said, holding your hand out towards him.

He shook it, and you swore your hand burned as your skin met his.

***

“Damn.”

Your hand brushed against the banister as you steadied yourself, heels clicking with every step on the wooden stairs. Miles was sat in the window seat, crisp dress shirt on, mouth agape. A deep crimson was painted against your cheeks at his comment and for a second you wondered if you needed makeup at all. As you got to the bottom step, you smoothed your skirt and ran your hands through your hair, double checking you looked suitable in the hallway mirror.

“Ready to go Miles?”

He was going to drop you off at Grace’s on the way to his date. He looked smart this evening, he always put effort into his outfits. His hair was almost always perfectly styled, and he enjoyed fashion and took pride in his clothes.

The two of you left and locked up the house, leaving your nice warm home to the freezing outside. You jump in his car, shivering as the cold air bit at your skin.

“Jacket?” He asked as he slid into the driver’s seat. You shake your head and start playing with the heating buttons. Miles started the ignition, the car shaking as it riled up.

“Sure you’re going to be OK getting home by yourself? You won’t drink too much, yeah?” Miles’ fingers brush against your thigh as he pulls back the gearstick. You leaned into the feeling of his warm touch against your icy cold body, hesitating slightly, before pulling away.

You didn’t look at him, instead continued looking out the window as Miles pulled out the parking space.

“I’ll be fine Miles, don’t worry.”

The December traffic made the journey to Grace’s longer than usual. Steam filled the car as you and Miles danced around to your favourite tunes. It was the first time you’d sang in front of him in months. Recently, you’d let Miles take over, quickly adapting to the role of lead air guitarist in your little car band.

“Missed you, Belle.” He said, as he slowed down in front of Grace’s house.

“À plus tard, Bête.” You replied, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. Your lips lingered against him, breathing him in.

You sat back and opened the car door with a click.

Miles watched as you knocked on Grace’s front door, and laughed as you shivered. You flipped him off, as Grace opened the door, waving to Miles and letting you in.

He didn’t drive off immediately. Instead, sat back in his seat, and whispered to himself, “Je crois que je t’aime bien.”

***

“Miles, it’s nice to meet you.”

He stuck his hand out towards the girl, her long brown hair falling around her body as she stood up to greet him.

“Hi Emily” He said, pulling her into a hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

The restaurant was lively, the sound of jazz spilling out from the speakers. It seemed almost muted compared to the chatter of customers, their metal cutlery clattering against their pearly china plates. A waiter walked by, placing a cold bucket on the table, filled with ice cold water and a bottle of champagne.

Miles took it out, popping the cork loudly, the bubbles daring to spill over the neck of the bottle. He poured the contents into his and Emily’s tall glasses and set the bottle back into the bucket.

This was their first time meeting. Miles had been speaking to her for weeks, introduced to her by their mutual friend, Sophie. Miles wasn’t awkward. He was good at conversation and breaking the ice. His inner childish nature shone through when it came to making people feel comfortable. He looked at the pretty girl in front of him, almost losing himself in her bright blue eyes. The dim lighting shimmered in the reflection of her dark nail polish, her nails clinking against her glass as she brought it up to her pink lips.

“So, Sophie said you had your own swimwear line?” Miles said, after an awkward silence.

“Uh, lingerie line..actually.” She said coldly. Miles retreated into his seat, embarrassed. It was almost as if she was offended.

Stupid mistake, Miles. Fucking idiot.

He laughed nervously, then tried to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“Have you ever been here before? I took my roommate for her birthday last year and she wouldn’t stop going on about how good it was for months afterwards.” He rambled.

The corners of Emily’s mouth curled ever so slightly.

“I’ve never been here.”

“Oh, well it’s good. What do you like the look of?”

Miles pushed the menu towards Emily, who jumped as it collided with the empty plate in front of her. He mouthed a ‘Sorry,’ releasing the menu and letting Emily browse through.

“The, uh, the steak is good.” Miles suggested as Emily flipped through the different options.

“I’m vegetarian.” She replied harshly.

“So is my roommate. I made fun of her when it started, wondered how she would ever live without meat.” Miles laughed at his joke, and smiled at the thought of you.

When Emily didn’t laugh, Miles couldn’t help but think that his best friend would’ve. He looked down at his glass, swirling round the liquid and suddenly wishing he had gone to Grace’s party and supported her, instead of being selfish.

“Are you ready to order?” The waiter returned and pulled out his notepad.

Miles coughed, feeling uncomfortable.

“Actually, Emily, I’m really sorry but I have to go.” He began to stand, and shrugged on his jacket.

“What?” She snapped.

“I’m really sorry.” Miles pulled out his wallet and took out a couple £20 notes. “Here, have dinner on me.”

He placed the notes in the middle of the table, walked out of the restaurant, leaving a snarling Emily and the waiter who just looked astonished. He felt sick. How rude of him. As he pulled his jacket tighter around his body, he thought about how he’d never stood a girl up before and how ungentlemanly it was. He slid into his car, and let out a breath.

“What are you doing Miles?” He said aloud to himself, hitting his head against the steering wheel.

He started the ignition and drove himself home, to where you’d be returning soon, and where you both could watch movies and laugh at how drunk you were and where he could truly be himself.

***

“Joe-” You slurred, throwing your arm around the much taller man, “You’d better look after Grace.”

Joe chortled as you hiccuped and pointed your finger towards him, trying to come across as threatening but failing miserably.

“I promise, little one.” He said, holding you up around the waist.

You were stood in Grace’s kitchen, with Joe and a few of their friends. Grace stood on the other side of Joe, her engagement ring glimmering on her finger, wrapped around a glass of bubbly. You on the other hand, were less sophisticated. In your hand was a glass of Rum and Coke, your 8th glass that was. Or was it your 9th?

“Let’s get you some water.” Grace giggled, turning to fill up a mug from the sink. You took it gratefully, and the room started to spin slightly.

After an hour spent sobering up, you were starting to become bored and tired. Your leg started to shake as you sat in the living room, surrounded by friends and family of Grace and Joe. As anxiety started to take over you began to play with the spare hairband sitting around your wrist. It felt like your social battery was draining despite you desperately needing it to get through. It upset you, the way you would suddenly just need to go home. Willing yourself to be anywhere but home. And it was happening now. During Grace’s engagement party, where you needed to make an appearance, not only as maid of honour but as her best friend.

When you were younger, you’d go to each others houses all the time. Every family gathering, yours or hers, you would both attend. Recently, you’ve tried to get out of every single one. You felt terrible, like a bad friend. Grace had been through everything with you, stood by you no matter what. But ever since it happened, you just weren’t interested in going out. In not being home.

You rose from the sofa, and made your way over to Grace, who was still in the kitchen.

“I think I’m gonna head guys. Thanks for having me. I love you both.” You said to Grace and Joe, embracing them both tightly, and inwardly appreciating everything they’d done for you in the past few months. You thanked them again for the evening after letting them go, congratulating them and wishing the two of them good luck.

You pulled on your shoes and made your way to the door, reaching for the door handle.

“Leaving already?”

***

authors note : phew ok. hope you guys enjoyed this one!!! sorry ben wasn’t in it much. also joe is based on joe mazzello :)

#office parties suck #ben hardy #joe mazzello #ben hardy fic #fic #bohemian rhapsody #office parties suck part 3 #part 3 #olivia writes things #ben hardy x reader

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ccremisiusacclassi · 5 years ago

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A Report, Of A Kind

Ao3 Link

Three months ago, Optio Aquestus decided he liked my penmanship and began calling me in to scribe his reports, especially when he’d overdone it on wine the night before.

I was worried at first. I’ve seen soldiers caught between the commands of their direct superior and the whims of a far outranking officer, but Decanus Martinus found no issue so long as I fulfilled the rest of my duties without delay. Earning the Optio’s favor, more than my good standing and competency in battle, was probably what put me up for promotion. I guess it chaps my ass a bit that my mother’s obsession with giving me a “lady’s education” had any positive effect on my military career, but I’m not about to whinge about it.

On the other hand, that promotion was what required me to undergo that Maker-damned medical examination.

This is all a long way to say that I got into the habit of writing reports. Since everything’s gone to shit, my ribs are still healing, I don’t want to go out to the campfire when I can’t bind my chest, and I can’t sleep, I thought I’d write a report, of a kind. What things are like now, what I observe, you know. Only there won’t be a “you”, no one’s meant to read this. I’ll probably just burn it all as I go.

Anyway, I’m stalling.

I’m going to describe The Iron Bull.

He’s one of those Qunari, first of all, and you have to understand: unless the Qunari slaves I’ve seen all came on the small side, he’s massive. With things... as they are, I’m not a very tall man, but I’d eat my hat if I even come up to his tit! He’s got to be 20, 25, maybe even 30 stone and he’s covered in scars. Like his name suggests, his horns protrude straight out from the sides of his head and then bend up into points. By the way, unless he and his mercenary company (called the “Chargers”) are really committed to taking the piss, he truly goes by that entire name.

Intimidating, right?

I was stationed so far South, I’d never fought any Qunari, but there’s not a Tevene soldier alive that hasn’t heard stories of the ox-men. We all heard how they know no concept of family, no emotion or passion except for war and loyalty to the monolith of the Qun.

I suspect The Iron Bull isn’t from those tales.

He’s a fearsome warrior, I saw that myself, but besides that? He talks loudly and endlessly of his love of good food and redheaded barmaids. As I gritted my teeth through my second medical examination in as many days, this time by the Chargers’ company medic, Stitches, The Iron Bull stood outside the tent and attempted to distract me with tales of Nevarran dragon hunting. The distraction actually worked far better than I expected, if only because I was caught up trying to decide whether he was actually making innuendos, going on about thrusting his axe into “thick, hot dragonflesh”, or if it was all an unfortunate coincidence. Even now I can hear his booming laughter outside this tent.

He isn’t even like any Captain I’ve seen. One of the first things one of his men said to him when he brought me to his camp was, “Andraste’s tits, Captain, we can’t leave you anywhere!” There was no punishment given for his disrespect. He encourages their input, without expecting some drawn out show of lowering themselves to preface it. He even pitches in during camp setup and breakdown– less at the moment, I’m told, but that’s my fault.

You see, the Iron Bull lost his eye saving my life. I’m a stranger to him. A Tevinter stranger. I still don’t understand it.

...I don’t want to write about deserting, and what happened three days ago during the fight doesn’t matter. The Tribune and his men are all dead. But I’ll write about afterwards.

I saw The Iron Bull kneeling in front of me. I was so dazed, I thought he was going to kill me now that he was finished with the others, but enough of the spots cleared from my sight and I saw that he was hunched over, holding his eye as blood poured down his forearm.

He asked if I was ok. It made me laugh, which, if you didn’t know, hurts like a howling bitch when you’ve got a cracked rib.

“What about your eye,” I said.

“That’s why we’re made with two of them,” he replied, like it could’ve been a chipped tooth, for all he cared, “Plus, I’ll get to wear an eyepatch, now.”

He took a tunic off one of the dead, gave it to me to cover up. I gave him my torn shirt, which he wound around his head to soak up some of the blood. He introduced himself and asked what I was called.

I said I was Cremisius Aclassi, and when he raised an eyebrow I was braced for a sneering remark like, “What’s your real name.” I had abandoned the life I’d worked for since I was fifteen, the life that freed me, and I was sick to death of being mocked. I admit, I was ready to pop the guy right in the face and likely vomit from the pain of it, wisdom be damned.

But all he said was, “That’s a mouthful. Do you have a nickname?”

“Says the man called ‘The Iron Bull’,” I said. I’m not blessed with an overabundance of self preservation, but it just made him laugh.

He wanted to call me “Krem.” I accepted. I intended to walk out of that tavern alone and find a place to hide and recover, so it didn’t much matter to me. But just as soon as I was on my feet I was toppling over, so when The Iron Bull caught me, he insisted that he take me back to his camp, where “Stitches can patch us both up.”

I accepted that as well.

As he took me to the outskirts of Hunterfell, and later, when I was laid out on this cot, waiting for the medic to determine if his Captain would ever see out of his left eye again, I wondered when The Iron Bull was going to bring it up.

He must have heard the Tribune reading my charges, and there’s no chance he didn’t see what I am. I wanted to gauge what sort of lie I needed to tell, how much of my pride I was expected to swallow until I was healthy enough to leave. I’d already learned that there was no place for me once people knew the truth.

It… hasn’t played out how it ought, which is becoming a theme with The Iron Bull.

He came in before Stitches did and sat down on the ground in front of my cot with a remorseful groan, like he’d already realized that he wasn’t going to like the process of getting up again. He’d been outfitted with a proper bandage around his face, and I could see the swelling and the dark bruising against his silver skin peeking out from it in the dim candlelight. I was too exhausted to fill up with defensive anger when he looked me over now. We began speaking at the same time.

“Look, it’s been a long fucking day, so just ask what you must and be quick about it–”

“I’m going to brief Stitches on how to approach this, but I need to ask some questions–”

We stared at eachother.

“What?” I said.

He sighed. “I’m sorry, kid. You’ve gone through a lot, so I thought I’d follow your lead, make things simple, but I’ve probably been scaring the shit out of you instead.”

“...What?” I said again, getting tired of the cryptic act, fast. The Iron Bull nodded, like he could see exactly where my head was at. It’s not the first time I got that sense, and I don’t suspect it’ll be the last.

“You’re a man,” he said, “Is that right?”

“I– What?” ...Really! I was so bloody airheaded that the first fucking time someone saw what I am and still called me a man, I don’t even confirm it right away! As soon as my mind caught up to my mouth, I waved my hands and sputtered something painfully stupid like, “I mean– yes! That’s right! You’re… you’re right. I just didn’t think– I didn’t expect–”

He nodded again, which shut me up, and he stared at me with this strange look in his eye. It didn’t piss me off like it did before, but it made me uncomfortable enough that I looked up at the shadows on the ceiling of the tent.

“How did you know?” I asked. It was a little easier to shape my mouth around than ‘Why do you believe me?’

That’s when he told me about a word in Qunlat. I don’t think I can spell it, “a-qun” something or other, but he said it meant someone “born one gender, but living like another.”

“What does the Qun do with these people?” I thought it was an insult. There’s no word for me in Tevene. There are descriptions of fraud, at most. For there to be an insult in Qunlat told me I’m not alone. Believe me, I’m still reeling from that. But it put me on guard again, all the same.

“Whoa, kid, back up,” he said, “There’s no punishment, if that’s what you’re thinking. The [a-qun somethings] are treated exactly as they are– real men and women. The Qun’s practical that way.”

I must have given him a really skeptical look then, because he laughed really loud.

“You think Tevinter is threatened by the Qun because it’s torture?” He waved the topic off with his hand and straightened out his legs with a groan. “Point is, running off a perfectly good soldier because his insides and outsides don’t match is stupid. Shouldn’t have happened.”

“You really think that?” I asked.

“I do,” he said.

After that, he talked to me about Stitches, asked me what I wanted him to know, how I wanted the examination to happen, whether I wanted company. He started telling me that unless I started foaming at the mouth or something, Stitches would be instructed to stop at any time, etc, etc, etc.

It was a lot. Too much. The pain in my ribs was making me sick, all of a sudden.

“I just want to get this over with,” I told him, and he got that same weird, intense look, so I scrambled to summarize, to prove he could stop, “Stitches can know if he doesn’t call me a girl and doesn’t talk about it to anyone, I want to be as clothed as possible… Maybe company outside the tent would be good.”

“Ok,” he said, surprising me with how quickly he responded after dragging things out so long. He got up stiffly and said, “I’ll go give him the heads up.”

“If you’re Qunari and not Tal-Vashoth, why are you running around Thedas with a mercenary company?” I blurted out as he started to leave. If you think I had a really good reason for asking that when I did, I appreciate your faith in me, but you’d be wrong. It just popped in my head… and maybe I was getting nervous about him leaving.

“Long story,” The Iron Bull answered, but he formed a toothy grin when he looked back me, “Mostly to hunt dragons, though.”

#fic #krem #iron bull #dragon age #the chargers #maybe one day I'll add more to this ahah a #transphobia is discussed

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kellykadesperate · 6 years ago

Text

the shadow of me

“Shh, settle for me yeah?” Aaron whispers down at Annie who’s trying to kick herself out of her bodysuit. She pulls a face before whimpering and then closing her eyes and Aaron relaxes under it.

He puts her to bed, plants a kiss on her head and is thankful that he can hear Jacob snoring lightly. He’s finally decided to sleep then. Brilliant. It’s what he’s thinking when he passes past Seb’s door and then he frowns.

Seb’s being more secretive than usual and Aaron’s on edge about the whole thing because he can’t help himself. He’s usually relaxed about what the teenager gets up to but there’s something gnawing around in his mind.

“He hardly said two words to me when he got in.” Aaron says once he’s in bed, he turns towards Robert and gets this odd look back as Robert stops reading and frowns at him.

“Is this still about Seb? Aaron, he’s a teenager.” Robert says, his eyes travel back to the words on the page and then he feels Aaron huff and he can’t ignore him can he? Not when he sounds so worried.

He half expects Aaron to turn around, forget all about it but then he watches Aaron looking at the bedside table. There’s a picture of all of them, Seb right in the middle of them all.

“It’s just — he didn’t used to be like this.” Aaron absolutely hates it, because it sort of happened with Liv but she was always a little mardy. Seb used to be a little sunshine and now he looks moody and it isn’t fair.

Robert has a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, squeezes gently and then kisses his head. “He’s probably just stressed, about exams or whatever.” He says, there’s a crease in his brow as he thinks about it. “Don’t worry, Jacob’s still young and cute.”

Aaron scoffs. “We can’t keep having babies every time one of ours grow up and get moody.”

“Course we can.” Robert looks affronted and it only gets Aaron smiling.

—

They find out what the issue is sooner or later because they catch Seb and Isaac running their mouths off on the sofa in front of the people tv.

Aaron doesn’t mean to eavesdrop but Annie’s in his arms and he’s trying to carry the shopping through and he hears what he hears.

He hears the name Sam.

He hears Seb say the word ‘like’ and then he hears a little more. He hears Isaac laughing and Seb telling him to shut up and keep it to himself. And it’s enough.

It’s enough for him to bring up over dinner, Jacob and Annie tucked up in bed and the chance for them to focus on Seb. He hasn’t told Robert about it yet, doesn’t even *know how to bring it up so he goes for making sure Seb’s around first.

“So you uh ... got any new mates or something?” Aaron stirs his spaghetti around his plate and Robert pours some wine into his glass. It’s weird how Robert and Seb manage to pull the exact same face.

“What’s that mean?” Seb frowns, his freckles disappear as his face reddens.

“I don’t know.” Aaron flaps, runs a hand across his face and then shrugs. “You’re a teenager, things ... change.”

Robert’s eyes widen and Aaron wants the ground to swallow him up.

“Are you talking about puberty.” Seb looks disgusted and Aaron rolls his eyes and grimaces.

“No. No I’m talking about this ... this Sam.” Aaron watches Seb’s face fall, he suddenly looks pale and fidgety and he’s scraping his chair back and running up the stairs.

“*Seb.” Aaron shouts out and then he looks towards Robert and sees that he’s almost frozen. He just blinks out, eyes wide and breath slow and uneven. “You not going to say anything?”

Robert shakes his head suddenly and frowns. “Sam?” He whispers. “Who’s ... who’s Sam?”

Aaron frowns at him and then blinks quickly. “Look, I heard him and Isaac talking before. He said something about liking ... liking him. This Sam. I don’t know, I didn’t hear a lot but ...”

“Heard enough to know that he’s ...” Robert frowns, and the clogs running through his mind don’t seem to stop spinning until Aaron’s nodding his head.

“Probably gay, or bi, or just ... you know ...” Aaron plays with his hands and then he punches Robert lightly on the arm. “It isn’t that big of deal.” He says and Robert looks away. “Is it?”

This feeling of dread seems to blacken the room and Aaron doesn’t know what to say, he just knows that Robert’s always been like this. A little. Something at the back of his mind gnawing away and making him like this, rigid and frozen.

Eventually he shakes his head. “Of course it isn’t.” He says, he bites at his lip and shudders. “It’s just — I didn’t expect it.”

Aaron leans across a little, he has a hand across Robert’s and he squeezes slightly. He doesn’t add much pressure, just feels Robert’s hand grow clammy in his.

“Even in this rainbow household?” Aaron says, jokes, tries to anyway and Robert closes his eyes around it. The tea’s gone cold and Aaron can hear Annie whinging on the monitor but he doesn’t want to leave Robert like this. “Robert ...”

“I should go and see him.” Robert says, slides the chair as he gets up and Aaron frowns at him.

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Aaron whispers, because he knows Robert, he knows his husband and he can see that he looks like he’s been weighed down by the revelation.

Robert nods. “Course.” He smiles, only he isn’t is he? Only he hardly knows how to string a sentence together when he sits down on Seb’s bed and sees that their son has his knees up towards his chest. “Mate ...”

“How did dad know about Sam?” Seb says, his voice is barely there and Robert struggles to not get emotional himself. He’s flawed by *how flawed he is and that makes him think of his dad. His reaction.

His disappointed.

Robert’s mouth opens a little and he shrugs. “He said he heard you and Isaac speaking.” He closes his eyes, opens them again and dancing his hand closer towards Seb’s. “It’s okay.” He whispers.

“You’re not ... mad?” Seb’s eyes are full of tears and Robert reaches out to grab at his hands and hold them firmly. He shakes his head and he can almost feel the passion run through him.

“I’d *never be mad about that.” Robert’s rubs at his eyes as he pulls his hands away from Seb and then he watches his son look towards the door. He turns to see Aaron standing there with a small smile on his face.

He crouches down by the bed and sighs slowly. “Is this why you’ve been so ... quiet recently?” Aaron arches an eyebrow and then watches Seb nod his head.

He just looks like a little boy and Aaron just wants to squeeze him until he laughs.

“I didn’t know if ... it was like ... proper feelings or just that we were mates.” Seb says quietly and Robert feels Aaron staring at him, like he wants him to speak.

“And now?”

Seb blows out gently. “Proper feelings.” He whispers and Robert isn’t really sure what he feels.

There’s pride there, buckets of it suddenly because Seb’s only fifteen and he’s figured it all out.

“You did better than me.” Robert says, then looks at Aaron. “Or him. We stuffed it up, tried to deny it all and it didn’t help.”

“Course it didn’t.” Aaron says, and then he smiles faintly. “He can come round, we can see him can’t we?”

Seb frowns suddenly and pulls a face. “Him?”

“Sam.”

And the penny drops because Seb scoffs. “Sam’s not a boy.” He says. “Wait, I’m not gay.”

Aaron frowns. “You don’t need to lie to us okay?”

“I’m not.” Seb says, “Sam is ... Samantha but no one calls her that because it’s a horrible name.”

And of course, of course that’s his logic isn’t it? Teenage shitty logic.

Robert rubs a hand across his face and then sighs. “You’re not ...”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. Obvs.” Seb waves a hand at Aaron and then frowns. “But I’m not.”

“You said you thought I’d be mad?” Robert frowns a little and Seb looks up towards him and looks awkwardly at them.

“Liv said you and dad didn’t like her with Jacob, he was my age, I thought you might think I was too young. I don’t know.” And Seb’s still the same little sensitive boy isn’t he? It makes Aaron’s shoulders drop.

Robert nods his head and then sighs. “Fine.” He says flatly. “I’ll uh ... I’ll just ....” He says and he leaves, he gets out the door and down the stairs and only puts his head up when he sees Aaron standing there nearly half an hour later.

“He’s confused.” Aaron says. “You just ran out.”

“I was too.” Robert says thickly. “I thought he was ... and he isn’t. So that’s —“

Aaron sits slowly and then closes his eyes for a second. “It shouldn’t matter.” He says. “It doesn’t. Rob?”

“For a second, I was relieved.” Robert chews at his nail nervously, he doesn’t even want to look up. “I’m like him aren’t I? I can’t help it.”

Aaron has a hand across Robert’s knee and squeezes. He shakes his head, has tears in his eyes. “Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not.” Robert whispers. “I felt like dad. I did. I felt his ... panic.” His eyes are beady and he looks gutted, he looks like he hates himself so much and Aaron just wants to stop his upset but he can’t.

He’s trapped in his own head.

“That’s what it was.” Robert whispers, “When he caught me back then, he was angry but he was ... he was panicked as well, shocked, confused.”

“And that wasn’t the same as what you felt.” Aaron shudders. “You’re not him.”

“You know how I am.” Robert whispers delicately. “I’m not like you. I’m not ... I’m *fine with being me but ... but I’m not ...” he hates this, hates how it’s been so long since that confession in the woods. It feels like a life time ago and yet he’s still not fully over anything.

He doesn’t know if he ever will be. He doesn’t know.

“You’re not comfortable?” Aaron doesn’t mean to sound nervous but he is. This is his husband and he’s clearly suffering and he can’t do anything but sit here and try and understand. He’s always tried.

Granted, all of this heavy talk has been on the back burner considering they’ve been a bit busy with babies and nappies and homework but it’s still there. It’s still lost in Robert’s eyes, sometimes Aaron catches him staring at the picture of himself on Jack’s shoulders. It’s not on show, because Robert didn’t really want it to be but it’s on a table near the bathroom and it’s enough.

He’s always thought it was enough but now Robert’s rubbing at his eyes and shaking his head and saying that he’s sorry.

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”

“I *am comfortable.” Robert whispers, and then he nods his head. “I’ve never been more comfortable. With you, our family. It’s just ... it’s normal.”

Aaron looks up and then frowns. “Why am I sensing a ‘but’ then?” He whispers, “Hmm?” He has a ghost of a hand across Aaron’s face and he turns it slightly so that Robert is looking at him. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t help what I feel.” Robert shrugs. “Like it’s not ... I don’t know ... like it’s wrong sometimes. That he was right to be angry, to tell me it’s wrong.” Aaron bites at his lip as Robert shudders. “God that sounds ...”

“Don’t worry how it sounds.”

“When Seb said it was a girl it was like ... like my dad would have been relieved too, like he would have been happy and that was good.” Robert gulps thickly. “I just still want him to be proud, to approve.”

“He doesn’t need approve.”

Robert frowns. “Yeah. I know.” He says, he goes to get up, he mutters something about forgetting it all but Aaron holds at his arm and gets him sitting back down.

“Seb doesn’t know all of that though. He just thinks you were acting weird.” Aaron whispers, and then he picks up the baby monitor and plays with it in his hand. He rubs a hand across his head and then closes his eyes. “Robert.” He leans over and tries to get something out of his husband, some sort of reaction.

Robert just turns to him. “I wish I was like you.” He blurts out.

“*Rob. Don’t say that.” Aaron’s got tears in his eyes again and he frowns. “Don’t say ...”

“You don’t give a shit about being gay.”

“Yeah. Yeah *now.” Aaron says, “Not before.” He says darkly and Robert rubs at his head.

“Of course. Sorry. Just ignore me.” Robert says.

“I won’t. And you can’t ignore this either.” Aaron whispers, still shaking his head. “You freaked out when you thought Seb might be gay.”

Robert closes his eyes.

“And it was because of your dad. Did it ... did it bring it back? What he did?”

Robert half shrugs. “And everything else, I felt like him. I don’t want that for our son. Not Seb, not Jacob. I thought he was scared of telling me so that made me feel bad, and then he said he wasn’t gay and I felt ... felt glad and that made me feel bad too.” He has his head in his hands and everything around him whirls. He feels Aaron’s strong arms around him. “I’m fucked up.”

“You’re *not.” Aaron insists, he rubs at Robert’s back and then kisses his head slowly, stays there until Robert looks up at him. “You’ve got a bit of ya that isn’t comfortable with not being straight, because that’s what he said was normal. I get that.”

Robert sighs. “If you can get passed it, after — after everything you went through.” Aaron looks away. “Then why can’t I?”

He doesn’t remember the last time he was like this, wrecked by his own thoughts and completely wounded by the fact that he’s got this constant conflict in his head.

He’s Seb’s dad, he wants him happy above everything else. He doesn’t give a fuck if that’s with a boy or a girl.

But then he’s his dad’s son, he should know ‘right’ from ‘wrong’ and he’s letting him down in some sort of way.

Inadvertently. Subconsciously. It still counts.

Aaron has a hand on Robert’s chin and blows out heavily. “Right now you listen here, it’s not a flipping competition. You’ve come so far. So far.” He has tears in his eyes that fall and Robert matches him suddenly. “I fell in love with someone who was still staying he was straight, that I thought could never be with me properly, let alone marry me and have kids.” He shakes his head. “And now look at us.” He smiles shakily. “Look at you.”

Robert looks away and Aaron brings him back in, tenderly kisses him. “You’re the best daddy in the world.”

Robert melts at that, he shivers and then shakes his head. “I love you.” He whispers, head tilted towards Aaron and then he hears Seb coming down the stairs.

He looks between them and then frowns. “I didn’t think you’d be this upset.” He sounds so worried and Robert pulls away and starts rubbing at his eyes.

“I’m not. We’re not. Of course we aren’t.” Robert smiles, “Come here.” He whispers, pats down on the sofa and Seb cautiously comes towards him.

“You were crying.” Seb says.

Aaron wriggles an eyebrow. “I’m always crying, keep up. How do you know Toy Story wasn’t playing huh?”

Seb rolls his eyes, hides a smirk. “I’m not a kid.”

“No.” Robert says suddenly, plays with Seb’s blonde hair, how it curls a little. “But you’re still our little boy, you’re growing up.” He says, and it startled him to think that Seb’s the same age he was when he was kissing a boy in his room and being excited about it. “Makes us a little emotional.”

Seb bites at his lip, eyes flickering. “Is this about grandad again?” He must have heard, must have.

He knows a little. Robert sat him down a few years ago and said that he didn’t really understand a lot of things because Vic had been talking about him loads and he was curious to know more and suddenly Robert was all emotional and he just had to explain why.

Robert almost can’t speak so suddenly and he looks desperately towards Aaron.

“Just made your dad think about things.”

Seb sighs hard. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Don’t call Samantha Sam then.” Aaron teases and then he clears his throat as Robert keeps stroking Seb’s hair. “We love you so much.” He blurts out, something tight in his throat suddenly.

“I love you too.” Seb mumbles, getting all bright red. He’s Aaron with his feelings sometimes, he keeps them all hidden.

Robert sniffs. “I’m sorry for being weird.”

“It’s not your fault.” Seb looks up at him.

Robert doesn’t deserve his kindness. “You can be whoever you want.” He smiles faintly. “I’d still love you.”

Seb stays quiet for a second and then frowns. “Grandad didn’t like you liking blokes did he?”

Robert sighs, he didn’t want any of the kids having memories tainted. It was bad enough telling Vic and Diane when he did and seeing their faces distort into something so sad. “Not really, no.” He whispers, he knows they can talk about this more when he’s a little older maybe, or maybe when it doesn’t hurt Robert so much.

Whichever comes first.

Aaron watches Seb’s face form a pout, a wave of something take over him. He looks annoyed, and then he shakes his head. “He was wrong.” He says. “It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t have got dad if you wasn’t you.”

And it makes Aaron get all teary again, and Robert feels something spread across his chest.

“Very true.” Robert mumbles against Seb’s hair.

“Hmm, wise is our Seb.” Aaron smiles, big and wide and enough to get Seb rolling his eyes and laughing.

“Shut up.” Seb says lightly and then he sighs. “So uh ... Samantha, she can come over then?”

Robert looks towards Aaron and they both nod.

“Yeah of course she can.” Robert says and Seb smiles shyly until his phone starts buzzing.

“That her?”

“Can I take it?”

Aaron pulls a face. “Just for a bit, it’s late.”

Seb jumps up and gets to the stairs before he runs back and kisses at Robert’s head. It makes Robert pink and Aaron grins softly.

“You’re the best.” Seb says and Aaron frowns.

“Oi. I’m here too you know.” He says cheekily and Seb smiles.

“Love you too!” He says before jumping up the stairs, Robert catches him saying hello and it makes something flutter in his stomach. He sighs as he feels Aaron coming closer towards him, lays his head on Robert’s chest and pokes his head up to look at his husband.

“See. You’re the best.” He says gently, he pushes himself up enough to press a kiss against Robert’s mouth.

“So are you.” Robert whispers. “Come on, let’s go to bed yeah?”

Aaron nods, and then Annie’s crying on the monitor and Robert untangles himself, gets himself up the stairs and tends to Annie as Aaron gets ready in the bathroom.

He feels something grow in his chest as Annie’s tiny finger holds onto his own. He feels like he’s got this, got ahold of something at least and it’s enough.

It’s more than enough.

#robron fic #seb white #robron

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