#but mostly settled on her remaining the same size

[randomly--accessed--memories]

The Other Ending except it's Niffty who gets restored to normal instead of Vox

[emilys-bangs]

malleable | e.p

Tags: established relationship, fluff, mom!emily, no use of yn, reader isn't really present in this fic, halloween

Summary: Emily hates Halloween (but when her daughter asks her to dress up with her, she can't refuse).

Word count: 2.1k

If there’s anything Emily’s daughter is, it’s obsessed with Tangled. The movie plays at least three times a week on your living room TV; you and Emily have memorized the dialogue somewhere around three months ago. Now you can easily recite it in your sleep, close your eyes and clearly picture Rapunzel and Eugene’s next moves.

Despite that, your daughter still remains infatuated. Which is why Emily is only briefly surprised when Eloise drops her hand with a gasp and takes off running to the end of the costume aisle, colorful lights bursting along her sneakers as she runs to the purple dress packaged beneath a picture of the princess.

“This one!”

Emily smothers her smile as Eloise rises on the very tips of her tiptoes, her fingers wriggling impatiently as she tries to reach the costume. She falls a few inches short, and her displeasure is immediately known in the twist of her lips.

“Mommy.” She whines at her mother’s slow approach.

“Hmm,” Emily hums. “How many times have we said not to run off, Eloise? You know you can’t do that when we’re outside.” She sweeps messy bangs away from Eloise’s eyes—the exact same shade as her own.

“Sorry. Can I have it? Please?” She settles back on the soles of her feet and hugs Emily’s legs. “Please, please, Mommy.” Her mouth curls into a pleading pout.

The long repeated reprimand fades into the background. Your daughter is usually good at following it, almost always content with holding either your hand or Emily’s, so she smiles softly and lets it go this once. 

“How about we see it first, yeah sweetheart?” One of her hands goes to Eloise’s back as she grabs the costume off the shelf. Shades of purple wink up at her through the clear plastic, peeking out from beneath Rapunzel’s picture and the picture of the little girl displaying it. “Cute,” she says, absently combing her fingers through Eloise’s hair.

“Wanna see.”

Emily bends over to get closer to Eloise, letting her take the costume from her hands. “What do you think?” She murmurs, brushing her daughter’s bangs over the soft arch of her eyebrows. “Do you like it?”

“Yes!” Eloise gasps.

The palpable excitement in her voice makes the garish costume store a little more bearable. Emily smiles as she adjusts the hem of Eloise’s sweater down her stomach, having risen up in her strenuous pursuit of the costume. “Are you sure that’s the one you want? We haven’t seen many others.”

“Wanna be Rapunzel.” Eloise says firmly, nodding to herself as she hugs the dress to her chest.

“Alright, well if you’re sure,” Emily laughs, not in the least bit surprised at her five-year-old’s resoluteness. It’s something she’d gotten directly from her; Emily’s heart only expands at seeing roots of herself grow in her daughter.

“I’m sure.” Eloise drags out the word, stretching it out so it sounds like duh.

“Okay. Let me see if that’s your size.” Emily holds out her hand. With great reluctance, Eloise hands her the costume. Emily huffs out an amused laugh as she straightens, distantly wondering where her daughter got such an intense love for Halloween from. You’re mostly indifferent, and she hates it with more passion than it deserves. But your little gremlin has been talking nonstop about her costume for the past week, and after a brief debate—which Emily lost—you finally found the time to take her.

Though Emily feels two little arms wrap around her thigh, she places a hand on Eloise’s head for extra measure. Small fingers tickle her through her jeans as she rifles through the costumes, humming until she finds the proper size.

“Here it is. I think that’s about it—”

“I’m gonna be Rapunzel and you’re Mother Gospel!” Eloise announces as she steals the costume from Emily’s hands. Emily’s brows furrow.

“Gothel.”

“Garthel.”

Every time.

Emily lets it go. Instead she focuses on the more pressing issue her daughter presented. “You want me to be your evil Mommy?” She frowns at Eloise, the pout of her lips exaggerated.

Eloise is unfazed. “You’re not my evil Mommy, you’re ’punzle’s evil Mommy.” She says sagely. The circles of her eyes are wide, a shine to them that almost always ensures she’s going to get what she wants. “And I’m Rapunzel so you have to be her Mommy.” She reasons.

Emily swallows a grimace at the hopeful tone in her voice. Her distaste for Halloween peeks through her love for her daughter, the two conflicting sides clashing together as she looks down at the five-year-old expectantly tilting her chin up. 

“Honey, I don’t really like wearing costumes for Halloween.” Emily says, slowly, as if it’ll soften the blow.

Eloise frowns. “Why?”

“Uhh...” It’s not the easiest thing to explain to her toddler that she despises the holiday partly because of her inability to unsee masked unsubs everywhere. But really a huge part of it Emily doesn’t understand herself; the unrestrained chaos of it, the headache of coming up with a costume each year, and—in more recent years—swapping out the candy after her daughter has passed out. It’s more hassle than it deserves, and Emily simply doesn’t have the patience for it.

“I don’t know.” She raises her shoulders in a jerky shrug. Her words seem extra lame when Eloise tilts her head, confused. “I’m not a fan, I guess.”

“But it’s Halloween.” She whines.

“I know, bug. But you know who’d match really well with you? Your—”

“Want you to be Mother Gospel.” Eloise grumbles, interrupting before Emily can throw the role on you—like she did last year. Her eyes turn stormy dark as the disappointment settles, etching itself in delicate frown lines across her young face. The happiness of acquiring her costume dissolves into a cloud, one that starts growing gray above her head, gathering with rain that reflects in Eloise’s eyes.

Emily’s stomach turns with guilt.

“Ellie…” She chews on her lip, feeling herself crumble beneath her daughter’s gaze. But then her eyes flit to the costumes around them and her nose wrinkles, almost against her will. “We’ll talk about it at home, okay? Let’s just get your costume now, it’s almost lunch time.”

Eloise sulks. She thrusts her arms out, a frown digging between her brows. “Mommy up.” She demands, almost as if it’s punishment.

Emily finds herself smiling. “Yes, my liege.” She says playfully, lightening her tone and hoping to pull a similar smile from her daughter as she lifts her up into her arms. Emily stifles a grunt as she heaves Eloise up against her chest, a dull strain pulling the muscles of her arms taut as she secures her little girl to her body, where she always used to lay as an infant. Admittedly, Eloise is heavier than she used to be, her rapidly growing body settling more firmly against Emily’s side. But she knows these days are starting to slip from her fingers, the sand draining to the other end of the glass, so Emily grasps each opportunity she can get, regardless of the ache in her back and hip. 

Eloise still doesn’t smile back, so Emily kisses her cheek, hoping to find a dimple. “You know, you could do with being Mother Gothel yourself.” She murmurs as Eloise settles against her, the costume halfway squished between their bodies.

“She’s not a princess,” Eloise sighs heavily as she lays her head on her shoulder.

Which is definitely her only fault.

“How could I have forgotten,” Emily says, absently sweeping another kiss over Eloise’s forehead. “She’s not a princess. Does this come with a crown?” She tries to look down at the costume.

“Nu-uh.”

“Well, that won’t do. Our princess needs a crown, doesn’t she?”

“A purple crown.” Eloise agrees. 

“A purple crown,” Emily parrots. She hoists Eloise higher on her hip, forcing her eyes away from the sweet relief of the cashier and to the endless shelves of accessories. She swallows down a deep sigh and tries to think of her daughter’s happiness. “Let’s browse their selection, shall we?”

___

“It’s the best costume in the world!” Eloise gushes, her eyes bright with excitement. She trips over the word costume, switching the s and t, which strikes Emily as a little odd for a girl who can effortlessly pronounce Rapunzel. 

She laughs as she fixes the crown on Eloise’s head, silently hoping she never grows out of her endearing quirks. “It is pretty cool. Fine choice, m’lady.” She grabs Eloise’s hand and twirls her around in front of the mirror, smiling when the little girl giggles at the flare of her dress.

They spin until Eloise grows dizzy, tumbling into her mother, so Emily gently sits her down on the carpeted floor of her room. Her cheeks are flushed, the deep brown of her eyes glittering with glee. Once again her tiara tilts, slipping on her head.

“Your crown is lopsided, princess,” Emily murmurs, smiling as she fixes it. “Careful, it’s gotta be on straight.” 

Eloise giggles, the sound breathless and bright as she places her hands on Emily’s knees, scrunching the fabric of her sweatpants. “Can we put the flowers in my hair?” She asks, tilting her head up to meet Emily’s eyes. The crown jostles further.

Emily hums and leaves it, finding the task futile. “Yeah, that would be a nice touch,” she taps the tip of her finger on Eloise’s nose, “maybe we can have some daises and—”

“And your hair curly!”

“Mine?” Emily’s brows lift. “Why? I think it looks pretty like this, don’t you?” She shakes out her—admittedly flat—hair.

Eloise shakes her head no. Her eyes narrow critically; she suddenly looks so much like you that Emily’s heart warms, a more than familiar desire to take her daughter into her arms and pepper her face with kisses floating through her veins. 

“Y��cant be Mother Garthel without curly hair.” Eloise says.

The feeling dims. 

“Eloise,” Emily sighs. “Mon chou, Mommy doesn’t wanna dress up.” She shrugs meekly.

“Please? Please, please, please, Mommy. Henry’s Mommy is gonna wear a costume. And Jack’s Daddy.” Eloise’s eyes grow wider as she crawls into Emily’s lap. Emily’s arms automatically wrap around her, the walls of her resolve crumbling as Eloise burrows closer. She can feel her walls tumbling down, a weary reluctance surfacing from beneath the chipped pieces of her hatred for the holiday as Eloise’s small fingers twist into the fabric of her sweater.

Distantly, Emily thinks that she used to be stronger than this. Her will was iron clad, her mind—once made up—impossible to budge. She’s still like this, you’d argue, only she’s incapable of showing that front to her daughter. She’s putty in Eloise’s hands, bendable and soft and completely, embarrassingly pliant. Which is inconvenient. 

Still, Emily gently reminds her daughter of last year’s Halloween. The effort is half hearted at this point, the image of you and Eloise in your matching costumes fuzzy even in her own mind. When Eloise whines quietly, a sulk dragging her mouth down, it tips her over the edge.

“Want it to be you.” She says, her bottom lip starting to quiver.

Which is how Emily finds herself dressed in a red velvet dress on the 31st of October, her hair extravagantly curled and her hand held in Eloise’s. Her other arm is around your waist, her fingers absently rubbing the soft warmth of your costume.

“Thought you said you weren’t dressing up.” JJ’s brows lift, an amused glint shining in her eyes. You’re all standing on her porch, waiting for Henry to come out of the bathroom to take the kids trick or treating.

“The princess demanded it,” Emily says. Try as she might to sound annoyed, she can’t, because Eloise is beaming up at her, a wide grin on her face that displays all of her teeth. Emily smiles back, carving a dimple in her cheek that’s identical to the one in her daughter’s.

“Rapunzel can’t go as Rapunzel without Mother Gothel, right?” She winks. Eloise giggles delightedly, giving Emily a firm nod as she leans into her side.

Even with Jack next to her—dressed as Batman, with Hotch as Robin—she doesn’t let go of Emily’s hand. Her fingers are small and chilly, leeching warmth from the cocoon of her mother’s palm. The small gesture makes Emily’s heart squeeze, her body flood with warmth, and this miniscule pocket of mundanity makes Halloween well worth it.

“And what are you mean to be?” Hotch frowns, the edges of it soft and playful as he directs the question to you.

Emily turns, smothering a laugh at your defeated expression. The pale green of your onesie stands out against the setting sky, the fading rays of the sun illuminating the frog eyes on your fuzzy hood.

You sigh, low and resigned and somehow still overflowing with love.

“I’m the chameleon.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi

[a-ikuoliver]

w/c: 0.8k tw: uh i don't 100% know what this is or what it will become, this scene was just haunting me as a daydream lmao; i imagined this with bakugou but never wrote his name lmao; f!siren reader, implied yandere

"who is she?" your voice choruses inside his head before the heavy wood has even latched closed, the chorus mostly playful, the teasing curve of your lips clear you didn’t think he’d notice one in the chorus with the mean tone, insecurity and jealousy weaved into its disembodied voice, no matter how you tried to hide it with hundreds of other voices overlapping the others, the same question on repeat.

“how did you get in here?”

“how do you know you haven’t let me in before?” aloud, your voice is even more powerful, his spine straightening minutely despite the exhaustion setting in his bones. even with his muscles fighting his instincts to remain upright, he studies you lazily, his gaze trailing over your hands; holding the book on his coffee table in the same spot he held it, his thumbs in place beneath yours just hours earlier. he wonders if he’ll be able to feel you on the pages after you leave, if your fingerprint will linger like your perfume.

there’s some kind of domesticity to it, he thinks, your hands settling in the same place as his, your comfortable pose on his couch, your insatiable need to know about him, to see inside him, your need for him to engage like a schoolgirl tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. if the schoolgirl was blood thirsty.

“so, who is she?” your tone is even, your jealousy masterfully disguised by a practised playfulness, the twinkle in your eye unmistakable when you search his face for any tells for his supposed lover. you finally stand from his couch, placing the book back in the exact spot he had it, down to the millimetre (had you been here before? would he know?), leaving your jacket on the couch, the sweet scent already seeping into the fabric. you were good at that, ensuring you were always on his mind, with your perfume, with all the criminals dazedly walking into police stations holding their own wanted flyers with his name scribbled on it beside your own. gifts, you’d called them the first time he’d caught you in the act.

“has to be someone special, hm? you’ve never left me waiting before.”

your voice is just a whisper, a tiny worm wiggling its way into his nervous system, forcing his gaze to yours (he has just enough self control to steel his eyes, to keep his face indifferent as his body fought to react, to give in). staring up at him, you carefully examine his features, the way you’re reflected in his pupils that nearly swallow his iris whole, the ring of colour proof of his stubbornness, of his power to resist your compulsion.

“there is no she, i was out cleaning up your mess.”

you raise your hands in a display of innocence you don’t deserve, slinking closer to the light he sought his shelter in.

“my mess? i convinced a criminal you’ve been searching for to walk into your agency. you should be thanking me.” the worm is more the size of a caterpillar, growing evermore with the echoing chorus of your voice, the same you’d have done to the man earlier in the evening; a tauntingly slow build up of your compulsion until it had taken hold.

his voice joined yours in ordering him, his head hurting from the resistance, thank her. thank her. thank her. thank her. squeezing his eyes shut, his lips part involuntarily, his tongue straining to speak, to form the syllables you compelled him say, “i don’t need to thank you for shit.”

his back tenses, shoulder blades pinching together in the effort to resist you, a headache forming behind his eyes the longer you stared at him; pain pulsing with every ignored syllable.

he’d given in once, the first time he saw you, before he knew how to resist. before he knew how relieving it was to give in; the sound of your honeyed voice something he craved every day since, the echo of your command like a warm stream of water rushing down his spine, the weightlessness of pleasing you, every hum of approval like a hit of nicotine.

you pout, “the others are more grateful.”

your perceived inability to break him haunts you, he can tell, you itch to feel him give in, to have a man of his power under your thumb. a toy for your entertainment. he’d give it to you, he’d tell you how he craved the feeling of your hypnosis, if he knew you’d still send him your ‘gifts’, if you’d still sneak into his house just to see the flash of shock on his face, if you’d still obsess, if he knew he wasn’t just a challenge. the unbreakable man, broken.

instead, he tries his best to keep an indifferent, slightly amused, expression firmly on his face, watching you flit about his apartment like you belonged, like you weren’t more tempting than the forbidden fruit, like submitting wasn’t a worse fate than mortality. his body screamed at him the longer you stayed near, blood, muscles bones and nerves begging to rest, to get closer, to run; the need for you prospering in the dark recesses of his mind when he takes one step closer.

“i’m not like the others.”

[lesbewriting]

comfort

[ Shawn Mendes x GN!Reader ] [928 words]

SUMMARY: After a rough day, Shawn manages to comfort you and make you feel better.

WARNINGS: hint of angst, but mostly fluff

A-N: Already edited two of my old mcyt fics I deleted. This one, then a sapnap one. Also, again, this is based on a personal experience of mine.

[masterlist]

The curtains remained closed over the large window, stopping the sunlight from seeping into the room. You had closed them to make it appear as dark as possible inside with your only light source coming from a small candle on the night-stand. You were currently lying bundled up underneath the doona covers of your bed. 

H/c locks of hair spread out atop the pillow that your head currently rests on, and your phone neatly settled in your hand, switched on as you stared at it sadly. You felt like shit if you were being completely honest, with tear-filled eyes and slight red tinted cheeks. 

The constant feeling of jealousy rested in the pit of your stomach as you scrolled through instagram, photos of your old best-friend filling up the brightened phone screen as she stood with her new friends and boyfriend, each with a large smile on their faces.

Why did life have to be so difficult? How could it be so cruel? Making you regret every shitty decision you'd made in the past. It was simply a routine for you now, where at least every few or so weeks you'd find yourself crying your heart out at the constant reminder of your friend. At the horrible reminder that you hardly talked anymore to each other.

A sob escaped your mouth, not bothering to cover it with your hand. Your boyfriend was out, he wasn't home at the moment. 

You didn't want to burden him with your problems, especially if he was too focussed on his music without having to worry about you. Instead, you kept it to yourself and allowed the sad emotions to wash over when you were in private, when you were home alone.

It could have been at least one or two hours later with you just lying there in the same position, bawling. You couldn't really tell how long it'd been, though. 

That you had eventually not heard the quiet footsteps of Shawn heading towards the bedroom, nor could you hear the sound of the door opening as he walked inside. His eyes briefly glanced around the medium-sized room until they finally landed on your figure, where your soft sobs and small sniffles could be heard. 

"Y/n? Are you ok?" Shawn asked, the feeling of worry already managing to appear onto his features as he shut the door behind him. He felt like his heart cracked a little at hearing you cry, as he hated when he saw you do it. All he wanted was to be able to make you a little happier. 

"Y-yes?" Your voice felt a tad too hoarse, and it stuttered a bit from how much you'd been crying today. 

You didn't trust yourself to say anything else, as to not let anymore of the sadness you felt become even more evident to him. So biting your lip to suppress more sobs, then shaking your head briefly, you turned onto your side, facing away from Shawn and setting your phone down upon the bedside table. 

You were tired of looking at the exact same images that swarmed your instagram feed. It only ever made you sadder every time. 

Shawn, noticing you didn't want to talk much, carefully ran a hand through this short brown hair and carefully moved himself closer to the bed where you resided. He gently kicked off the shoes he had on and situated himself nearest to where you lay on your side. 

He wanted to pull you into a hug. He wanted to distract you from whatever was making you feel like this. He just wanted you to be happy and your usual self. The man felt himself slip underneath the covers now, turned to face your back, wrapped his strong arms around you, and tugged you gently back into his chest. 

You were surprised at first by this sudden action but eventually managed to relax into his warm and comforting embrace. Turning around in his arms, you buried your head into Shawn's chest. Your eyes felt puffy and red from crying as you let a few more tears slip down onto your cheeks and slightly dampened the cotton of your boyfriend's shirt. 

"A-are you ok?" Shawn hesitated at first before asking again. His hand came to run through the soft and gentle tresses of your hair, with a worried feeling still swimming in those eyes you always managed to get lost in somehow. He wanted you to be ok, but he knew right now you were far from it.

You shook your head, burying your head further into Shawn's hard chest, as his arms wrapped a little tighter around you as if to tell you everything was going to be ok. You could feel his gaze locked onto your smaller figure, as you still struggled to stop the tears from falling down your face at every thought of your old friend. 

How you weren't entirely sure if everything would be fine. You did know, however, that as long as Shawn was in your life, and he was willingly ready to comfort you, then you would be perfectly okay. At least you hoped you would.

And with those last lingering thoughts, you felt yourself distracted once again, as you managed to comfortably fall into a peaceful slumber, surrounded by the warmth of your boyfriend's familiar embrace.

[clangenrising]

Month 2 - April Gathering

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The night of the full moon was quiet and gentle, if a bit chilly. Pantherhaze bounced excitedly alongside his clanmates as they headed up the hill towards the forest and the Cornerstones. 

Gatherings were tricky these days. Not only did Goldenstar have to worry about balancing the amount of cats left to guard camp with the cats who would attend which was harder with the Clan’s small size, but there was always the fear that the gathering would lead to another outbreak which made attending at all a serious decision. It had been three moons since a gathering had even been held and longer still since Pantherhaze had been able to attend and he couldn’t help but get his hopes up now that the healers had given everyone the go ahead. 

Goldenstar led him, Nightfrost, Sagetooth, Smokyrose, and Songdust through the shrubbery, her tail held high. Pantherhaze could already hear and smell SkyClan and FallenClan cats mingling in the clearing ahead and he felt his tail fluffing up at the infectious energy. 

“Easy there,” Smokyrose rasped with a chuckle and he ducked his head shyly. “It’s not going to be that exciting, mind you.” 

“That’s easy for you to say, Smokyrose,” Songdust said. “You got to see the other Clans during your mediating. We’ve barely scented them since Leaf-fall.” Pantherhaze nodded, hoping to add weight to Songdust’s argument. 

“I suppose you have a point,” Smokyrose relented graciously. “Just keep in mind that we’re not the only Clan who lost a lot of cats this Leaf-bare. It will likely be a very small, unimpressive gathering.” 

“Right,” Pantherhaze frowned, effectively chastened. Even Songdust went soberly quiet. The patrol emerged from the foliage to behold the Cornerstones, the mossy ruins of a long abandoned twoleg nest that had mostly crumbled. Only one corner of the nest remained, sides sloping up to a point where two cats sat, quietly conversing. 

Pantherhaze gasped. 

“Oh, no,” he whispered. “What happened to Lionstar?” Snowstar, he recognized, their white pelt glistening in the moonlight, but instead of the pale ginger figure of Lionstar, his deputy Flightgaze was perched on top of the Cornerstones. The sleek blue tabby turned his gaze towards the RisingClan cats as they entered and he frowned. 

“I imagine he died,” Sagetooth remarked. “Same as Sunstar.” Pantherhaze fell silent, realizing that the other Clans probably hadn’t heard about Sunstar’s death, just as he hadn’t heard about Lionstar. They had only learned about Thrushstar’s death in EarthClan because Stormwhisper had come begging for Sagetooth’s help in treating him when he lost two lives in as many days. It was terrifying to think about. Not only could the plague chew through all nine of a leader’s lives, but it had claimed three of the four cats who had stood atop the Cornerstones this time last year. He whispered a prayer of thanks to StarClan for allowing it to pass him over. 

Looking over the gathered cats, it seemed many had not been so lucky. Including leaders, deputies, and healers, neither Clan had brought more than six cats - not that RisingClan was much better with their seven. It also seemed that despite arriving at the gathering neither SkyClan nor FallenClan were comfortable mingling amongst each other like they used to. 

Goldenstar looked back at her Clan and said, “Best behavior, yeah?” 

“Of course!” Pantherhaze said, straightening his posture. Goldenstar chuckled and winked at him, causing his face to flush a little under his fur. She glanced at Nightfrost and the two of them split from the group to head to the Cornerstones. Nightfrost meowed a greeting as she approached the other deputies and Goldenstar bounded up the sloped side to join Snowstar and - Patherhaze suddenly realized - Flightstar. Sagetooth headed over to sit apart from the other Clans and without thinking, the rest of RisingClan followed. 

“Wait,” Pantherhaze thought out loud as they settled down, “if Flightgaze is Flightstar now, who’s deputy?” 

“You have eyes, don’t you?” Sagetooth grumbled, flicking her tail towards the deputies gathered on the rubble below the Cornerstones, where a young white and grey cat was stiffly giving a nod to Nightfrost. 

“Pigeoncover?” Songdust frowned. “They haven’t even finished training their first apprentice.”

Smokyrose hummed thoughtfully. “I think he became Tumblefang last moon.” 

“Still,” Songdust huffed. “Last moon? Pigeoncover must be barely two years old! There are other warriors much more qualified to be deputy.” 

Pantherhaze shifted uncomfortably and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “Isn’t Flightgaze- uh, Flightstar their father?” 

“Mhm,” Smokyrose’s whiskers twitched. An uneasy quiet settled over the little group until, several minutes later, the bushes rustled and Orangestar came out of the trees with five cats in tow. Much like RisingClan, the EarthClan cats picked up on the strange energy and settled down away from the others while the leader and deputy took their places on the Cornerstones. 

“Alright,” Snowstar called, rising to her feet, “now that everyone is here, let’s begin!”

“First of all, let me just say, it’s good to be here tonight, under the sight of StarClan with all of you. It’s been too long. However, I’m proud of everyone for taking the Red Gut contagion seriously and taking the necessary precautions. It’s thanks to those safety measures, the hard work of our healers, and the guidance of StarClan that we have managed to come out the other side of this plague with our heads held high.” She glanced down to the clump of SkyClan cats and said, “I’d like to give some time to Tangletooth who has a bit to say about anti-plague precautions.” 

Tangletooth, an elderly, speckled ginger tom, rose to his paws, licked his whiskers, and nodded to his leader. “Thank you,” he said, voice rough and dry. The little noise the crowd was making diminished as all the cats strained to hear what he was saying. “I want to echo everything Snowstar has said and… give an additional warning. While it is understandable to be excited to put the plague behind us, I would urge you not to become blinded by relief. Every cat must stay vigilant for signs of Red Gut - sneezing fits, fever, headaches, running eyes and nose, upset stomach… and especially retching or liquid dirt.” 

He paused to take a few breaths and collect his thoughts. “Stay vigilant. Watch for these signs in both yourselves and your clanmates and report them to your healers immediately if you find them. If it is Red Gut, you will be put into isolation and it is of the utmost importance that you respect this quarantine. If you are ill, follow the direction of your healer and stay away from your clanmates. If you are well, do not attempt to visit the ill. Doing so risks the destruction of your entire Clan.” 

Pantherhaze looked down at his paws, remembering his sisters who had succumbed to the disease in two days. He had listened to Sagetooth and stayed away and because of that he had survived but he had never been able to say goodbye to them. He flinched, roused from his stupor by Smokyrose’s tail resting gently against his side. He smiled through tight lips at her and leaned closer, grateful for the unspoken comfort. 

“Uh… Thank you.” Tangletooth finished, slightly distant, and settled down again. SkyClan’s mediator, Heatherfuzz, leaned in to check on him, whispering in his ear as he nodded, muttering absently.

Snowstar dipped her head to her healer before lifting her posture again to address the crowd. “All of that said, SkyClan is officially free of disease and looking forward to the rest of Newleaf.” She took a small step back and glanced to either side to offer the stage to one of her fellow leaders. Goldenstar hesitated for a beat before starting to step forward. Flightstar beat her to the punch, standing up suddenly and drawing the crowd’s attention with a lash of his whip-like tail. 

“Last week,” he began, “Red Gut claimed Lionstar’s remaining lives, but with his death, we have finally left the sickness in the past. FallenClan stands strong as we leave Leaf-bare, returning to our full glory day by day. As leader, it is my first priority to oversee our Clan’s efforts to rebuild. We have already named a new warrior, Tumblefang,” he gestured with his chin towards the young white and grey tabby in the crowd below. She puffed up her chest proudly, letting her gaze fall cooly over the assembled cats. Pantherhaze grinned widely at her and waved his tail in congratulations, but if she noticed, she didn’t give any sign. 

“And,” Flightstar continued, “we have another apprentice who is close to graduating herself.” He gave a small trill of pride and sat back down folding his tail neatly over his paws. Goldenstar cast him a glance as if to make sure that he wasn’t about to interrupt again and then stepped forward. Her gaze panned the crowd and Pantherhaze made sure to give his best encouraging smile to her. He was certain it was stressful to be on top of the Cornerstones in front of everyone and hoped that he could somehow reassure her from below.

She took a deep breath and began to speak. “Likewise, I must sadly report that Sunstar was claimed by Red Gut last moon. While her absence will surely be felt, I am certain that RisingClan will recover quickly in the coming days. In the wake of this tragedy, I want to ask everyone to remember that it was cooperation and unity that got us through this tragedy. Let us carry those things forward into a new season of prosperity for all.” Flightstar’s ear twitched. Pantherhaze glanced at him, reading disdain on the tom’s pointed muzzle. He wondered if Flightstar would say something but if there was something on the leader’s mind, he didn’t speak it. Goldenstar watched him for a moment and, when she was satisfied he wasn’t going to interrupt again, she turned her gaze to Orangestar on her other side, face softening just a bit. 

Orangestar sat up sharply, realizing it was her turn to speak, and stood up, fluffy ginger tail swishing side to side. “Right.” She said, almost to herself. “Likewise, EarthClan was hit hard by the plague. I’m sure you’ve all heard about Thrushstar’s untimely passing by now. In the months since then, I have been working tirelessly to ensure the safety of my clanmates. I am proud to announce not only that EarthClan is also free of disease, but that we have two new apprentices with us.” Pantherhaze’s ears perked. Red Gut had been particularly fatal for kits and had spread through the nurseries like wildfire. To have two new apprentices was surely a testament to the Clan’s dedication to following their healer’s guidance. 

“Dawnpaw has been apprenticed to Sprucespeckle and I have taken Toadpaw as my own apprentice.” Everyone looked to the apprentices in question, a pale blue and ginger torbie and a speckled brown tom sitting at the back of the crowd. The tom looked nervously around while his sister sat taller, eyes fixed on Orangestar with a fondness tinged with anxiety.

Orangestar nodded to her with a smile and continued. “We are all looking to the future with hope and courage, as exemplified by these two young cats.”

Pantherhaze tilted his head to whisper to Smokyrose. “They look more nervous than courageous.” 

“Those things aren’t opposites,” she shrugged. “I would be nervous too. The hopes and dreams of a Clan are a lot to pin on two orphans.” 

“Oh.” Pantherhaze’s stomach dropped. He looked forward again, tail curling around his paws as that solemn thought weighed upon his mind. 

Orangestar looked around, not sure what to do, and eventually said, “That’s all.” 

Snowstar nodded and declared, “Then with that, the gathering is over. Feel free to mingle for a while. It’s been a long time since we’ve had the opportunity to talk amongst ourselves.” The crowd was hesitant at first, shifting and murmuring, but seeing Snowstar leap down to speak with Nightfrost, cats slowly began to break from their Clan groups.

“Why don’t we go say hello to the new apprentices?” Smokyrose suggested and Pantherhaze nodded, a smile spreading on his face.

“Yeah, alright,” he agreed, leaning down to help support her as she stood. The older she-cat thanked him and together, they padded to the back of the clearing to greet the young cats and wish them well.

---------

Author's note: Thanks to everybody who read all the way through. Most gatherings won't be quite this long, just the notable ones. I figured our first Full Moon Gathering was worthy of a bigger piece.

[bhaal-battle-beer-bard]

Welcome to Saulus' new Waning Moon Distillery 🌙 Under New Management

My name is Saulus and I am the Dark Urge Tiefling (Vampire) Bhaal Battle Beer Bard Tav of @judasiskariot (aka MissZombieSlayer)

Together with my patreon and Mäzenin judasiskariot, I will write all the bardic inspiration stuff for you.

Be prepared for songs, dirty limericks, poetry, ballads, incorrect quotes and headcanons.

Masterlist

COMMISSIONS OPEN

Available in German and English (in mind that English is not my native language, please be merciful 🙏)

I am here for the art trade.

Take writing requests for some funny art trade.

You can commission me to write bard songs or poems about your favourite BG3 character or your Tav.

I don't say it is going to be good😆😅🙈 But I will always try my best and hope I create something that makes you smile and brings us joy to both of us 🙂🫶❤️

What I do:

- Most of the time funny roasting shenanigans tavern bard songs and dirty limericks

(About a specific person, topic or moment of your adventure)

But I can also do:

- Sad or romantic ballads about your Tav, character, romance

- Poem about your Tav, companion or romance by choice

- Poem or letter written by a character for your Tav/You or romance partner by choice (I will try at least; I don't understand every companion in the same intense way)

What I don't do:

- I guess we will see when it really happens

- A specific wordcount I guess, it will be one or two Word document/my poetry book side long most of the time

BEFORE I start writing:

* Let me know if you want it in rhymes or not (or I will do as I please) and if it should include a specific topic, theme, incident

* Let me know if there is any character or topic you totally not want to be roasted/being made fun of in the funny bard songs

(I mean it is all fun and everyone should be able to laugh about themselves but is totally fine to say what you like and what you dislike)

* When it will include your Tav I will need a picture and information about their background and personality

Want to talk about BG3 (and more)? I love to talk! Message me here or on mainblog @judasiskariot

Jelayah, the half-elf fighter Saulus, the Tiefling bard (durge) Devorah, the Drow bard (durge)

My fanfictions here:

AO3 + Animexx MissZombieSlayer

Want to know more about the Bhaal Battle Beer Bard?

I love art, poetry, vampires and being a slut.

Her name is Saulus. She is sassy little Dark Urge Tiefling Bhaal Battle Beer Bard, dreaming of a retirement with Astarion at Moonrise Towers with best friend Thisobald Thorm.

The Tiefling bard is banned from most gnome weddings and some cities in Faerûn 😂 There is some fun rivalry between her and Volo 😄

Her dream is to marry Astarion, start a family and settle down with him at Moonrise Towers to reopen the Waning Moon Distillery.

(The party, "Opa" Ketheric, bhaal cult and the undead horde are babysitters)

She uses two hand crossbows, wanted to be an evil bhaal babe, but ended up doing all the right things 😄 The Urge is still strong in her, so better not making here angry 😈

She is absolutely in love with Astarion and the owl bear cub (her son) and Thisobald is her best friend.

She is insecure about her Tiefling look, holding her tail when she is nervous. Saulus plays dirty funny limericks with the lute and mostly lyra but with two missing strings at the moment💀(maybe she doesn't take criticism very well😅)

She likes gnomes but is banned from most gnome festivities because she confuses them with kids and is singing too many dirty limericks (at children's birthday parties thinking it is a wedding; but also inappropriate for weddings though... 😅)

Saulus: "Let me tell you my bardic epos:

After all fires in Baldur's Gate are extinguished only one remains: Cazador's palace. I burn it down, so Astarion is getting his head clear and get over his Ascension Master God Complex. And because the handymen failed to build a palace door in owlbear size for our son the owlbear cup. In consequence of I won the drinking competition against my bff Thisobald Thorm I inherited (more or less official and legal) the propery deed of The Waning Moon.

Ketheric is still alive and our grandpa Ketheric now.

I marry Astarion, start a family and settle down with him at Moonrise Towers to reopen the Waning Moon Distillery.

And when Opa Ketheric is holding the little half Elf Tiefling Vampire baby for the first time, you can see how the light and will to live is coming back into his eyes.

I am the bard at the bar, barkeeper and my own best customer.

The party, "Opa" Ketheric, the bhaal cult and the undead ghoul horde of vampirelord Astarion are the babysitters. (Everyone wants to look after the baby but the party is failing miserable and Dammon is giving them babysitter lessons because Karlach is also pregnant and is lending Dadstarion Clive til her baby is coming. Opa Ketheric is always babysitter of the month, but surprisingly closed followed by the ghoul and bhaal assassins. Father bhaal is not really welcome but Sceleritas of course!)

Needless to say we still have a vacation home at Baldur's Gate and coming back there with a little family.

When we are walking through the city, we do it in single file and every child (also the owlbear cub of course!) is holding the tail of the sibling in front, so no one is getting lost in the big city. One child do not have a tail, because it is more elfish than the rest, but he is wearing a costume tail to be part of it and he insists that Papa Astarion is also wearing a fake one, so that they are all similar.

Astarion and I always must pay reparations, because the owlbear cup grew to like rose pedals at the wedding and now it destroys the gardens at Baldur's Gate.

I perform dirty limericks and funny songs about our friends and adventures at the Elfsong Tavern. And especially by the order of Lord Gortash many songs about Dragons(born).

Yeah almost everyone is alive.

Astarion and the party are the bouncers so everyone must watch the whole concert. Yes Astarion supports everything his wife does! The stupider, the better. And because as the only one he is wearing earplugs.

pics by aristenfromwarsaw

[hcrtbraker]

☼ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞

𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙖   𝙠𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙮   is   the   fifth   youngest   of   ten   siblings   &   was   raised   on   a   large   compound   in   the   midwest.   her   parents   joined   a   cult   in   their   twenties   &   ended   up   settling   down   there,   abandoning   their   normal   lives.   growing   up   india   was   oblivious   to   things   like   movies   &   television,   processed   foods,   & the   internet.   her   only   link   to   society   was   going   grocery   shopping   in   town   with   her   mother.   it   was   through   those   short   trips   that   she   formed   a   plan   in   her   mind   to   escape   the   cult   one   day.   at   nineteen,   that   day   finally   came,   &   she   left   a   letter   for   her   parents,   leaving   in   the   middle   of   the   night.   she   hitchhiked   to   the   nearest   big   city   &   learned   everything   that   she   could   about   the   world.   india’s   free   spirit   remained   &   she’s   been   traveling   from   city   to   city   ever   since,   selling   her   jewelry   at   farmer’s   markets   and   on   street   corners   to   get   by.   she   found   more   success   selling   her   pieces   online   through   etsy.  

india's   still   learning   everything   that   she   wasn’t   exposed   to   growing   up,   &   her   innocent   nature   always   shines   through.   there’s   an   awkward   air   about   her   when   people   strike   up   conversations   about   pop   culture   or   anything   else   that   she   isn’t   familiar   with.  

☼ 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: india kelly 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: indie (by her family members) 𝐚𝐠𝐞: 23. 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬: human. 𝐳𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧: pisces. 𝐬𝐞𝐱: female. 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: american. 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞: frequently moves from town to town in a beat up van that she bought at a yard sale. she sleeps in the back seat. 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: gardening, knitting, hiking, swimming, arts & crafts, seeking out sustainable products, volunteering, people watching, horseback riding, camping, beach volleyball, reading any book that she can get her hands on (mostly in public libraries or local little free libraries). 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: pansexual. 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧: freelance jewelry designer. she sells her jewelry at farmer's markets, on street corners, & on her etsy store. 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞: petite, hourglass shape. 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬: blue. 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫: strawberry blonde & red depending on the season. 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞: very relaxed, slouches when she sits. 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭: 5'6". 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞: soft, tiny, & singsong. speaks quickly when she's excited and sometimes trips over her words. 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐟𝐢𝐭: lots of mom jeans, flowy maxi skirts, and cute summer dresses with floral print. peasant blouses and t-shirts that are two or three sizes too big. sandals or cowboy boots. only wears second hand clothing, so she's seen in variations of the same outfit often & donates what she doesn't want anymore. 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫: verse dependent 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: because of how often she moves from place to place, she doesn't have any animals. 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬: people who force their ideas on others, any kind of cult mentality (mainly what her parents and family members subscribe to), religious zealots & any kind of organized religion, cruelty of any kind, bullying. 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡𝐬: her empathetic nature, isn't judgmental of others, always willing to lend a hand, creativity, kind nature, has the ability to deescalate situations, highly adaptable when it comes to being in new places, carrying a conversation. 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬: staying in one place for too long, putting down roots, commitment when it comes to romantic relationships, staying in touch with friends, talking about her family & the cult that she grew up in & escaped, expressing her actual feelings, handling stress. 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐬: watermelon, cantaloupe, kiwi, strawberries, blueberries, pineapples. 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬: water with lemon, flavored sparkling water, iced coffee. 𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬: doesn't drink. 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐬: never. 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐬: only weed. 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞: yes.

[talldarkandroguesome]

6th of Hearthfire, Middas

At last I am feeling just about back to my normal self. And none too soon. How quickly my time with my girls is slipping away!

With all the activities that the girls are engaged in, I see them mostly for meals and then in the evening. If they wake up early, which Kuna, at least, is in the habit of, then I also get an hour or so before breakfast with them.

I will say, they seem very content with all this. they have been so excited to tell me about what they have learned. Kuna, in particular, who is eager to show off her skill with the cheldurrah. To be honest, I am not sure if I am relieved that the teacher has accepted her or worried for the destruction of breakables within the manor. For now, I have said she may only practice out of doors, so the space between the stables and the garden renovations is currently her training grounds.

Our poor guard watches her very wearily, for she often loses the grip on her practice cheldurrah and it goes flying off in a direction. He has had a few close calls getting hit and I know he must be very relieved that there is no actual edge on the blade and that it is only a smooth bit of wood. I am going to have to find her one made of something else to take home, however. Nabine would have my head that our daughter had been using wood from a tree that may have been felled for that purpose. Luckily I do not believe Kuna is yet at the age to consider the materials and their sources of the items around her. Not yet.

All the more reason to find her a replacement so that by the time she moves into thinking about it, she will not have such an item. I will need to consult with her tutor to make sure the size and weights are still the same. I should have spoken with her sooner about it all, but I did not anticipate dolling out practice weapons so early.

Cariel's lessons are going well. Mother came by for a visit and she and Cariel spent a good long while working on floral arranging. Apparently I offended Mother by not asking her first, but I cited her busy schedule and duties to the Council and she cooled her ire quickly. I said that Cariel would be grateful for any lessons Mother was willing to do and Cariel was very excited that her grandmother was so eager to take over. In fact, Mother reached out to Cariel's instructor, to personally inform him that she was taking over. I do not know if he was particularly pleased by this or not, but Mother is very good at getting her way. And so now she is coming over shortly before dinner each evening and working with Cariel.

Sildras, in anticipation of Tel's arrival this month, has begun to spend a lot of his free time with canvas and easel outside and painting the landscape. I think he wants to impress Tel with his skills. I will admit, he is improving. He has set up his easel where his garden telescope sits and paints the view down into the rest of the city. The waterfalls and Temple in one picture seems to be his favorite subject to try and recreate.

I do hope that Tel is actually able to visit. The Council has begun sending me summons again to meet various potential consorts. Now that the girls have been here a few days, they count them as settled and are making their attempts again.

The latest invitation, which I was bade to go one, was to meet another lovely lady who is the daughter of Councilor Oran. Councilor Oran has an unprecedented five children, though this meeting was with his youngest daughter, Demth. Yet instead of the usual set up of just parents and the betrothed, Demth's twin brother, Damus, was also in attendance. I was sat between the both of them at the meal and the twins spent a lot of time asking me questions from both sides. When I was left to speak with Demth, as is traditional, Damus remained. It became very evident that the arrangement was not simply for Demth to become my mistress, but that I would have Demth as my mistress and Damus as a consort as well.

I am unsure if the implication was that they were sweetening the deal by providing me two people, or that I would only possibly be interested in the daughter if I had the son as well. Do they believe that I am only interested in men? They have been arguing for months with Nabine, running her out of the city, seeing that I was at least intimately involved with her enough that I, of my own volition, was able to sire a child. Unlike men, it is uncommon for our people to have a single night together and produce a child. Mer simply are not built like that. Even if Bosmer are more fertile than other mer. It still takes time. They act as though my love for Nabine meant nothing!

The twins, as interesting as they were, and as persistent as their hands were getting into my clothing, I do not trust that they have any aim other than to increase their father's standing on the Council. They would certainly be fun for a while, but I think they would not have any true interest in me. Not that I need a lot out of a mistress if, The Three forbid, I ever manage to have to take one, but I should like to know that we have more than simply an arrangement involved.

After all, a mistress will stay with me for years. Years to get pregnant with an heir. Then years to raise the child and ensure that they will reach adulthood. If the child were to die somewhere in there, then the process would begin again. And so we are talking about decades, a minimum of thirty years, where I must spend my time with this person. I want to know that we will not just be living separate lives in the same house. I have done that with Urtisa and it was miserable!

The constant insults and bickering. Sure, the anger led to some rather enjoyable times in bed, but that was not a living. It was a survival. And I ended up having to flee. I missed the start of my son's life because of that! I never want to go through such a thing again.

Now that I think of it, I wonder if, in my new condition, I am even capable of having children. I suppose a soul is not a prerequisite to siring a child. But what if it were to affect the birth somehow? What if my being slightly more Daedric would come through in a child?

I need to bring up this concern to Avon. He would be able to broach the subject with Plays-With-Fire in a way that would be less direct. I do believe that Plays-With-Fire is already beginning to have some suspicions, but I doubt that Avon would share my secret without asking first. Probably.

No, he would not. We are brothers! Sworn to share our secrets with no one save the other.

Yet I do not discount how close he and Plays-With-Fire have grown. I see a burgeoning love growing there. Would Avon truly betray my trust like that? He has seemed to have less and less care for me. He is more agitated by my presence, short in his replies, does not always wish to share the bed with me at night.

Perhaps I put too much trust in him.

No, if I lose him, who do I have? Zethith does not understand mortal emotions, not from the standpoint of having had them before. And who else is there? Tel would turn me in if they found out the extent of my worship of the True Tribunal. Luayl still has ties to the House and I cannot risk that. House Ravenwatch? I doubt they would look too kindly at my Daedric bond considering their own.

I have no one else. I have to trust in Avon. He is the only one I have left.

[pappaterslogs]

Pulicat // Pazhavanthangal // November 23 2022 // Part 3

Raj kumar, a mid aged fella, wears a blue shirt, was in the posture of taking hitchhike, was standing at the corner of Adhavan rice mill, which was painted yellow and it looks vintage. It was an off road, filled with paddy field greenery on both sides and the dark clouds above; and raj kumar started his talking about his job as a prawns seller for half a year and another half as a masonry. The green paddy fields, triggers something in him, where all of sudden he was telling about the harvesting festival, on how people wake up early that day, harvest, worship god for making it smooth, and how they celebrate this during pongal festival. He gave a rugged face when was photographed but on request, some varied smiling face was posed; hiding his face and mouth; but one can see the beauty in it.

The village has an old large banyan tree that was painted black inside and green out; it was providing shade to localities, who were taking naps under it. There were a couple of old men, admiring the drizzling on the sitting top of the brick block that was piled near the temple pond. The pond filled with lilies and lotus and droplets of drizzle that intense to form rain. A V shaped wood was fixed on the head, comes the another old man, who is deaf, was inquiring about the native and stuff, but heard none and left.

This route connects short from minjur to pulicat. Minjur is the dead end of chennai outer ring road, filled mostly with the trucks and two wheeler. The highway, also filled with decomposed dog body, that got hit a few days back, was still indicating her presence, even after gone to heaven. The rooster was seen near to this scene, pecking the wet food on the streets, and all of sudden flew up high, amidst a truck that was passing. It was such a kind of rooster that was doing the same stuff to the passerby at the pulicat. They were a man and a decorated cow. He used to bless people on getting paid. Making some positive comments to the cow, and the cow nod YES, giving a positive beam to the payer. He walks all day and blesses people. That was his work.

They were walking towards the Pazhaverkadu lighthouse, which was painted an alternative white and ash colour. Crossing the lagoon was crowded with boats and small huts and people gathered, playing cards in gangs, goli, spinning fishing net, getting the motor ready for fishing, settling the grabbed fishes to the fish auction centre, which held crowds and shouting that blurting numbers in random. The pathway filled with dead and decomposed fish that was extras and not used for sales. There, it is a snake-like fish, in varied size, where some crows and birds prey on them.

There was a shout and playing of school boys, inside the dutch cemetery, of king and queen and minister, in marvellos structure, now ruined a little but the artwork and the writings still remains, was not cared a bit by those littles. Our lady shrine was standing tall near the cemetery. Painted white, bordered blue, and standing majestically, among the small hut of slum. The tiny streets of the slum, all of sudden, show a building from 1950, where an old lady, converted it to a convenience store, and doing her business there, was in focus on clearing her tooth set.

Near to the st. Antony church, a small lone room, not painted colours but with the algae, had a doorless window, where a mid aged woman, hari trimmed, unclean, with staring eyes, blurting some words, was gazing over the sun that was about the set. Her face painted golden with the sun shine and after admiring it, on knowing people staring at her, realised and gradually moved back and hid her face but haven’t stopped the murmuring. It gave a chill moment as the lone building was installed on a deserted sea shore of golden sand that was parallel to ECR, that parallel again with the back water. Some fishermen, on returning back from fishing, were in discussion with the night plans of getting high. He is dark and his face hasn't smiled for long, wears a black bracelet in his ankle and stuff. The town got only one functionable hotel, where the owners were in discussion on improving their profit. Opposite, a little shop, which sells only cool drinks, was in charge of a young boy, who was in conversation on the excess of the stock that the deal had put on him last week.

The parallel ECR connects Ennore, travelling the off round for 20km. A young scholl fella in white and white, got the lift and was on zig zagging the patched road. It was horrible as it goes and the scenario of deserted barren sea shore and the back water on the right compensated for the trouble. The route holds less people and villages but more of cows and was in wonder to whom they all belong? Gradually the scenery gets updated where it shows adani port, L&T ship building, North chennai thermal plant. The whole area is covered with the huge machines that emit dark smokes but none care and riding the two wheels, rushing somewhere to the place where they initially got out deciding it is a bore.

The old lady, around 100 plus kg, took the ride from the thermal power plant to Ennore. She was in constant enquiry on the purpose and stuff and the bikes started to struggle due to the overload. The body was titled to some angle that most of the space was occupied by her and it raised a question on why the ride had been accepted in the first place.

Ennore express highway filled with trucks and only trucks. Parallely, the wave sounds shouting, indicating its presence. A Huge cylinder-like pillar installed to reduce the intensity of the wave, and the aftermath of hitting the pillar, fragments its droplet, and sprays the people and couples who are in sync with the sea.

Some banner that holds the articles, that was published about the Atho street food, was in the background, and the fella who was posing on the post was actually preparing Atho and was serving people. It is at the beach road, backside of HSBC building and crowded fully with people, dogs, beggars, old mens and womens and stuff. The nearby Atho stall was empty and they didn't care either. The empty shop owner was in conversation with a mentally challenged lady, who was already occupied in feeding hot strong tea to the stray dog, which she called her julie, but failed at it after pouring it on the pedestrian. The empty shop owner started giving life advice and philosophy to her. She was already sick of it as this was the same saying that she hears from the empty shop owner all time.

[fatherhoodstory]

seasons

There was a field here once, and a pond of warm water that bubbled out of the ground just up the hill. Closer to the source, the water trickled down the slope through a natural trough and was warmer. We made rock and mud dams there to form pools big enough for one, or two. At times the elk would be grazing in the field and we would sit in our pools and watch them through a curtain of rising steam and giant snowflakes that fell thick and slow. I’ve written about this place before, when things were different, volatile and uncertain, yet somehow easier to understand and navigate. I remember the stars that night, brighter from the cold, and the outline of her body against them. The darkest of matter is always between the light. There was a warmth and anticipation of love then that illuminated the mundane. Before all that though it was ours and you would swim in the small pools we built, your tiny hands searching the bottom for rocks to throw for splashes and laughter. The plastic dinosaurs you would carry circled us in the pool, grazing mostly, others taking dips when you allowed. It is all different now. A facility, locker rooms, concrete and gravel walkways, and various sized pools of different temps fill the field. The pond is gone, or divided, but you can still see the trench where we would sit. The willows remain, the flow of water out of the earth now just working its way down the slope to join the cold river below. We had it to ourselves during those tumultuous early years, and the memory of it I carry still. I can see it from where we are sitting, across the river in other pools we built with shovels and dig bars, the hippy dips. It is snowing this morning and the wind comes in erratic bursts from the mountains above. In those moments of calm when the steam settles, I can hear the two of you and remember the simplicity of love.

The wood is stacked in neat rows around this old cabin. It is covered with canvas tarps and blanketed in what was winter’s first real showing. The rhythm of this life; the garden, the summer, the wood, the hunt, the hot springs and the bike, the quiet and harshness of winter. Around and around, year after year. You get older. I get older. People come and go, some say things before they do, others just fade away and are forgotten, a few remain in memory, fewer still we call friends. I decided long ago that you were the most important one, and whatever it takes of me I will not leave, not yet. 

I wake up early and shovel the snow off the sidewalks, throwing it out into the street. People speed by on their way to work, or school, most of them looking down at their phones, oblivious. Sometimes I throw a shovel of snow on them, to wake them up, or slow them down. Mostly they just give me the finger and speed on. It has snowed almost every day this month, with brief glimpses of sunshine between storms to remind you that there is light, somewhere. I go to your school after, my coffee in that tattered eskimo cup, and wait outside to see you. Sometimes you don’t show, and I wait just the same. I know the teachers now, the other parents. As different as we all are, we do have one thing in common, we all love our children. Some of them ask me what I am doing out here and I tell them. If I don’t do this I won’t see you and I just want to see you. They don’t understand, they see their kids, so they just shake their heads and say nothing. 

When this is all over, which it will be soon, at least you’ll know that I showed up everyday that I could. I ask you from time to time if you still want me to come in the mornings, and you do, for now. Some mornings you almost ignore me and I ask you questions about the book you’re reading, if you slept well or had any dreams. Other mornings, I just hug you and tell you I love you before I go. I hold onto these days, these moments, hard as they are, and let them go reluctantly and only because there is no other choice. 

I think about my sister at times, your beautiful auntie, mostly at night when I am alone and staring at the wall. There is a picture of her there, she is smiling, and if i think about it long enough I can hear her laughing. I feel her presence as I have every day of my life. She is still there somewhere waiting for me to call and check in. Where exactly did you go sister, that part of you that made that smile? They say heaven. I don’t have an idea of what that looks like, maybe it’s different for everyone, but if there is such a place where we go, and that place has a happy hour with a view of the mountains or the cosmos, that’s where you are, and I will see you there. 

-13 today. Below zero it’s all the same. 20 feels balmy, like a heat wave. The sun is out but provides no heat so low in the sky. I look at it anyway and think about the ocean, somewhere warm and without all this. I have other lives to live before I go, ones without you. The idea of that frightens me. I will miss you, and in a way all of this. To focus on one thing, the most important thing I would argue, gives you a certain purpose and meaning that nothing else does. I remember when I wasn’t a father, barely, and how selfish it all was. Parenthood reminds you that you are insignificant and giving yourself in the service of others is the only noble thing to do, whether they be your own kids, someone else’s, or strangers who have no one else. Live for yourself and you shall die in vain, live for others and you shall live again, or so says the song. Though I can’t imagine doing any of  this again. 

[fangedjustice]

There was a different, more apparent kind of tension as they left the stream behind and moved through the mist back towards the thicker grouping of trees. While the things they'd come across earlier had been warped and unnerving, there had not been the same threat that hung heavy around them as it did now.

They moved carefully but swift. Not wanting to linger in one spot longer than necessary, but doing what they could to avoid making too much noise.

Lloyd, keeping his guard up, immediately looks towards Igrene at her signal, his gaze following her hand. Ah, that would work. A moment with some proper cover in order to ready themselves -- for what, they still didn't entirely know -- would do them better than remaining in the open. He nodded, following her footsteps closely as they made their way up to the rocky cover that the hill provided them. They had to slow down here and there, careful of where they stepped as they climbed up, but nothing came after them as they settled into the small space.

Not right away, that is.

They were mostly silent as they readied themselves -- Igrene with her bow and arrow, Lloyd with his blade -- eyes and ears wide open for any sound, movement, anything to account for the building dread.

His gaze flicks away from the path they'd entered up from at her words. "...Of course. I do not doubt your ability to carry this out, no matter what comes." It was not her emotions taking the reins that he was worried about here, and he was disappointed in himself for giving her that impression.

Little as they knew of each other, they were their only support out here. They had to trust in one another; their physical abilities and mental prowess alike.

The forest shivered with sound, then. Something large shuffling through, slow but not without purpose. A dark shadow against the mist, a scent of rot and wrong oozing through the air as it moved. It was something that was felt just as much as seen or smelled. Each thudding step felt in the chest like a blast overhead.

There was no natural beast that got so large.

There was a brief, silent exchange of looks between them. An understanding that was easy enough without words, strangers as they were to one another. Lloyd moved first, edging out of their cover enough to make out their target. Whatever it had once been, it was something quite different now; heavily armored, like a flow of molten rock cooled. It shambled as if encumbered by its own defenses and sheer size, but that did not mean it wasn't capable of inflicting great harm. Formidable tusks that jutted from a malformed jaw, a bony but serpentine tail cracked like a segmented whip. Even if it didn't look like had had speed, it had reach on its size alone.

Even from a cursory glance, Lloyd knew he wouldn't be able to do too much from ground level against something so big and so armored. If they wanted to take it down without incurring too many injuries on their end, they'd need to find a weak spot. Igrene would have the keener eyes out of the two of them, and had the advantage of working at a distance to suss out the best points of attack.

So he would misdirect, buy her time to figure it out.

He gestured for her to hold back and circle around if the opportunity presented itself, then backtracked down the hill to cut off the creature's current path. He could see no eyes or ears, and was leaning on it having poor senses in order to take it at least somewhat off guard. Its footfalls were jarring as he ran alongside it, skidding out in front of it to draw its attention away from where Igrene was--

And reacting just in time to bring his blade up against one of the jagged, dripping tusks the beast swung his way with a toss of its massive head. The blow rattled every bone in his body, throwing him a fair way down the rooted path the beast had been treading. Beady, red eyes stared back at him.

Ah, so it did see...

Rabbits Were Indeed Harmed In The Making Of This Thread

fangedjustice

As Lloyd secured the stone away at his belt, he caught the expression on Igrene's face before she turned her attentions towards the desiccated fox. He'd been handling this more in a way to try and understand the why of it, somewhat ignoring the desecration of life that was happening because of it.

"My apologies, I've been a bit callous in handling this," he hedged, hazel eyes watching the fox's dim brown as the woman retrieved her arrow.

It wasn't out of a lack of care for these creatures. Needless, cruel harm like this was something he detested no matter the target, but he didn't like having so little information about their enemy to go off of. He wanted to know what they were trying to get out of this entire horror show, and if this was simple reckless destruction or if it served another purpose they had not yet stumbled upon. But the fox, the rabbit...their lives had been cut short and their last moments unkind. Igrene was righteous in her fury and disgust.

"I agree with you, I simply...don't wish for us to be blindsided, if that makes any sense. The forest will take back its own, and though they suffered needlessly, that is why we're here. To help bring that to an end." Lloyd got back to his feet, feeling the need to wipe his hands off on his trousers despite the fact that there had been no blood or anything else left behind when he removed the stone.

It was unnatural, in every sense of the word.

"You and I, we will make sure this cowardice doesn't go unpunished." A promise. Whatever was going on here needed to be stopped, both for the threat it posed as well as the inhumanity of what it caused.

Still, something about all this made the back of his neck itch like he was being watched. The animals hardly put up a fight against them, in spite of whatever transformation they had partially undergone. If these stones were supposed to make something more powerful, supposedly with the intent to be tossed at the Church to wrought whatever chaos they may, why had they not...?

Had they taken whatever successes there were for a later plan, leaving behind only what they deemed failures? Or was this all an elaborate trap that they were supposed to walk into?

Leaving the area with the fox behind, they continued to move forward at a slow but steady pace. Despite having two close encounters, the tracks and trails that Igrene was finding didn't seem out of the ordinary for an environment like this. No black ichor, no unsteady or confused tracks, no mauled bodies that had not been consumed for food.

There were no more sightings by the time they heard the soft burbling of a stream. Taking a moment to rest, Lloyd kept his eyes up as Igrene crouched by the dark water. The constant, soft noise of the water moving was almost a lull in his ears, but as he shifted his gaze along the trees and bushes lining the flow of the stream, there was nothing.

No animals, no sound of things moving in the forest, not even wind in the trees. Not even any insects.

The realization struck them in an almost simultaneous stagger.

Lloyd nodded, going quiet out of habit. A silence like this could only mean that there was a predator in the vicinity -- something seen as more of a threat than they were. "I...don't recall. There must have been some noise when we first entered with the others, but...I don't like that neither of us noticed it going so quiet."

That sensation of being watched crawled across Lloyd's skin once more.

"...I think we should move on from here. Something is wrong." Which may have been a redundancy, considering why they were out there. But this...this felt like an open threat to their safety. He had not felt endangered by the rabbit or even the more mutated fox.

They were not the only hunters in these woods, it would seem.

So it had caught him unawares as well. Igrene ill liked the idea that they two had been so blindsided – perhaps they had both been naïve in their approach of the situation, he so focused on the sheer information of the thing, and she on her gut intuition. Maybe they had both been accomplished hunters in their own right, but neither were in their home advantage, and if the situation was as manufactured as Sir Lloyd seemed to believe, they had severely underestimated their opponents. 

The rabbit...the fox...they weren't tests. They were taunts. 

Igrene nodded shortly, and they moved through the low-hanging mist away from the openness of the stream, heading further into the cover of the forest. She ignored the hammering in her heart, the sheer feeling that it was wrong to move closer to the danger to avoid it, to move deeper into the unknown as they were, but with all evidence adding up, this had to be the safest course of action. 

She no longer kept her eyes on the trail beneath them, with full understanding that any and all tracks would have been either naturally occurring or left for their benefit, and she raised her eyes to the trees, scanning the brush and hilly paths as they moved, seeking cover. 

There. Without stopping, she clicked her fingers and gestured to a stone outcropping – it would be a bit of a climb up the rocky terrain of the hill, but there seemed to be enough room for the two of them to regain their bearings, and an overgrowth of vines and moss to hide them from view. They scrambled upward, mindful of their footing on the loose stones and earth, on the matted down flora slick with moisture from the dense fog, and eventually tucked into the small outcropping. 

It was a close fit. Igrene rested her back against the wall of the small cave, tugging her bow and quiver from behind her to lay them within reach on the stone floor. Carefully, she nocked an arrow in preparation, keeping the bow close to hand. She would not tire herself out needlessly, but if their suppositions were correct, then their hunters knew where they were, and would be coming for them. 

After a moment in the quiet, Igrene said, softly, "You do not owe me any apology for your treatment of the situation, Sir Lloyd. Just as I do not doubt your heart is in the right place, you should not doubt that I do not intend to be driven by emotion." His apology had stuck like a burr in her side as they had moved, as she had processed every mistake they had made since entering the forest. She offered him a rueful smile, "It seems have both misstepped, haven't we?" 

There was little enough time for commiseration, to lament their poor handling of the situation, for under the murmur of her voice she finally heard something that she had not for some hours – the crackled of branches being moved aside, the rustle of foliage as a body – huge, hulking, furious and grunting – pushed through the clearing. 

She tensed at the sudden rush of sound. There wasn't a clear view from her position, exactly, but she could see the shifting of shadows as a great beast moved past, the hair on the back of her neck standing up as she felt its immense malintent crashing down upon her all at once, the awful scent of decay, of blood, of something inky clogging her nose. Carefully, she picked up her bow and the prepared arrow, and held it near to her chest. 

Making eye contact with Lloyd, she nodded – whatever happened, she would follow his lead, and she would cover his back. 

[romanoffsbish]

Containment Level: Necessary?

WandaNat x Fem!Reader

Warning: Tony’s a little shit; Human sized hamster ball… 😳, sick!reader.

Mostly just funny / fluffy 😂

A precious anon said that they’d been sick for a week now so I quickly wrote this for them, their request was vague enough so I might’ve had a bit of fun, and now I’m going to sleep. 🤪

2,534 Words

This… This is not at all what Natasha and Wanda were expecting to find upon entering the compound in their search for you.

They’d been absolutely shell shocked to find you not waiting for them as they returned from their week long mission, and if the lovers were being honest they were terribly disappointed. You always met them at the hangar, a bright smile, and warm hug to greet them, and then you would dote over them for the simplest of scratches, you were truly their comfort person.

——

——

So, to see you in your current state it didn’t really answer any of their questions, or help to fizzle their concerns, not even in the slightest. Wanda took a tentative step forward to get a better view of you—you who was absolutely passed out inside of what appeared to be a human sized hamster ball. Natasha was still stood in the doorway with her face screwed up, confusion not even the tip of what she’s feeling, then after a second to process she’s beside her girlfriend, observant eyes taking in your beyond dead to the world state, and then she’s pretty sure of what’s gone down.

Just as Wanda went to tap the structure a new body had joined the common area with an iPad in one hand, and a coffee in the other, all while being none the wiser to the returned threats. “Well Y/N/N, good news! Your covid test came back negative, but it appears you have the flu, so my prescription is for you to remain in the bubble until Friday tells me you’re no longer a threat. I can’t afford your germs reaching me.,” Wanda’s eyes narrow when she hears his words, and Natasha’s face takes up a scowl., “Yeah, at your big age we’re fairly certain it would be to your unfortunate demise.”

Tony squeaks, coffee splashing everywhere as he pulls his iPad into his chest and takes a few cautious steps back all for the sake of safety., “Ladies, thank heavens you’re back…,” he cooly relays, but Wanda can hear his heart skipping, and Natasha can see much the same by means of the vein in his neck pulsing., “Y/N fell ill as you can see…,” Wanda waves and cuts him off., “When exactly did you do this to her Tony?”

“Um…,” his eyes dart between the mad women, his plans to run clear on his face, so the women take immediate action, Tony’s foot barely had a chance to lift off before Wanda wrapped him up in her magic, and Natasha approached him., “You have one more chance to do this the easy way Stark.,” he gulps but his lips stay locked. Natasha shrugs at the man who’s settled on an unfavorable fate, a faux twinkle of sympathy in her eyes as she is forced to call upon the AI.

“Friday, how long has Y/N been sick?,” he went to command her silence but Wanda physically zipped his lips shut with her powers, smirking when she sees the immense fear in his eyes., “Well, It appears she fell under the weather two days after you left, and Mr. Stark put her in the containment bubble that same afternoon.”

Tuesday—you’ve been in this bubble of stale oxygen for fucking five days, and the women were beyond livid with the lack of care shown. Wanda’s powers nearly strangled the man as she began to stew in her anger, then she caught her girlfriend’s equally as livid eyes, and so the two engaged in a silent conversation that left Tony beyond petrified, he’s certain a shiver would’ve run down his spine already had he not lost all feeling in his extremities.

Natasha turns to face the man once more, a bone chilling smirk plastered across her face., “Are you ready now moya lyubov’?,” Wanda’s suddenly soft voice called out to the woman who lived to taunt her victims, and so she winked at him for good measure before returning to the witches side with arms out., “Most definitely krasivaya.,” she purrs before kissing her lips to add to the man’s torture.

Wanda pulls back with a wide smile, then with an abrupt swish of her hands your slumped form was cradled against Natasha’s chest, and in the same second Tony’s being dropped into his previous method of containment., “No, please, anything but this… I’m too pretty to die.”, he pitifully pleads, his hands landing on the inner surface until he’s falling back with a loud screech., “Oh God, it’s wet, why is it wet?!”

Wanda laughs maniacally, her head thrown back, and Natasha finds the sight equally as amusing as Tony’s pain, the sudden thought of her in a pointy hat, and riding off into the sky on a broom earns her a glare, but it’s still worth it to imagine that her title would be so fitting., “That’s enough of that Natalia, let’s get our girl up to the room, and while you do that I’ll go to the store so I can make some homemade soup, and get her the proper items for her care.”

Natasha smiles down at your sickly form, her heart absolutely overflowing with love when you instinctually nuzzled into her embrace., “Sounds perfect.,” she beams, and the witch feels a twinge of jealousy in her heart when she hears how she plans to cuddle up to you, and with that she’s sprinting right out the door.

Tony’s pleads were reverberating off the walls of the sphere, echoing around him mockingly as Wanda added a touch of soundproofing. Friday couldn’t hear him either, so he laid there in his own misery—karma is a sexy bitch.

—

Natasha held you incredibly close, the inferno that was to touch your skin wasn’t a turn off, but the smell of you had her wincing, and it was then she realized that a bath was in order., “Dorogoy…,” she gently coo’d while shaking you, but you were deep in your sleepy state., “Honey-bunny, time to take a bath.,” she said a bit louder, smirking down when you groaned at the unwelcome, familiar nickname, and your tired eyes slowly opened to glare up at her.

After a few beats of silence you felt an urge to bury yourself back into the warmth of the woman who had her arm over you. Days in the no-no ball left you truly touch deprived, you were desperate for her offered comfort, the radiating warmth was a plus, but then your mind caught up to you, and you were nervous. You couldn’t really smell—like at all, but Nat’s hinting words, upturned nose, and with your ability to still critically think you deduced that the odor you were emitting was likely putrid.

“Tasha, why are you cuddling me?,” her smile fell, now worried she had possibly overstepped, and her heart was near to breaking at the budding potential of your future rejections., “Don’t pretend that I don’t smell like a rat who just ran through a dumpster fire.,” she laughed, partially in relief, then she booped your nose., “Well, at least you’d make a cute rat…,” her lips curling as your croaky giggles filled the space.

Not a second later though was she sitting you both up and slamming her hand into your back to aide you as a set of rather brutal, dry coughs worked hard to tear your throat right apart. Her heart then breaking in two when she saw the fresh tears streaming down your face, and when your body naturally slumped against her she realized she’d need to aide you in bathing. With a gentle smile only reserved for you, and her longtime love she settled you back down., “I’m going to run you a tepid bath dorogoy.,” and after she sweetly kissed your clammy forehead she was off to do just that.

Staring up at the ceiling as you waited you were left to wonder where the redheads other half was at, and to also know how you even got out. You do your best to imagine their reactions, you can just picture Wanda’s head tilting, and Nat’s fists punching Tony’s stupid face, they’d always been super protective over you, and Tony’s always been a little shit so this wouldn’t even have been his first beat down over you., “What’s so funny huh?,” you peered over to see that she’d changed into a tank and shorts, the sight of her in such simple clothes always had you feeling some type of way, and her smug smirk let you know that she knew.

“Is Tony alive?,” she snorted, then let you in on his current predicament as she scoops you up., “Serves the bastard right for locking me up like that, did you see the makeshift toilet hatch?,” Natasha sees the genuine pain in your eyes, and it has her thinking she’d be up for a unique game of kickball., “Yeah, he’s a royal twat, I’m sorry he did that. Next time call us Y/N/N, and don’t even say you didn’t want to bother us.,” you huffed at her annoying ability to know exactly what you’re going to say before you do.

Natasha settled you onto the counter, and you stared at her with wide eyes when she didn’t leave after., “If you can stand without swaying I’ll go, if not, I’m staying and you can trust I’ll be nothing short of respectful.,” and as if she was the psychic you could barely take a step., “Why do you think I changed? Had to prepare myself for the splash zone.,” she teased to ease your obvious nerves, and you rolled your eyes at her lame joke.

Once you settled into the water your body jolted, the tepid water feeling far more frigid on your feverish skin, and Natasha then settled you down with a soft shove to your shoulder. True to her word, as always, she was nothing short of respectful, she even told you stories of the week gone by just to further settle your nerves. You closed your eyes, sighing in total contentment when she worked the products through your hair, and her nimble fingers massaged your scalp with a relieving purpose.

A plush robe was wrapped around your body, then with her hands over your covered hips she helped you to rebuild your strength as she guided you to your bed., “How do you feel?,” you hummed, watching in amusement as she knew exactly where to find your hoodies., “Much better Natty, thank you for helping.,” She said nothing, her eyes telling you that your words were actually offensive, and so you averted your gaze elsewhere.

Wanda entered the room just as Natasha was helping to ease a shirt over your raised arms, your exposed back more than she bargained for, not that she was complaining, she was actually just jealous of Natasha’s better angle. Just as she was about to make a snarky remark you’d turned to face her, and the way you reached out for her with a goofy smile had it instantly fading from her brain., “Not fair!,” Natasha grumbled, but she was ignored by all present parties.

Wanda settled your tray onto the desk, then she lifted your partially dressed form off the bed, and into a tight hug., “I do all the work, and you get all the glory.,” you giggle as the scary assassin throws a tantrum over your affections., “You’re free to join Natty.,” and even though Wanda glares at her to back off she throws her arms around the both of you, and drags you guys down onto the mattress.

“Be careful with our precious honey-bun.,” Wanda teases, you groan and try to push them away, but in your weakened state it’s pointless., “Be real, you couldn’t even get us off in your healthiest form.,” the witch laughs and you narrow your eyes in her direction, then look over to her girlfriend with a pout., “Aww, I’m sure you could totally push Wanda off.,” she reasons, then in a thoughtless moment she pecks your chapped lips, and you fall back onto the bed with a brain turned to absolute mush., “Great going Nat, you broke her…,” Wanda turns your face by way of your chin, then she pecks your lips next to get the message across.

“Not exactly how we’d planned to ask you out, but Y/N, we’d really love a chance to do so.,” The room remains silent for what feels like hours, but your thoughts were loud, and the witch was semi grateful for the front row seat to your panicked debating., “Honey, your soup is getting cold, and my patience is running low. Stop worrying, nothing will change, besides the fact that we’ll be able to love you openly now.,” You prop yourself up on your elbows, searching her eyes to find the truth, and once you find it you lay back down with a tired smile., “Ooh, and we’ll get to kiss you whenever we want, which is always if you were ever wondering.,” Natasha adds, and you wheeze., “You two are probably going to get sick now…”

They both shrug, and in perfect mental synchrony Natasha yanks you up, ignoring your shocked squeals that bridge the line of coughs as she pulls your back flush to her front, and a spoon pushes at your mouth., “Open up love bug, the faster you eat, the quicker we can get you medicated and settled in between us.,” you waste no time obeying her command, and she winks, “Such a good girl…,” her incredulous laughter at your widened eyes has you attempting to shrink away but Natasha as an unavoidable barrier leaves you stuck., “Stay still detka, no need to earn a punishment so soon…,” both of them share a smirk when you gulp down the soup, and settle yourself.

—

Wanda and Natasha took turns cuddling up to you while the other took a shower, and though you tried to stay awake you were still sick, so when Nat came out in your clothes you weren’t even able to appreciate the sight, but she was. Wanda was humming a Sokovian lullaby while running her hand through your soft hair, her other was mindlessly tracing figure eights over your exposed hip, and with her eyes still closed she rolls her eyes then whispers to not disturb you., “Stop being such a creep, and climb in so that we can start the Dick Van Dyke show.”

Natasha furrows her brow at the show named., “Go ahead and start without me moya lyubov’, I have some balls to kick.,” she too whispers, leaning over you to kiss her girlfriend’s lips, then she settles one to your temple when she pulls back, then she winks at Wanda’s offended face, and effortlessly avoids the thrown pills., “Better yet, sleep on the damn couch!,” you stirred slightly, but with a few seconds of humming you were back to peacefully sleeping. “Goodnight our sweet girl, we love you.,” and within only a few minutes Wanda was out too, the mission having finally caught up to her now that you were in much better conditions.

—————————————————

[cqsuanla]

fury shakes the rafters

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. And that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

(inspired by jennifer’s body)

additional notes: mommy kink, dom/sub, bloodplay(?), dacryphilia, uhh pussy spanking, choking, unhealthy relationship, terrible aftercare

title from a song suggested by an anon: nobody by the crane wives

(ao3)

The light in the stairwell flickers, but it doesn’t make a difference, dim and dirty as it is. It buzzes distantly in your ears. You’re too focused on taking the steps two at a time to notice. You hold your groceries to your chest and fish your keys out of your pocket. If you were strong like Nat, you might just have knocked the door clean of its hinges with the force of your body. Instead, it crashes loudly into your wall, and you nearly fall on your face from the momentum. 

In a bid to gain purchase on your wall, you sweep your coat rack over, and you stumble over it. The clatter makes you wince — you hope she’s in a good mood. It’s hard for her to process stimuli when she’s weak. You scramble onto your hands and knees, shoving scattered boxes and cans into the grocery bag. 

Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of footsteps. You pause, exhaling as your eyes close. 

“Drink?” in a monotone. 

Yikes. You open your eyes, biting your lip. Steel-toed boots. You’ve told Nat a million times that this is a shoes-off apartment. She never listens, and you never argue more. Nat stays; she’s the only one who’ll stay. You can’t drive her away. 

Her right boot rises, scraping against the floor, and you flinch. It just kicks a cereal box away so it can nudge at the shopping bag. The way she says your name, evenly, firmly, has you blinking rapidly, has your hands automatically shooting to the bag, following her prompt. Thank god the bottles are fine. You don’t know what you’d do if they had shattered. 

You wiggle a beer out of the pack, and only then do you dare to make eye contact. 

“Hi,” you murmur. 

She gives you a brief glance, impassive, before snatching the bottle from your hand and returning to her spot on the armchair. “That fucking coat rack.” She flicks the cap off your side table, grungy and scratched up for this very reason. The cap bounces off the wall and disappears under the couch. “Just move it further in. You never listen.” 

You did, weeks ago. You don’t say so. 

The coat rack came with the place, and it was nice, so you refused to get rid of it. Nat hated it, hated that it was so close to the door in your already bite-sized entryway, but never enough to throw it out herself. But you did move it because her complaints were valid, and you wanted her to like being here with you, living here with you. Anyway, she stopped complaining afterwards. Not that you think she noticed — you supposed it was a minor inconvenience to her, the way a fly was, annoying when it was in your face but non-existent once it stopped bothering you. 

Quietly, you move your groceries to the kitchen island, putting everything but your new medical supplies away. There are dirty plates in the sink, which you’ll wash after you make yourself dinner. You wonder what she’s eaten – you’d just bought two new steaks, but Nat likes a bowl of strawberry ice cream now and then.

The TV channel switches in the background. Nat snorts, and you peek around the wall to catch a report on the gruesome series of murders that have been happening lately. People in the neighbourhood hardly went out anymore, too afraid of the dark now. It would scare you too if you weren’t well aware you’d never fall victim. Nat was with you, after all, and you were with her. 

You would be with her for as long as she’d let you. So, what if she was the monster in the dark? So what? It was Nat. Your Nat. She came back to you, talked to you, fucked you. It’s not like she was disembowelling you in some grimy alleyway. She kept most of the violence away from you because she cared. Anyway, like everyone else, she had to eat. You couldn’t fault her for that. 

You’re pulling the gauze out of its packaging when Nat scoffs loudly at the news. They must’ve insulted her because she clicks the TV shut, practically inhales half her bottle and flings the remote onto the couch. 

Then, she sets her sights on you, meek behind the counter, and raises an eyebrow. “Honey, the hall’s a mess. Clean it up.” 

You frown. “You’re still hurt.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll eat tomorrow, and it’ll be fine.” 

You don’t think so. The longer Nat doesn’t eat, the worse it gets. It’s how she’s in this mess in the first place. Nat’s ethereal after a feeding, next to omnipotent. But the guy she picked to eat last week turned out to be some sort of track star because he had booked it at the first sign of trouble, and she’d been forced to retreat when the sirens started blaring. The day after that, she picked a local thug as her next meal, and she’d been caught off guard by the switchblade. So, here she is: slumped on your couch and stitched up sloppily. 

Her hair is limp, skin wane and dry, and in a bad enough mood that you can basically feel it every time you’re within a two-meter radius of her. 

Her physical weakness emboldens you a little, makes you think you can get away with a bit of stubbornness. You pick up the gauze and tape and round the corner. A car speeds by, high beam making Nat’s eyes glint a deep green in the dark. The green follows you the whole way until she has to crane her head around to watch you slip her tank top off a shoulder. 

Those eyes weren’t like that before when you first started dating. You don’t mind the changes, though. Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. 

“You don’t want to listen?” she asks, almost conversationally. 

You know better. You clench and unclench your fist. Shakily, you lift it and tuck a hair behind Nat’s ear, hoping foolishly that it will placate her. 

“Baby,” says she, like a gentle mother to a misbehaving child, “you should really listen.” 

You trace the bumps of her stitches, staring hard at her shoulder so you won’t have to see that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

“At least answer me.” 

“No, Nat,” you mutter, undoing the bandages on her bicep. “I don’t want to listen.”

To her credit, she lets you fix her up. Methodically, silently, you clean her wounds and rewrap them in new bandages. She doesn’t get in the way unless it’s to take a swig of her drink. 

When you’re done with her arms and back, you move to her front. She’s got an ugly gash on her calf, bruised midway from where the man had kicked her bleeding leg. You imagine this is causing her the most pain, not just physically. Nat’s not great with sitting still. She’s independent to a fault, enjoying control to the point that it’s probably some sort of diagnosable complex, and this restriction on her mobility has her restless and irritated. 

Looking down at her, at the space between her knees, you wonder if she’ll cooperate with you. The last time you tried to clean her leg, she’d torn your duvet in half and has since refused to let you look at it. But Nat tilts her head, coy, and gestures toward the space in front of her with her bottle. 

“Scared?” she whispers.

You glance at her face just in time to catch her tongue tracing the jagged end of a canine. Mutely, you shake your head. She smiles wide.

“Liar.”

Of course. You’re always scared of her. For her, too. But you don’t think it matters; it doesn’t change anything. You just want to help her, be good for her. Anyway, she’s trying to get a reaction out of you. You refuse to take the bait, raising your eyebrows and wiggling the bandages in your hand.

“Fine.” With a roll of her eyes, she parts her legs. 

As if dealing with a feral animal, you move slowly, cautiously, afraid to make sudden movements lest she starts getting violent. You squat down and reach for the cuff of her sweatpants. 

“Ah, ah.” She slides the leg back, staring down her nose at you. You pause. “Kneel, baby.” 

Her eyes — did the ring of green get thinner? Your lips part, anticipation beginning to seep into your body, and you comply. Once you’re settled, looking up at her, she makes that same careless gesture with her bottle. A go-ahead. 

As you work, she shifts to put her beer on the table and then combs a hand into your hair. You tense, eyeing her nervously, but she only watches you, imperious, intense, and remains silent. Nevertheless, you pick up the pace, tossing the antiseptic aside and winding the gauze around her pale calf. 

She’s startlingly warm under your hands. Ever since… whatever happened to her — she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details — she’s run hotter than ever. You can’t sleep under a blanket with her anymore unless you’re shirtless; the heat would be unbearable. Not that Nat has any complaints about that. 

“All done,” you murmur. 

The lack of reaction from Nat gives you the courage to lean forward and press a sweet kiss to the top of her knee. The hand in your hair rewards you with a gentle scratch, and you can’t help melting into a smile. She’s still got that air of arrogance about her when you look up at her, but she’s not glaring. Which is why it comes entirely as a surprise when she clenches a fistful of hair in her hand, yanking your head back, and slaps you clean across the face with her other hand. 

You take the full brunt of her palm with a cry, almost toppling over were it not for the grip on your hair. Your cheek burns, and so does your eyes. Mostly from pain, partly from the shock of it, maybe a little from shame when you realize you’re getting wet from the rough treatment. 

Nat tuts. “Crying already?” 

You imagine you look pretty pathetic on your knees for her, eyes glassy.

“Don’t give me those eyes, baby; you know I can’t help myself.” 

“I just wanted to help.” 

“I know,” Nat says gently, tipping your head back again so you can see the false sincerity on her face. “You can fix this, you know?” 

Your eyebrows furrow, thoughts racing a mile a minute to puzzle out what she means. 

“Don’t think so hard. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll show you how, dumb baby,” she coos as she nudges your chin with the knuckle of her finger, and you can’t help flushing deeply at that. Then, she offers a hand, and you take it, and she tugs you up into a straddle on her lap. “Come here.” 

You instinctively wind your arms around her neck, clinging on. Beneath you, she tenses and lets out a low rumbling sound that resonates deep in her chest. You inhale sharply. 

Teeth. Sharpened to deadly points. Poised over your neck. Nat’s breath comes short and hot against your skin, and her tongue, when it peeks out, drags wetly across your skin. 

This has happened once before; the first night she’d come back changed. Like before, she noses at your flushed skin, teasing you with the possibility of damage, and trails her teeth down to your traps. Back then, she hadn’t bitten you. She won’t now, you think, you hope. 

She sighs again, hovering over the meat of your shoulder and prodding her teeth against you. Doesn’t break the skin. 

“Don’t make it worse for yourself. Are you scared?” 

This time, you nod. Nat’s lips curve into a smile, and her hold on your thighs tighten enough to bruise. 

“You should listen, sweetheart,” she says against you. The front of her teeth scrapes over you when she speaks, leaving red marks behind. “I hurt you less when you’re good. Don’t you know?”

“How can you be in the mood?” you wonder, burying your face into the crook of her neck. “You’re half dead.”

“Barely.”

It would take a lot more to kill Nat like this. Anyway, how could you be in the mood when your girlfriend’s cut up like this? 

Nat stands abruptly, ignorant to your yelps and complaints, and dumps you back onto the couch in quick succession. Before you can even register what’s happened, she’s yanked your bottoms down to your ankles and has climbed between your legs. 

Even after that, you don’t get the chance to speak. She wraps her hand around your throat and pins you to the cushions. You grab onto her wrist.

Her body bears down, and you break into a sweat, in small part due to nerves, some part because she’s shoving her hand up your shirt to grab roughly at your bra, but mostly because she’s near scalding. You’re convinced her blood runs at a constant boil now. You’ve grown to love the heat, though. With her, pleasure comes white-hot, and you’d want it no other way. 

“Nat-”

“No,” she growls, and you get an eyeful of her monstrous teeth. She flexes both hands, cutting off your airway and squeezing your breast painfully. You whimper, wound tight as a coil. “Listen to me, baby.”

You look at her through hazy eyes. 

“Those eyes again. God, I love you like this.” Foolishly, your heart clenches at those words. She rucks your shirt up and claws her nails down your front. Beads of blood bloom from the thin scratches she leaves behind. “You’re beautiful when I hurt you.”

Her hand nearly crushes your throat closed, but then she releases you, and you suck air in desperately. Your hands, shaken off her arm, reach for the sides of her head. “Nat,” you croak, tasting the salt from your tears on your lips. “Nat.”

She shakes her head, descending on your chest. It hurts – badly. “Be good for mommy.”

“Mommy,” you gasp out, arching into her mouth. She ignores your pert nipples, electing instead to lick and suck at the burn between your breasts. “Please, please.”

“Shut up,” she hisses. Oh, her teeth are still out. “Hands above your head.”

You obey, another sad sound crawling out of your abused throat. 

The dark pits of her eyes drink in the sight of you, face crumpled in pain and need. A thumb wipes up the last of your blood, and she delights in smearing it across your cheek. 

“Messy baby, clean up after yourself. It’s basic,” she chides, thumb still rubbing at your face as if she were fixing up some runny mascara. “Be good now.”

You don’t dare to speak, just nod and look pleadingly up at her. Your core aches from neglect. 

She makes quick work of that, reaching down to feel the slick between your thighs. Humming, she smirks and very deliberately rubs her middle finger over your clit. You jerk up into her, mouth falling open even as you strangle your moan. 

“I could do anything to you, and you’d still want me.” 

Again, you nod. 

“Where did my little liar go?” she baits. You shake your head. “Say ‘thank you, mommy, for letting me breathe.’”

It takes you a moment to gather the brain cells and say: “Thank you, mommy.”

Her smile widens, teeth back to normal. “Again, for the lesson.”

“Thank you, mommy.”

She brings her hand down on your cunt, full strength. You scream, jolting away from her. Well, you would have if she hadn’t pressed you down by the chest, entirely uncaring about the wound she’d left there. Tears leak out the sides of your eyes, trickling into your hairline. 

“Thank me for that too,” she demands.

“Thank you,” you cry around a hiccup. 

One more spank, and another, and another. Your legs kick uselessly against the cushions, body twisting after every awful smack.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Your hole clenches around nothing, slick leaking onto the couch. Then, two fingers dip into you, and Nat thrusts them up hard and fast. She’d shoved them in on a contraction, and it hurts for a second before she’s curling her fingers into the velvet of your walls. 

She makes a pleased sound. “Tight as always. Makes me want to tear you in half, baby.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Th-” She starts up a fast pace, digging her fingertips into your front wall. “Thank you!”

Her cheek rests on your chest, listening to the thunder of your heart. “We should try that big one.” Impossibly, your heart rate quickens at the thought, and you manage to shake your head. She laughs, the sound sharp and cruel, and music to your ears. “Maybe another time then.”

She sits up then, still working her fingers into your cunt, and moves her other hand to your mons. She pets gently over your labia, a sharp contrast to the vicious pace she’s keeping up. Your head spins. 

“My baby,” she breathes, “good enough to fucking eat.”

But she parts your folds to press her fingers into your clit, circling them once, twice, thrice, and you’re so close. So desperately close. 

She leans down, near delicate in her movements, and licks into your mouth. You taste copper and beer and the faintest sweetness. Urgently, you try to kiss back. 

If she’s mean, she’d pull back and deny you the chance to come with her mouth on yours. 

She must think that you’ve suffered enough, though, because she rubs her thumb at your clit and drives her fingers deeper into you, and you push up as far as you can into her body with a scream. You’re swallowed in molten heat, pleasure stripping away at you until you’re just bones on the couch. 

When you come to, Nat’s pulling out some bandages for your chest. You’re too tired to do or say anything, forced into silence by her dominance. 

She smiles at you, still not kind, but it doesn’t look bestial like before. Maybe just self-satisfied. She strokes your sweaty hair as she fixes you up, shushing you if you moan quietly from aftershocks or pain. You are in a lot of pain, bruised and scratched up as you are.

“Good girl,” she says when she’s done. 

Finally, you muster the energy to grab her hand and say, “Thank you.”

She lets you hold on for a few seconds before pulling away. “Sure.”

You wish she’d hold you for a bit, but you don’t vocalize it. She’s been through too much in the last few days; you shouldn’t burden her—

“Don’t be fucking needy,” she says, suddenly and harshly. Your face must have given you away. 

“I don’t mean to be,” you mutter, bringing your arm up to cover your eyes. Feeling stupid, feeling mad that you feel stupid, you say: “It would just be nice if you’d stay for a bit.”

A hand grabs your arm, yanking it away from your head, and you’re treated to a view of her scowl. “Where would I go?”

You didn’t mean it that way, but you don’t know how to get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself. “I-I don’t know.”

Out of nowhere, her hand slaps your cunt again, overstimulated, sore, puffy. You groan, curling in on yourself and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Fuck, Nat.”

She takes the opportunity to sit down on the end of the couch, where your legs once were. The TV turns back on, and you hear her take a sip from her can of beer. “Clean up the hall later.”

At least she stayed.

[scuttling]

Paper Rings

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 10,191 Tags: SFW, Fluff, Literature, Friends to lovers, Everyone thinks they're dating, There was only one bed, Some angst with a happy ending, Confessing love in the rain, TW fire and blood/wound Summary: Some of my favorite tropes rolled into one cute fic inspired by Taylor Swift's Paper Rings. (lyrics and music) Link to A03 or read below! “Good morning, my friendly neighborhood crime fighters,” Penelope says as she enters the briefing room, wearing a dress that is bright bubblegum pink, with fingerless gloves and glasses to match. You, Derek, and Spencer groan your replies, because you just got home from a case last night, with less than seven hours between arriving at your apartment and returning to the office, and that is everyone’s least favorite thing.

You can’t deny that her typical sunny disposition makes you smile a little bit brighter, but you’re still exhausted, and even your usual extra large travel mug of breakfast blend is barely taking the edge off.

That’s probably why, when Aaron enters with trays of steaming espresso drinks from the cafe down the street, and a striped box of donuts, you act like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Oh my god, I love you. Thank you, I love you.” He got an array of basic drinks based on everyone’s usual orders, and you scan for one that has something with latte, but he takes one out and hands it to you, smiling when you take a sip and sigh—okay, he’s smiling with his eyes, but you are well versed in his body language and facial expressions, and he’s practically grinning at getting your order (triple one pump hazelnut extra hot latte) correct.

You are not the only one to notice.

“Get a room, you two; it’s just coffee,” Derek says, taking the white mocha from the tray and drinking half of it in one sip. “Now if you tell me there’s a bear claw in there, I’ll confess my undying love too.”

“I don’t know; I asked for an assortment,” he says, and it’s clear he did, but your cup has your name on it; you cover the ink with your hand and take another grateful sip. “I do know there’s a plain glazed in there, though,” he says a bit lower, just for you, and you smile, give his wrist a squeeze, and dive for it before Jennifer Jareau can get her hands on it.

That’s all the morning meeting consists of—bickering and bantering and caffeine and carb consumption—and when the group disperses, you follow Aaron to his office and sit down in the chair across from his.

“Thanks again for breakfast. You definitely raised the morale of the troops,” you say with a sip of your perfect latte, and he shares the hint of a smile.

“You’re welcome. It helps that you’re all so easy to appease.” He flips open his bag, pulls out a small, worn, paperback book, tosses it toward you. You pick it up, run your hand over the well-loved cover, and hum.

“The Call of the Wild—this made it into the Aaron Hotchner Nightstand Collection?” He arches a brow.

“It’s so overrated that it’s underrated; no one ever actually reads it, they just assume they know what it’s about. It’s a great book, if you’ll give it a chance.”

“Hey, you’ve read all of mine without complaint; of course I’ll give it a chance.” You take the last, sad sip of your latte and stand up, point out the door with your thumb. “Speaking of, mine’s still downstairs on my desk. I’ll be right back.”

Exchanging books started as an offhand comment one night, on a flight home from Georgia, when he’d mentioned that he never buys new books, only cycles through the same ten or twelve he’s been reading since college. He knows what he likes, finds something different in the text each time he reads, and you’d found something so profoundly beautiful about that that you’d asked for the list. You wanted to know more about the books that tug at his emotions enough that he’s read them day in and day out for over twenty years with no boredom in sight.

He’d done you one better, said he’d be happy to lend them to you, if you’d like, and that was an offer you couldn’t refuse. Seeing college-aged Aaron’s notes in the margins of battered paperback novels was a prospect too good to be true.

Of course, you couldn’t accept the gesture without returning one of your own, so you’d offered to share your favorite books with him too, only... you don’t exactly give him your favorite books. You purposefully buy the cheesiest romance novels you can get your hands on, pass them off to him while he hands you poignant, classic novels that have won literary awards and Nobel prizes.

Today’s is called Lord of Scoundrels, complete with a shirtless man on the cover, kissing a woman with dark, flowing hair and a light blue dress; you snicker the whole way to your desk and back up to his office—earning curious glances from the rest of the team—and when you drop it on the desk in front of Aaron, you watch closely for a reaction.

As usual, he doesn’t really give you one, just flips the book over, skims the summary on the back, and nods.

“Sounds interesting,” he says, and your heart does a little flip.

He could easily hand the book back, laugh in your face, refuse to read something so clearly out of his wheelhouse, but he thinks these novels are important to you, and he never fails to read them, offering his favorite parts the same way you do for his.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t.

“I think you’ll really like it. Sebastian and Jessica start out kind of indifferent toward each other, but the more they interact, the more they find they have in common. It’s very acquaintances to friends to lovers, if you’re into that.” He looks up with an expression you place as uncertainty, even if you’re not quite sure the reason for it. You smile softly. “I should get to work, but thanks for the book. I’ll see you at lunch?”

It’s been so nice lately that you started taking your lunch outside, sitting on a bench beneath a huge, shady oak tree, and Aaron had taken to doing the same; you both quickly realized it was stupid to sit outside together, apart, so you meet up in the bullpen now and walk out side by side, spend the hour talking about your books or the team or Jack or life in general. He shakes the uncertain expression, nods his head.

“Of course. Thank you,” he says with a wave of the book, and you head back downstairs to start your day.

You’ve become mostly accustomed to the feeling, but it still surprises you a little when all that gets you through the day is thinking about your next conversation with Aaron. A week later, you’re on a case in Pittsburgh, and you and Aaron are paired up to room together. That’s nothing unusual—it seems like you’ve been rooming together more often than not lately, which is fine by you; he’s tidy, quiet, always interested in a late night snack, pretty much the perfect roommate—but when he opens the door and you step inside, the single king size bed in the middle of the room takes you by surprise.

“Uh… do you think it’s a mistake? Or maybe they just ran out of doubles?” you suggest; he's kind of frozen in place, and while it’s not ideal, you know it’s not actually going to be a problem. You’ve shared a bed with JJ before, and Spencer, and even though you don’t feel the same way about them as you do about Aaron, you think you can manage a couple nights in close quarters.

“Probably just ran out of doubles,” he agrees after a moment; he doesn’t bring up calling the front desk to ask for another room, so you don’t either, just hang your clothes and head into the bathroom to change into your pajamas and do your nightly routine.

It’s a little awkward at first, and you don’t know why; over the last six months or so, he’s actually become your closest friend on the team, and conversation usually comes easily, but silence settles over the room uncomfortably as you slip between the sheets on your side of the bed.

He goes into the bathroom, does his own nightly routine, then comes out in his pajamas and turns on CNN.

You take out your book, pay no attention to Aaron, but the longer he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the news ticker on the television screen but not actually watching it, the more you wish he’d just get over himself and come to bed. If he’s trying to wait for you to fall asleep, he’s going to be waiting a while.

“So you were right; I love Buck,” you say as a way to start some conversation, to bring some normalcy to this unusual situation. You hold up the book you’re reading, the one he let you borrow. “His struggle between remaining loyal to his owner and answering the call of the wild—I love dogs, but I never imagined a book about a dog could be so moving.”

He turns back with a soft smile, then switches off the tv and heads over to his side of the bed; he pulls back the comforter, slides between the sheets, meets you toward the middle of the bed.

“I told you you’d like it; what chapter are you on?” He leans over to look, so close it wouldn’t take much to lift a hand and brush it over his hair; it looks unfairly soft, and part of you wants to card your fingers through it, to tug on it and mess it up a little. He probably wouldn’t even mind if you did.

“Chapter 7—I only have a few pages left.” You snuggle more comfortably against your pillow, lean into his shoulder, and move the book so it’s more evenly between you. “Want to finish it with me?”

He does, and you read silently at a similar pace; he reaches up to turn the pages, and you think about how these hands have flipped through this book so many times before, what he might have been thinking, feeling, while reading. It’s a more intimate act than you’ve shared with anyone in a really long time.

When you finish the book, you sigh, let the feeling of reading a really great story envelope you; you turn to face Aaron, and he’s looking at you… and then there’s a knock at the door that startles you both.

He gets up, walks over and checks the peep hole, then opens the door.

“Are you sure?” you hear JJ ask, and he steps back so she can enter the room; when she sees you tucked snugly into the middle of the bed, she shoots you a soft smile and mouths you’re welcome, which makes absolutely no sense without context. You’ll have to bring it up to her later and ask what exactly you’re supposed to be thanking her for.

“So you said the detective called?” Aaron prompts her, and she looks away from you, nods.

“Yes, he wanted me to ask if we could have a few agents meet him at the second crime scene tomorrow instead of the precinct, figured it could save a little time.” Aaron looks confused, like he doesn’t see why this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, but he ultimately agrees.

“Sure. You, Reid, and Prentiss can head straight there, if that’s what he wants. I’ll let them know in the morning.” JJ nods, and looks over at you, and then back at Aaron, who makes a kind but curious face. “Was there something else?”

“Huh? Oh, no, that’s it. I just didn’t want to forget. I’ll let you guys go—enjoy the rest of your night,” she says with a smile and a wave, and when he closes the door behind her, you both exchange a look.

She’s definitely acting a little weird, but it’s late, so you give her the benefit of the doubt.

You scoot over to your side, put the book on the nightstand and switch off your lamp; Aaron climbs back into bed and switches his off, too, and he turns to face the wall while you lay on your back and stare at the ceiling.

It takes about half an hour, but he falls asleep first; you turn to face him, watching his back, following the rise and fall as he softly breathes in sleep, and the peaceful rhythm lulls you into submission, and you drift off as well.

When you wake up a couple hours later, he is on his stomach with his face pressed into his pillow, and you are draped over his back with your cheek against his t-shirt. It’s soft, and warm, and smells like him, and you glance at the clock and realize it’s too early to do anything but get comfortable and fall back asleep, so that’s exactly what you do.

The next time you wake up, to light creeping in between the curtains, Aaron is no longer in bed, but you’re holding his pillow, still warm beneath your cheek. He doesn’t act weird when you get up and start moving around, just pops out of the bathroom with his toothbrush dangling from his mouth.

“Got you a latte,” he says around it, gesturing to the desk and the pair of paper cups that sit on it, and you grin.

“Seriously, you’re my favorite human,” you answer, and you grab your coffee and lean against the doorframe, sipping and sighing until you’re a little more clear-headed. “Sorry if I crushed you; guess I was restless last night. I usually don’t move around that much.”

He just shrugs, spits out a mouthful of foam into the sink.

“You didn’t crush me. I’m pretty solid, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease, looking at him over the lid as you take another sip. “Now hurry up and quit hogging the bathroom if you want to leave here at a decent hour.” He rinses, zips up his toiletry bag noisily for dramatic effect, and slips past you, rubbing a hand over your unruly bed head as he goes. The day passes quickly, with lots of interviewing witnesses, following dead-end leads, and bad police station coffee. When Aaron calls it and tells everyone to get some dinner, you all split off into smaller groups—Spencer and Derek go for Chinese, JJ and Emily opt for pizza, and you and Aaron end up at a retro diner with burgers and milkshakes and a plate of fries between you to share.

“I think we should be focusing more on the docks,” you say, dipping a fry in ketchup and taking a bite. “Even if that’s not where the bodies end up, it seems to be where the unsub is meeting with the victims. We could stake it out tonight, maybe. If you want.” You never want to step on his toes, because he is the boss, the leader, even if you’re friends too; you try to be careful how you phrase things, especially in front of other people, because you don’t want your comfort to look like disrespect, however unintentional.

“That’s a good idea. You and I can head down there after this; I’ll let the others know to patrol nearby, in case we need backup.”

He dusts off his fingers and pulls out his phone, types out a text, and you look around the restaurant—the place looks like it was ripped right out of the 50s, with a checkered floor and lots of red vinyl, a shiny jukebox in the corner. Out of place is a flatscreen tv behind the counter; during the day, when it’s busier, it might play news or sports, but you two are the only ones here at the moment, so the staff is hanging out beneath it watching a movie. It’s Titanic, you realize, when the iconic ‘Rose floating on a piece of debris’ scene plays, and you snort, take a long drag of your chocolate shake.

“I always hated this part. They could have found a way for him to survive, too. Unnecessary death for the heartache factor,” you say, and Aaron looks up from his phone to the screen, makes a sound of contemplation.

“I always thought it was kind of romantic. When you love someone, you’d do anything for them to be okay, even at your own expense. Even if it’s stupid.” You look over his face, study the features you know like the back of your hand, and you guess you can kind of see that, but you can’t say that, so you just sigh.

“I suppose you think Romeo and Juliet is romantic, too,” you tease, and he looks back at you, rolls his eyes.

“It’s very much of its time; it's a lot harder to suffer a miscommunication like that these days. And there is something to be said for star-crossed lovers—people who shouldn’t be together, for one reason or another, but can’t help but drift close anyway.” You swirl your straw in the metal cup, thinking briefly of how that happens to describe the two of you, and when you look up at him, you think you see a hint of that same thought on his face.

More likely, that’s just wishful thinking.

“I like the sword-fights,” you say to lighten the mood, and he laughs, and you both polish off the rest of your food and then head for the docks.

Two hours in and absolutely nothing has happened, but just when you’re ready to complain, or suggest playing I Spy or something, there’s movement from one of the shipping containers to your right. You nudge Aaron, point to the container, and you both creep closer, trying to make out the situation.

When you’re just around the corner, it’s clearly two men fighting, but you obviously don’t know if this is your unsub, two random guys having it out on the docks, or what, so you mutually agree to wait until you have some kind of sign that this is your guy. When one of them pulls out a hunting knife that looks vaguely similar to your murder weapon—as close as you can tell in the dark, anyway—you raise your guns and identify yourselves as FBI.

The unsub drops the knife, but fists his hands in the other guy’s jacket, manhandles him to the edge of the dock, and shoves him into the water, then jumps as well. You swear, and Aaron takes off his jacket, throws it on the ground, then his phone on top of it, and looks back at you.

“Stay here and call for backup,” he instructs, and then he jumps in too; you call the team from your comms, get a response from Emily, and then toss your phone onto Aaron’s jacket and follow him.

He, of course, went for the victim first, so you look for the unsub, who is not visible above the water. You completely submerge yourself, feeling for more than looking for him, because the water is cloudy on a good day and pitch black at ten o’clock at night; when you pop your head up for air, you see Aaron getting the victim up onto the dock, and the unsub bobbing a bit further out. You swim to him, limbs aching, and he seems to know it’s time to give up.

He’s winded, gasping for breath, so you keep him above the water to your own detriment, dragging him by his wet jacket instead of cuffing him, because you’re not trying to kill the guy or lug his unconscious body back to shore. You just barely keep your own head above water most of the time, coming up for big gulps of air when absolutely necessary.

You finally make it to the dock, and your team has arrived, so Derek pulls him out of the water, makes sure he’s alright, and puts some cuffs on him. Aaron’s hands are on you right after, getting you up on the dock, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.

Despite the warm spring breeze, the water was freezing, and you can feel your teeth chattering. He rubs your arms for warmth, crouches down to look you seriously in the eyes.

“Thought I told you to stay here,” he says with an arched brow, a scowl you can tell is more concerned than angry. You wet your frozen lips and try your best to smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack.”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot, but fondly, if that’s possible, then hugs you so tightly, guides your face to press against his warm neck. How he’s not teetering on the edge of hypothermia is anyone’s guess.

“Your lips are practically blue. Stupid,” he murmurs, but his mouth dusts over your temple in what is unmistakably a kiss, and when you’re able to feel your lips again, you reciprocate, press them a little harder against his throat while you shiver in his arms.

It doesn’t mean anything except I’m happy we’re both alive. Probably.

That night in bed, he faces the wall, and you stare at the ceiling, but you wake up with your nose against the back of his neck. The way he’s breathing tells you he’s not asleep, and when you wrap your arms around him, he holds them tight. Things don’t change after Pittsburgh, and that’s okay. You are comfortable with the way things are, and you love what you have—lunches under the oak tree, the exchange of books, late night texts when you both can’t sleep, hands brushing when you walk to the parking garage, glances shared across the jet. All those things make it easy not to focus on what you don’t have, what you’re not even sure Aaron would want anyway.

You exchange books again on Friday at lunch: he hands you Beloved by Toni Morrison, a book you already know and adore, and you hand him Ravished by Amanda Quick.

“Dubbed the Beast of Blackthorne Hall for his scarred face and lecherous past, Gideon,” Aaron shoots you a glance—“that’s purely coincidental”—“was strong and fierce and notoriously menacing. Yet Harriet could not find it in her heart to fear him. For in his tawny gaze she sensed a savage pain she longed to soothe... and a searing passion she yearned to answer.”

You hold back a smile.

“It’s a modern retelling of a classic story—Beauty and the Beast,” you add, taking a bite of your sandwich. He looks you over like there’s something he wants to say, but he just tucks it under his arm and steals a piece of melon from your lunch.

“I have Jack this weekend, so I probably won’t get to read much, but it sounds intriguing.”

“Well I hope you like it when you read it. Tell him I said hi; it’s been too long since I saw him. I bet he’s looking more like you every day,” you say, popping a piece of melon into your mouth. He smiles softly.

“A little, but Haley says she sees her father in him, and I have to agree. We may have to wait a few years until he looks like me; he’s too cute for that now.” He doesn’t sound self-deprecating, just fond, but you can’t let a comment like that stand, regardless.

“You’re cute; the difference is that kids are cute all the time. You’re an adult, so sometimes you’re handsome, sometimes you’re cute, sometimes you’re hot… it can be hard to reconcile.” This time, he looks you over with something light and playful in his eyes, and it’s something you want to explore, but the timer on your phone goes off, indicating that lunch is over, so you just exhale softly and pack up your things.

You don’t talk much after that—his Fridays are usually busy with meetings, and he leaves in a hurry to pick up Jack, which is understandable.

Emily, JJ, and Penelope invite you out for drinks and dinner—“because we know Hotch is busy,” Penelope says, which has literally nothing to do with your weekend plans, but you don’t correct them—so you don’t linger either.

You go out for Italian, so you are sleepy and full of wine and pasta by the end of the evening, and you smile at your friends.

“Thanks for inviting me out tonight, guys. I had a really good time.”

“Of course,” Emily says, taking her last sip of Pinot Noir. “We barely see you anymore; it was long overdue.”

“Definitely,” you agree. “I should really try to drag my ass out of bed more often.” You can’t help it, though, that after a long day, your bed and a good book just call your name. You’ve always been introverted in that way. JJ laughs softly, chin in her palm, elbow on the table.

“Honeymoon phase. Give it another couple months and you’ll be past that.” You do have a new memory foam mattress that has made sinking into the pillows and blankets all that more indulgent, but you didn’t think JJ knew about that. And you’ve never heard of a honeymoon phase for a mattress before.

“Eh, I don’t think so. There’s literally nothing more satisfying on this earth.” The three of them exchange an amused look, but your phone vibrates, and that catches your attention; you smile when it’s Aaron, sending you a photo of Jack with a toothy grin and his hands covered in fingerpaint. You look up to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.

“Alright, we’ve lost her. See you all Monday,” Emily says, pulling you in for a hug; when she steps back, she smiles. “And tell Hotch we said hi.”

“I will,” you promise as you hug the other two. You hang back a moment, type out a reply—Looks like you’re having lots of fun without me!—and get into your car to head home.

You change into comfy clothes, drink a glass of water, and climb into bed with Beloved, and at around 9:30 you receive a reply.

Having the most fun we can without you. Maybe next time Jack is over, we can tempt you with dinosaur chicken nuggets and fingerpaint?

You smile, the happiest you’ve been all night—and that’s saying something, because you really did have a great time—and send back, It’s a date. Come Monday, you’re feeling pretty good, well-rested and relaxed from probably too much time in bed, but Aaron looks upset when he walks into the morning meeting. He keeps it short and sweet, and everyone disperses quickly, giving you sympathetic looks as you hang back to try to have a word with him. He clears off the white board, tidies up the table that doesn’t need tidying, and you place a hand on his back, gentle and comforting. He sighs, and you can feel the tension leave him almost instantly.

“Hey. What’s bothering you?” you ask softly, leaning around to try to catch his expression; he looks tired, sad, and maybe a little conflicted, leans into your touch.

“Taking Jack back to Haley’s was rough last night; it always is, but yesterday was really bad.” You know a little about this from weekends past, how Jack always cries when Aaron has to leave, how he feels terrible about it for the rest of the evening, but it must have been extreme for him to still be so upset. “And Haley…” He sighs again, runs his hand through his hair. “It’s like it’s one step forward, two steps back with her sometimes.”

“Why don’t we go sit in your office and you can tell me more?” You want to continue discussing this—that’s what friends are for, and he’s clearly in a bad state emotionally, you think it could help—but he just shakes his head.

“No, I… it’s okay. I don’t want to weigh you down with my problems.” You take your hand off his back, lean a hip against the table and look up at him.

“I’m not just your friend when it’s all easy breezy, lunch in the sunshine, talking about our favorite books,” you say with a sad smile; he reciprocates a little, which is more than you expected. “I’m here when things are complicated, when you have bad days, too. The Monday blues especially.” One of his hands rests on the table, and you cover it with yours, lean in to press your forehead to his shoulder. “Let me be here, okay? Even if all you need me to do is listen.”

It takes a moment, and his eyes are wet when he finally responds; he inhales deeply, nods, and brushes his free hand over your head in something of a hug, murmurs a rough, “okay.”

You sit in his office for an hour—which, again, is more than you expected—listening to him talk about his weekend with Jack, how heartbreaking it was to take him back to Haley’s, how he tried talking to her about taking him more often and she just wasn’t sure she could trust him to do what he says he’ll do. He understands where she’s coming from, knows he’s been unable to keep his word in the past, thinks he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt; he hasn’t asked for advice, seems to just want to vent, so you just listen.

“Then I mentioned you, that you might come for dinner next time he’s over, and she was worried about that,” he says, exasperated, and you frown.

“Why would she worry about that? I’ve been around him lots of times.” It doesn't make sense, because Haley has always been nothing but sweet to you; Aaron looks up at your question, and it seems a little like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that part, though you can’t imagine why.

“It’s just different now… because he’s older,” he says after a brief moment of hesitation. “She doesn’t want him getting attached to someone who might not always be around, you know.” You sigh softly, because if that’s all it is…

You lean forward, take his hand, squeeze it tight.

“I’m always going to be around, Aaron. I can talk to her, if you want, tell her that.”

“No, it’s—you don’t have to do that.” He squeezes your hand back, closes his eyes for a beat. “Just hearing you say it, it makes things easier. I’ll talk to her again next time.”

You talk a little more, and he seems a lot better afterward, even if he is a bit less expressive during lunch; you figure any progress is good, but it makes you sad to see him so down, so naturally, you formulate a plan to help get him back to the Aaron you know and love.

At the end of the day, when he makes his way to the bullpen, you spin around in your chair, take him by the sleeve.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” you say in no uncertain tone of voice. “For a few hours. I’ll bring you back for your car.” He agrees with a fond look, and you lose yourself in the expression for a moment, then stand up, grab your things, and walk with him out to the garage.

Rush hour traffic is what it is, and you leave Aaron in charge of the music, which means you get The Beatles and The Who, Rolling Stones and Neil Diamond, and you’re both singing along and so much happier by the time you pull into the parking lot of the bodega nearest your apartment.

“Just running in for provisions—be right back,” you say with a grin, and when you return with two paper bags of loot, he looks at you like you might be his favorite person in the world with an age in the double digits. It’s a look you love putting on his face.

“Do I get to see what provisions you’ve acquired?” he asks, teasing, but you shake your head and tell him he’ll see it when you get there.

With a pit stop in your apartment to grab a blanket and a few throw pillows, you take him up to the roof and get things ready for your makeshift picnic. There is white wine, still mostly chilled; cubed cheese, far from gourmet but no less delicious; crusty french bread that was fresh this morning but at this hour is a little extra crusty; blueberries, because they didn’t have grapes; dark chocolate, because you share a fondness for it; and paper cups for the wine.

Aaron takes a look at your bounty, spread over the blanket, and smiles the first real smile you’ve seen all day.

“Fancy,” he teases, and he takes off his jacket, gets on the ground with you. You pour each of you some wine, pop a blueberry in your mouth.

“No, but I thought a meal—and I do call it that loosely—under the stars might do you some good.” You lift your paper cup and tap it against his, brush your fingers over his hand. “To the best boss, best dad, best friend I could ask for.” You take a sip, but he doesn’t at first, watches you with something simmering behind his eyes.

“Do I get to make a toast?” he asks after a few beats, and you smile, nod, and hold up your cup. “To the only person stupid enough to jump into a freezing cold river after me. To the only person I would consider eating a bodega dinner with. To the only person who sees me the way you do.” You both take a sip, which is hard to swallow around the lump in your throat. He looks into your eyes, then breaks the dark chocolate into slivers and hands you a piece like he didn’t just say the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you before.

You eat, and talk, and drink, and when you’re done with dinner you put everything back in the bags and lay back on the blanket, side by side, and stare up at the stars. The moon is high and full, shining while the stars twinkle around it, and you can’t think of a single time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“This was really perfect,” Aaron says, almost a whisper, after about twenty minutes of companionable silence. “I can’t thank you enough for being there for me today.” You turn to face him, hands curled up under your chin, and he turns toward you as well. He’s so handsome in the moonlight your heart almost aches.

“You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted to see you happy.” You feel your eyes well up with tears, because he deserves to be happy; you sigh, blink them away, and he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, rests them there for a long time. When he eventually pulls back, you bring a hand to his hair, brush it back at his temple, and then the creaking of the door makes you pull back, sit up.

It’s your neighbor from 422, who you’ve seen on the roof a handful of times, sneaking away from his wife to smoke a cigarette. He squints in the dark, recognizes you, and waves.

“Hey, 418! You’re not alone tonight.” Aaron sits up too, and you laugh softly.

“Nope, but we were just leaving. The roof is all yours.” Aaron stands, pulls you up, and you grab the blanket and pillows while he grabs the bags, and the two of you head back down to your place.

It’s after ten when you get the groceries put away, and you stand next to Aaron in your small kitchen, contemplating what you want to say next. Your mouth betrays your brain, says what you’ve been thinking but weren’t quite sure how to approach.

“It’s late; I know I said I’d take you back to your car, but you could stay here if you want. I have a spare toothbrush, and I know you have a spare suit at the office, and it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed before.”

You’d completely understand if he’d rather go home—you hate when your plans are changed at the last minute, and you prefer to do your full nightly routine for your sanity’s sake—but he only nods, and you lead your way to the bedroom, show him the master bath.

You are in your pajamas, tucked into bed, when he comes out in his boxers and undershirt; he hangs up his suit in your closet where you’d left him some space, then climbs in beside you. He looks over at you, then past you, at your nightstand, which has a stack of books on it—none of them romance novels. You grin, busted after months of book exchanges, and he leans over you to look at the titles.

“Persuasion, To Kill A Mockingbird, One Hundred Years of Solitude—Beloved.” He looks from your copy of the novel to his, which you hold in your hands, and you shrug sheepishly.

“I like reading the notes you put in the margins,” you say meekly, hoping he’s not angry, but all he does is laugh.

“Let me guess: you don’t actually like romance novels.” He leans back against your pillow, and so do you, resting the book on your lap.

“I mean, I don’t not like them… but I’ve been buying those just for you.” The smile on his face is brilliant, and only makes you yearn for him more; things you have been purposefully not feeling are flooding your heart and mind and body now, with him so close, laughing over this stupid secret you’ve been hiding for so long. “And you, sweet man that you are, have been reading them, and discussing them.” You put your hand on his shoulder, and he ducks his head to laugh again.

“Since we’re being honest… I didn’t read all of them. I tried,” he says when you act offended, shoving the shoulder you’re resting against, “but some of them were so bad. I just flipped through, found something I thought could pass as my favorite part, and hoped to hell you didn't ask too many questions.”

You both laugh until you’re breathless—he is so different from how he was this morning it makes you want to cry—and when your laughter dies down you look at each other, sharing breath, two heads on one pillow; is it any wonder you bridge the distance, pull him close for a warm, gentle kiss?

When you break the kiss, you are instantly worried about what Aaron will do—you aren’t drunk, aren’t even tipsy, so you know he can’t be, so much bigger and more solid than you, but will he think it’s a mistake? He kissed back, you’re pretty sure, but maybe that was an accident, something done on autopilot—

He leans in for a second kiss, mouth deceptively soft, and you curl your arm around his back, press into it with lips desperate not to let this end now that it’s started. When you separate, you are both looking into each other’s eyes again, breathing a bit heavily, and you meet in the middle for a third kiss, the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life.

That kiss ends when you yawn in his face, and he chuckles softly, leans over and switches off your bedside lamp; you smile at the ceiling, and he wraps his arms around you, presses his lips to your shoulder, and tells you good night. The next day, the two of you arrive at work early so he can shower and change into his fresh clothes without anyone on the team noticing—not that you think they would really care, but they’re nosy, and a little annoying, so you both agree that’s probably for the best.

You don’t talk about the kisses, even though they’ve been the only thing running through your mind since they happened; you promise to discuss it at lunch, though, and that’s such a sweet, romantic prospect that you think you prefer it better that way anyway.

Only, you don’t ever get to lunch, because there’s an urgent case in Minneapolis, an all hands on deck situation, meaning even Penelope joins you on the jet. You debrief on the flight, hunker down in the conference room, and split up to cover more ground; you barely get to speak to Aaron the whole time you’re there except to be given instructions and to fill him on what, if anything, you’ve learned.

You don’t even make it to your hotel that night, working around the clock to catch the people responsible for terrorizing the city. It takes not one, but almost two full days, and when you board the jet on Wednesday evening, everyone is dead on their feet. You barely remember the flight or the trip home, and you fall onto your bed fully clothed and crash just like that.

Thursday is your birthday, which you almost forgot, and so you assumed everyone else would too. You should have known better, because even if your team can be annoying, they are still your friends, and they love you, so you are well and truly spoiled.

You are treated to a latte and bagels from Emily, purple cupcakes with silver sprinkles from Penelope, a piggy back ride from Derek, a book of poetry you’ve had your eye on from Spencer, and a card from JJ—really, it turns out, from all of them.

“Enjoy a romantic getaway on us?” There’s some kind of certificate in the card, and when you flip it over, you discover that it’s for a hotel and spa that offers couples massages, mud baths, intimate aromatherapy? You arch a brow. “Uh, thanks, guys. Are you trying to tell me something here?” JJ’s face falls a little and she points to the card.

“It’s a romantic getaway. For you and Hotch? Since things have been so hectic lately,” she says, but your ears are kind of ringing and your brain is stuck on the for you and Hotch part.

“Oh. Um. Sorry—it’s just kind of soon, I think? How do you guys even know about that?” you murmur. The two of you haven’t had time to discuss Monday yet, and you haven’t spoken a word to anyone; you wouldn’t have guessed Aaron would have either, but there is a gift certificate for a romantic getaway in your hands, and you’re kind of spiraling.

“Well come on, we haven’t exactly been pretending we don’t know,” Emily says, and you can feel the confusion in your features when you look up at her. “And you guys haven’t been exactly secretive. We’re happy for you, though.”

“I mean, we haven’t been secretive, but we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it yet. It’s only been three days.” You are met with looks similar to the one on your own face.

“What do you mean, three days?” Spencer asks with a frown. “You and Hotch have been dating for almost two months. Right?” he says, looking at the others, and they nod, but it’s tentative. Your first reaction is to flush, and you close the card, fan your face with it.

“You guys think… You guys thought…” You look at them, then up at Aaron’s office; there’s no way he can know that you’re having a moment, but he chooses then to come downstairs, coincidentally. He’s smiling at first, but it falls when he looks at your face.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” He presses a cool hand to your hot cheek, flicks his eyes over yours, and JJ makes a noise; when you glance over at her, she’s gesturing between the two of you.

“I’m sorry, we were wrong? What were we supposed to think?” Aaron frowns, not following, and you take a deep breath.

“They got me a gift certificate for my birthday. To a spa. For you and I to have a romantic getaway, because they were under the assumption we’ve been dating… for two months.” The way he pulls back quickly makes your stomach ache a little, but you say nothing. You should have known.

“You say I love you,” Derek begins like he’s listing evidence. “You have lunch together every day. You’re always smiling at each other.”

“Seriously, some of the softest, gooiest smiles I’ve ever seen,” Penelope adds.

“You eat together on cases, you’re texting all the time when you’re not together.”

“I’ve been pairing the two of you up in hotels since I first figured out you were dating,” JJ says, and the whole ‘you’re welcome’ thing suddenly makes some sense. “I booked you that room with just the one bed so you’d maybe feel more comfortable about us knowing, so you’d see that we don’t mind.”

“You’re always looking at each other, always touching,” Spencer says. “In Pittsburgh—that was the first time you really hugged or kissed each other in front of us. We were trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but it was kind of a big deal.”

You look over at Aaron, try to gauge his reaction, but for the first time in a long time you can’t tell what he’s feeling. You can’t really tell what you’re feeling, either. Sadness. Worry. Loss? But what have you lost?

“We’re friends,” you say, even if it sounds weak to your own ears. “We’re… close.”

“We wouldn’t exactly make sense as a couple, would we?” Aaron asks rhetorically, and your heart clenches when he says that. He told you this morning that he’d made dinner plans for you, both for your birthday and to discuss the kisses, what they mean, where you go from here, but that doesn’t sound very promising anymore. “We’re just—”

“Star-crossed,” you say, but you feel like your eyes are vacant. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You’re stupid for kissing him, for letting yourself think he could feel the same way you feel, have felt for a while. Isn’t friendship enough? Don’t you already have this special bond so unlike what you have with anyone else in your life? Why press your luck? You know better than that. “We should get back to work.”

You don’t look at Aaron, so you don’t know whether or not he looks at you. JJ does, and you can tell she knows you’re upset, but she just nudges everyone on their way, and you take a seat at your desk—it’s covered in balloons and streamers, the Penelope special.

You’ve never felt less like celebrating.

At lunchtime, Aaron stops at your desk, and the two of you walk out to the bench, open your bags in silence. You’re almost halfway through the hour before he tries to speak.

“Uh. I. About earlier,” he finally gets out, looking down at his sandwich, and you shake your head even though he’s not watching you.

“It’s fine. We don’t have to.” You take a bite of your salad even though you don’t taste it. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. You are who you are,” smart, sweet, handsome, tender, caring, “and I am who I am.” Too quiet, too young, too impulsive, too silly, too emotional. He nods, looks at your face for the first time in a while, swallows.

“Right.” You’re due to exchange books back—his is on your lap, yours is on his—and he picks them both up. “I’m like this,” he says, holding up Beloved. “Faded cover, dog-eared pages, scribbles in the margins: middle-aged, divorced, a little broken, barely holding it together for the kid I don’t get to spend enough time with. You’re like this,” he says, holding up Ravished. “Fresh and glossy and shiny and new, with your whole life ahead of you, the whole world ahead of you. You could do anything, with anyone.”

You frown, because this is not what you meant, at all. How could he think that about himself, when the well-loved cover and the dog-eared pages and the scribbles in the margins are all the best parts of him?

“Aaron,” you say, but it sounds like pleading; you reach out to put your hands on his arms, but he pulls them back. His eyes are rimmed red, lips pressed together to hold back everything he’s not saying.

“I think lunch is almost over.” He packs up his things, leaves you with tears in your eyes and a wilted salad and a brand new romance novel you’re never going to read.

Later, he cancels dinner, says something came up, and you go home to your empty bed and watch Titanic and bawl your eyes out when Rose tells Jack she’ll never let go. Friday, you get another case. Weekend cases are no one’s favorite, but especially not yours, when you desperately needed that buffer of time away from Aaron to sort out your feelings and get back to some sense of normalcy. Instead, you’re flying to a small town outside of Nashville to catch a serial arsonist, and when you get to your hotel, you and Aaron are sharing a room.

At least there are two beds, this time.

You go with Emily and Spencer to a crime scene, walking around a house that was once picture perfect and is now all charred wood and ash, and you quickly tell yourself to get a grip and not look for metaphors for your own life while trying to solve a case. What kind of investigator are you? Pathetic, apparently.

You work until evening, and when it’s time to break for dinner, you buy a sad looking assortment of items from the police station vending machine and eat in the conference room by yourself.

It’s a good thing you do, because they get a call about the fire while everyone is still away, and you and a few locals are the first on the scene.

It doesn’t start out bad, mostly located in the back of the house, but you know how quickly these things can spread, and the fire department is working hard to put it out. One of the officers is talking to the family, and the mother is crying, so you come closer to figure out why.

“She said the daughter was supposed to be staying at a friend’s, but sometimes she changes her mind at the last minute and comes home. She can’t get ahold of her,” the officer says, and you nod, thinking.

“Where would she be? The front or the back?”

“Her room is in the front, second floor; if she’s here, that’s where she’d be,” the mother says, wiping her eyes with a tissue, and you tell the officer to stay with them, that you’ll take care of it. You talk to the firefighters—this town is so small there are only two that were able to respond, and they’re both busy trying to put out the fire, but they clear you to go in if you stick to the front of the building and get out of there as fast as you can.

Your team isn’t here yet either, too far out for comms to be effective, and you can’t get ahold of Aaron, so you make a judgement call and head inside.

The front of the house is so eerily normal it’s almost easy to calm your nerves and pretend the back isn’t in the process of being destroyed. You open the front door, run up the staircase, and call out for the girl; she answers, not from the front of the house, but the back—a bathroom maybe? Flames lick up the wall beside it, but you can get to the knob, and she comes rushing out, into your arms, terrified. You weren't expecting that, and you both fall back: your head hits off the floor, but she seems okay, so you tell her to run out the front door and find her mom.

You press a hand to the back of your head, and it comes back tacky with blood. There’s ringing in your ears for a couple of minutes, and then your favorite voice in the world comes through.

“Where are you? We’re here, where are you?” You’re getting hotter, and when you crane your neck up, you can see why: the fire is getting closer, creeping toward the staircase, creeping toward you. You inhale, cough, and press your walkie button.

“I’m upstairs in the hall; hit my head. It’s not safe.”

“I’m coming for you.” You groan. Stubborn man.

“It’s not safe, Aaron.” You hear the crackle of static, hope maybe he heard your warning and will wait until more firefighters arrive—but knowing him the way you do, that’s just wishful thinking. His voice rings out again, and despite the pain, you can’t help but smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack. Just stay put; I’ll be right there.” You close your eyes, drift in and out of consciousness; when you see him, all you can think is how ridiculously in love with him you are, and that you really hope you’ll be around to tell him. You are, of course, fine. Your head is the worst of it, even the smoke inhalation was mild, and the fire didn’t touch you, so there are no burns. Aaron doesn’t leave your side the entire time you’re being checked over, looks serious and concerned, though he smiles when the mother comes over and squeezes you so tightly you wince a little. It starts to rain, making the firefighters' jobs a little easier, and it feels oddly cleansing, after the day you’ve had. Someone offers you an umbrella, but you decline.

The fire is successfully put out, and the half of your team that didn’t respond to the scene responded to a call for suspicious activity, which ends up being your unsub. You are all happy no one was killed this time, and since you’re staying the night again, the group decides to grab a drink to celebrate. You don’t have a concussion, but your head still aches, so you pass, and Aaron passes with you.

You head to the hotel, park in the lot, but you don’t even make it halfway across before you stop, a hand on his arm.

“I need to say something,” you tell him, and he looks up at the dark sky like, right here? Right now?, even though you’re both already drenched. You nod, because if you don’t do this now you might never—almost dying always gives you an unhealthy amount of confidence, which you attribute to equal amounts of adrenaline and stupidity. “When we first met, I didn’t think we’d have a lot in common. We’re both quiet, but in wildly different ways, and I’m quick to trust and let people in while your guard is almost never down.”

He looks a little sad at that, and you realize you’re kind of doing what he did, putting the two of you into completely different categories, emphasizing the ways you don’t belong together. But that’s dumb, so you don’t give him time to focus on that for long.

“But being your friend, Aaron—the more time I spent with you, the more I came to feel like no one has ever understood me the way you do. No one has ever seen me the way you do.” Rain is pouring down all around you, beating against the pavement, flattening your hair against your head, but you don’t care. Regardless of his reaction, this is actually kind of perfect. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you—that was an accident, I admit. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You step closer to him, put your hands on his waist; he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t need shiny, glossy things; you're the one I want—faded cover, dog-eared pages, notes in the margins. I love you exactly as you are.”

He is gorgeous in the rain, water in his hair, dripping off his nose. His expression looks hopeful, and you pray to god that’s not wishful thinking.

“Say something, anything,” you beg, anticipation killing you, and he presses his hands to your cheeks and pulls you close for a deep, passionate, soulful kiss that says it all.

The words are nice to hear, though.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you either,” he breathes against your lips when the kiss breaks. “I told myself it was just a crush, because someone so young and beautiful was paying so much attention to me, treating me like more than just the guy giving orders. But the more time I spent with you, the more undeniable it became. You are everything good about the world—bright, optimistic, caring, funny, sweet. How could anyone not fall in love with you?”

You swallow hard, lean up to press your lips against his again.

“When you said we wouldn’t make sense as a couple…” He shakes his head.

“That was just me chickening out. After we kissed, I was all but ready to ask you to go steady,” he says, and you both smile, because he’s such an old fashioned dork, but god, do you love him. “And then we found out that the team thought we’d been together for months, and you looked freaked out, so I freaked out. I’m sorry. I should have made us talk about it sooner.”

“Classic pointless miscommunication,” you say with a laugh, and he chuckles too, kisses you again.

“Let’s go inside and get dried off; there’s a birthday gift in my bag I’ve been meaning to give you.” He takes your hand, and you head up, duck into the bathroom to change into dry clothes, squeeze the water out of your hair. There is a small, flat, wrapped present on your bed when you emerge, and you smile, sink down to open it.

It’s Romeo and Juliet, a brand new copy, but when you flip through it, there are blue inked notes in the margins. Aaron comes to sit beside you, touches your face like you’re something precious.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” he murmurs, and you smack him on the arm with the book.

“That’s from A Midsummer Night's Dream, and I know you know that,” you say with a grin. He nods in admission, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, lean in for a warm, loving kiss. When you pull back, it’s with a soft smile. “Give me my sin again?”

“My pleasure,” he whispers, and you sink into his embrace and promise never to let go. The following week, you both leave work at noon on Friday so you can enjoy your romantic getaway. You drive to the spa, and Aaron reads over the brochure on his phone with a tone you find hilarious.

“Mud bath—I’m not bathing in mud. That’s counterintuitive.”

“It’s special mud; more like clay,” you say, but he snorts, scrolls.

“Seaweed wrap—nobody is wrapping me in seaweed. That sounds like a nightmare.” You laugh softly and take your exit.

“It’s supposed to be rejuvenating. JJ recommended it.”

“JJ weighs fifty pounds. It would take all the seaweed in the Atlantic to wrap me,” he says, and you roll your eyes, jab your finger into his ribs.

“But what if I get to unwrap you?” you ask, eyebrows raised; you briefly glance over and he makes a face of contemplation.

“Okay, that’s a maybe. Intimate aromatherapy—what does that even mean?”

“I think it means we do something that makes us smell good and then we go back to our room and kiss and stuff.”

“Now that doesn’t sound half bad,” he murmurs. “Foot massage? I’m not letting a stranger touch my feet, that’s weird.” You look over at him, squinting.

“You literally plugged someone’s bullet wound with your finger yesterday, but someone touching your feet is where you draw the line? Will you do anything on the list?” He scrolls down it, and his extended silence makes you laugh.

“Meditation. Couples massage,” he says, reaching over to rest a hand on your thigh. “There’s a sauna.” You think of him, sweat-drenched in a fluffy white towel, and take a deep, calming breath. “I bet the room is nice; did you bring a book?” You smile indulgently, reach out a hand to brush through his hair.

“Yep. It’s called A Duke’s Wild Kiss…” He gives you a mildly withering look, and you lightly tap the bridge of his nose. “Just kidding. I brought To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.” His answering smile is brilliant.

“Are you serious?” You nod, and he gestures to the backseat, where your bags are. “That’s what I brought, too.”

You spend too much of your romantic getaway in your room, but it is really nice; you do the couples massage, though, and aromatherapy, and the sauna, and then you take turns giving each other a foot massage while the other reads To the Lighthouse out loud.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t, but somehow you get to keep him anyway. A/N: Though I snuck in a few parts of a few different lyrics, two lines in particular inspired this fic: 'Now I've read all of the books beside your bed' and 'I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this.' A lot of my fics lately have incorporated books... guess I better get reading!

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

[middleearthpixie]

After the Fire ~ Chapter Four

Title: After the Fire - 

Fandom: The Hobbit - Post BOTFA AU Where Everybody Lives

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a grievously wounded Thorin is brought back to the kingdom of Erebor, which is still mostly in ruins. Although he’s survived the wounds he received at the end of Azog’s blade, his recovery is far from complete. Grief, regret, anger, all are making his journey that much more difficult and the physical recovery isn’t quite the most difficult challenge he faces.

Jasna Stoneham is no stranger to loss, as she is a survivor of Smaug’s wrath upon Esgaroth. When she is asked to help the dwarves healers of Erebor, her instinct is to say no, but she needs the job, and so agrees to it. However, no one told her that of all the patients, she would be responsible for the king himself, Thorin Oakenshield. 

Unfortunately, the road to recovery isn’t necessary a smooth one, but if there’s one thing Thorin will learn, it’s that Jasna is just as stubborn as he is and for every step back he takes, she is there to push him three steps forward. And Jasna will soon find out that there is a gentle, softer side to the dwarf king, one that very few people have ever seen and one he fights to keep hidden from her as well. But like his recovery, that is also easier said than done. 

Jasna is slowly settling in, finding a bit of a friend in Balin, and Fíli finally regains consciousness, full of questions about his prognosis 

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Jasna Stoneham

Characters: Jasna, Óin, Balin, Fíli 

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,258

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @sorisooyaa @ruthoakenshield

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here. 

Had someone asked her, Jasna would have assumed the first night in the infirmary would be the worst for the wounded dwarves. But, she realized the folly of that by the second night. Because of the extent of his injuries, Fíli had been kept heavily sedated, but neither his brother nor his uncle required that and Jasna wondered if that was at all wise. Especially where Thorin was concerned. The slightest bit of movement pained him, which was understandable, as he’d sustained those two very serious stab wounds to his chest and abdomen and it was only through good fortune that no vital organs were irreparably damaged. Óin was able to repair whatever needed it, and she’d managed to remain on her feet alongside him to observe and assist in the first surgeries she’d ever witnessed. Messy, but utterly fascinating to her. And where Kíli’s surgery made her queasy, she suffered no ill effects of observing Thorin’s. No, instead, the thought of stepping out of that surgery never even occurred to her. She felt that if she kept watch over him, nothing bad would happen as a result. Odd, when she stopped to think about it.

But she didn’t have much time to dwell on it. For the next three nights, she sat up at Thorin’s bedside. She wanted to be there if he had another nightmare, or if the pain threatened to engulf him, or his nephews for that matter, again. Óin had shown her how to mix together valerian and willow for pain relief and that he and Narnerra trusted her to do this and administer it did much to boost her confidence in herself. Bard was right, she was growing more comfortable around them and they seemed to feel the same about her. 

By the fourth night, Thorin finally slept peacefully through until morning. The bloodstains on the bandages shrank with each change, thank Mahal, and hopefully the itchiness of hair regrowth wouldn’t drive him too mad, as they’d had to shave two decent-sized patches of thick, dark hair on both his chest and his belly to sew him up. 

It was not quite six in the morning on the fifth day when she stumbled into the kitchens for a much needed cup of tea. And as she sipped it, she was beyond grateful that said kitchens were finally up and running despite being in such a ruinous state, as they hadn’t been until the previous day. The dwarves of the Iron Hills remained there, working alongside the Ereborian dwarves tirelessly to get as much of the kingdom up and running as possible. The work picked up and progress came faster, but it would still be some time before the kingdom began to resemble anything other than a well-preserved ruins. 

“Miss Jasna?”

She paused as Balin emerged from a lower floor, his normally fluffy white hair sooty gray and his long white beard a bit limp. “Yes?”

“How is he doing?”

“Thorin?”

“Yes. And the lads as well.”

“He’s awake now, but in a bit of pain, a-as you might im-im-imagine.” She spoke as her mother, Arabella had drummed into her—slowly, concentrating on each syllable before it could trip her up. For all the good it did. “I think he w-will b-b-be fine, in t-t-t-time, though.”

“It will be some time, I’m afraid. They all have a long road ahead of them, don’t they?”

She nodded. “H-h-h-he was v-v-v-very concerned about Fee-fee—”

“Fíli?” Balin interrupted gently. When she nodded, he offered up a sad smile. “I’m not surprised. Fíli is his nephew, one of his sister’s boys, as well as his heir. How does he fare?”

Jasna turned to look over at the blond dwarf in the corner. He’d come in with a terrible stab wound to his back and two shattered femurs, two broken ankles, and faced a very long, uphill battle for recovery. Fortunately, the blade that pierced his back didn't sever his spinal cord, but the damage to his legs was quite extensive, as he’d been thrown from a tower and had fallen some twenty feet to the stone below. Óin still wasn't at all certain he’d ever walk again. But she didn't know if she was to share that information with anyone. 

“I b-b-b-beg your pardon, b-b-b-but, I d-d-don’t know if Óin wishes me to sh-sh-share information on anyone h-h-h-here.”

“Never mind then, I’d not want to get you in trouble.” Balin drew over a chair and sank into it. “Does Óin know you stutter?”

“I—I try hard to keep it from ha-ha—” she scowled as the word refused to behave itself on her tongue—“That is—I try—”

“It’s quite all right, lassie,” he said, patting her arm with a small, thick-fingered hand. “I imagine it’s worse when you are nervous and you must be very nervous here, I’ll wager.”

She nodded, feeling a hint of the weight she’d been carrying lift from her shoulders. “A bit, I’m afraid. I’ve… I’ve not had much tr—training. Only a few m-m-months. Then Smaug…”

“Oh, lassie. That would be our fault,” he broke in softly. “I am so terribly sorry.”

“No, it’s all r-r-right. I was m-mean, no one m-m-meant to unleash him. At least, I h-h-hope not.” She managed a shy laugh and then looked over at Thorin, who slept peacefully now, his silver-streaked, long black curls spread out across the stark white bed linens. “And he is your king. Th-that makes it even m-m-more diff-difficult for me, I’m afraid.”

“I imagine it’s like being thrown in the deep end.”

“Or into the Long Lake,” she said with a smile.

He smiled back. “Óin must see something, for him to allow you to remain here.”’

“He needs the ha-ha-ha—drat it! Hands.”

“Easy, lassie. I’m not impatient. Take the time you need to unstick your tongue. I promise, I won’t hurry you and I won’t mock you.”

“It’s as if I was a child again. It hasn’t been thi-this bad in ye-years.” She sank back in her chair and drew her hand through her hair, trying to smooth the mostly unruly curls back into place, for all the good it did. Her hair had a mind of its own at times and this was one of them.

“You are under much pressure here. As you said, Thorin is our king. But,” he smiled again, patting her hand this time, “he isn’t a tyrant. At least, not any longer. And I’ve the feeling he is in fine hands, even if they are inexperienced.”

“Thank you for saying that.” She returned his smile. “Óin is so knowledgeable and b-b-between him and Narn-narnerra, I feel as if I’m getting quite the edu-education at their sides.”

“And look, you must be more comfortable with me now.”

“A bit, yes.”

“Good. You will be fine in time. And Erebor will thank you for your service and hopefully make you feel welcomed.”

“So far, most have j-just rather ignored me.” She glanced over at Óin who was busy with a dark haired dwarf on the far side of the infirmary. Narnerra was at the desk in the corner, her head bent over whatever file she studied. Both had been nothing but patient with her, despite her stammer, which seemed to grow worse with each day. 

But with Balin, it improved. He was kind and patient and the total opposite of his brother, who terrified her to no end. Dwalin Fundison was taller and fiercer looking, with a tattooed head and cold blue eyes. When he came to check on his king, she wanted to melt into the floor. She could barely string a sentence together and his expression suggested he wondered about her intelligence. 

“It is rare for Men to be allowed in Erebor. Historically speaking, we have always come to them in Dale.”

“I know. I’ve been told. And reminded. More than once. And no-not always ni-ni-nicely, I might add.” She managed a laugh, although when it happened and a dwarf told her exactly what he thought of her, she wanted to melt into the floor at the time. 

“Tact is not necessarily our strong suit, I’m sorry to say.” He patted her hand again and then rose. “But you’re doing a fine job. You must be. Otherwise Óin would never allow you to stay. In fact, he’d be hollering the roof down for Bard to come and claim you. He takes this responsibility very seriously.” 

“Claim me? I’m not his to claim.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s but a friend. A good friend, but a friend only.”

“Oh, pardon me, then. I thought he was more than that.”

“No. He’s not.”

“I will pass through later and see how everyone fares. But from where I stand, the Durins are in good hands.”

She smiled. “Thank you. That’s very ki-kind of you.”

“Fíli…” Thorin’s voice was little more than a low moan as he tried to stretch.

“Excuse me,” she said as she stood. “I should get back t-to work”

“Of course.”

He took his leave and Óin looked up. “Do ye need me, Jasna?”

“No. I—I don’t think so.”

“Let me know if ye do.”

“I will.” She laid her hand against Thorin’s forehead. Warm. Fever. Óin had worried that it would strike. “Óin?”

He looked up again. “What is it?”

“His Majesty is running a fever.”

Óin’s forehead creased. “Very hot?”

“I—I can’t te-tell.”

His chair squeaked as he pushed it back, and when he came over to her, they were about the same height and stood shoulder to shoulder as he leaned over to lay his hand against Thorin’s forehead. “He is warm, but not hot. Keep an eye on him, and if he burns hotter, let me know.”

Another low moan rent the air. Fíli. She looked over at Óin. “Should I tend to him?”

“Please do. I need to change Kíli’s dressings.”

“Tell me, is he Thorin’s son? They bear a strong resemblance to one another.”

“Kíli? No. His nephew. Fíli’s younger brother and both the sons of Thorin’s sister Dís. She will be here sometime in the coming days and I don’t believe she’s yet been told.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“Not yet.”

“And His Majesty’s wife? Is she on her way as well?”

Óin offered up a slight smile. “He is not married, so no. There is no wife coming, although I daresay there will be plenty of marriage-minded hopefuls returning as well.”

“Oh, my…” She turned to glance down at Thorin, who’d gone quiet again, then moved over to Fíli’s bed. The blond dwarf was conscious, his blue eyes open as he stared up at the ceiling, but she wasn't at all certain they focused on anything, as they seemed a bit cloudy. He grimaced, his left hand freed from the sheets to twist the linens as he sucked in a hard breath. 

“Fíli?” She kept her voice soft so as not to startle him. “Can you hear me?”

“Where am I?” His voice was raspy and thin, as if it hurt to speak. “What happened? Why can I not move?”

“You were wounded in battle,” she replied, retrieving her chair to bring to his bedside. “What do you remember?”

“I—I remember falling…” His eyes closed briefly and he visibly swallowed. “And cold metal. A blade. It—it pierced me. Through—through the back…”

“That’s right. You were.” She leaned over to lay her hand against his cool forehead. “And you cannot move because your legs have been badly broken. Your thighbones. Your shinbones. Your ankles, too, I believe. But, it’s good that you’re awake, that you are alert.”

“Am I… will I… walk again?”

“In time, I hope so. But you w-would need to speak to Óin about th-that. I—I’m only helping him.”

“I’m sorry, but… who—who even are you?”

“I’m Jasna Stoneham. From D-dale—well, Esgaroth, actually, but you know what h-h-happened there.” She sank back into her chair. “I sho—should have told you that at first. I apol-apol-apologize.”

His brow furrowed. A muscle in his jaw bulged. She frowned slightly.  “Do you ne-need something for pain?”

“Please.”

“Of course.” She stood and hurried between the cots to the desk in the corner. “Óin? Fíli is awake and is in need of pai-pain relief.”

“Is he with fever as well?”

“No. He is not.”

“Good. Check on Kíli whilst I tend to his brother.”

“Of course.” 

She started over to Kíli’s bed, pausing when Óin said, “And Jasna?”

“Yes?”

“Yer doin’ fine, lass. I would like to keep ye on, if yer willin’ to learn. I think ye’ll make a good healer one day.”

She smiled, a bit of her nervousness draining away, displaced by a feeling of warm pride, one she didn't feel often. “Thank you, Óin. I would, yes.”

“Good. I’ll have Narnerra work up a program for ye and we will continue yer training.”

“Thank you.”

“Do no’ thank me. I know skill when I see it. Now,” he returned her smile, “go tend to Kíli.”

“I am, Óin. I am.” 

[ppangjae]

THE BREAKUP PLAYLIST | doyoung (teaser)

COMING IN 2022

SUMMARY. Your biggest nightmare comes in the form of three words: do0_nct followed you!

— or, There are many reasons why you hide your true identity behind your voice on song covers and written songs. Kim Doyoung, your enemy whom you hate with your entire existence, is one of them. Doyoung following you on SoundCloud is your biggest nightmare. But things take a turn for the worse when he hits you up to collaborate on a song.

GENRE. fluff | angst | cinderella!au | enemies to lovers!au | college!au | same universe as Planet Girl (spin-off!)

pairing. doyoung x fem!reader

ESTIMATED WORD COUNT. tbd

warnings. swearing

author’s note. jkdkjshdfkjhsdf i honestly just. doyoung has been hitting different lately. this idea has been sitting in my drafts for a while and it’s been the only thing (aside from moonlight, nvmlbu, and close to you) that i’ve been working on lately. but! here she is! enjoy this short teaser! also yes, this is a spin off of one of my fics Planet Girl! happy reading~

In the comfort of your dimly lit room, you slam your thumb against the spacebar for the nth time to play the same recording again. You’ve always found yourself in situations like these. You’ll hum out a melody that you think would work in a song and you record it on your phone, only to let it collect dust and take up space. Eventually, when you get around to working on it, you find yourself getting stuck. Giving up and letting out a sigh of defeat, you pull up your SoundCloud to read some comments left by your listeners to give yourself some sort of motivation.

284 new notifications!

Clicking on the notification bell, you let out a loud yawn and rub at your sleepy eyes. Slapping your cheeks to wake yourself up, you scroll through the new notifications you’ve received since the last time you logged onto your account. All of the new notifications are mostly comments on the latest song you covered, Honey by Kehlani. 

With a light, small smile spread across your lips, you entertain yourself by reading the comments. Some of the comments, you find yourself reading a couple of times to boost your ego. After reading all of the new comments, you move onto the small list of new followers. You let out another yawn, but this time, it’s louder than the previous one. Suddenly, a new follower notification appears on the top right corner of your screen. Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, you click on the new notification and your eyes round like saucers.

do0_nct followed you!

“Oh shit.” It’s the first thing that slips past your lips. You blink once, twice, just to make sure you were seeing things right. When those three words never seem to disappear on your screen, you refresh your page a couple of times. It’s not a mistake. It’s real. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—”

“Shit?” Wendy steps into the room with a bowl of instant noodles. She trudges over to her twin-sized bed that’s sitting right across yours. She plops down onto her bed and takes a quick sip of the broth. “What’s with the look on your face—”

You wave her over. “Come and see this. Please tell me this is all a joke. A dream. A nightmare? I honestly don’t know anymore—”

“Oh shit.” Wendy mutters, setting her bowl of noodles onto your desk. “Wait, you got a new DM. Let me refresh the page, maybe we’re both seeing shit wrong—”

“I’ve already refreshed the page like five times—” You cover your face with your hands and you let the huge nightmare begin to settle into your reality. 

“Oh shit, I pressed the messages button instead of the refresh button—oh. Oh, no, this is bad.” Wendy falls silent and you peep one eye open through your fingers. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—”

“Please tell me this is a joke. Please tell me this is a prank and that all the cameras are going to pop up out of my closet. Please tell me that this is—”

“Refresh.” Wendy clicks on the refresh button and the DM remains the same. “Karma really is a bitch, huh?”

“I think the universe didn’t like how I made him publicly apologize—but that wasn’t even that bad!”

do0_nct: hi blueming! this is doyoung from the faculty of music here at snu! i just wanted to say that i absolutely love your covers and songs. i was wondering if we could collaborate on a song? 

author’s note. if you would like to be a part of the taglist, please reply to THIS post! as always, thank you so much for reading! ♥️