#but the remote for it is also on my keyring so | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lemonietrinket · 5 years ago

Text

Loved ||| WayV x Reader

Summary: Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes, no matter how strong they are. And so when you come home from an awful day in the outside world, you are blessed to have several people come and pick you up again, setting you back on your feet. Genre: Angst, but then lots of Fluff to make up for it!! And humour too bc i think im funny Warning(s): Detailed description of hardcore crying, no mention of reasons why, just left as a very bad day Word Count: 12k how the hell- Theme Song: The Flower (feat. Maximilian Hecker) - Leo; Heart Flutter - W24 AN: Request from @idont-knowabrian, I’m sorry I am depresso and thus have to make it so depresso by extension. I hope it wasn’t too angsty for you, I added lots and lots of fluff after to make up for it!! Aaaaaannd sorry for the real big wait.

EDIT: Check out the updated version here!

~~~

It had taken all of your strength to not cry on the way home on the bus. There were too many people around for you to let the tears fall, but you’d bitten your lip so hard it bled and had held your breath until you were heaving. You tried your best, turning your head into the glass and staring into the darkness outside, praying that no one turned to look back at you or your reflection.

As soon as you got off at your stop, unable to utter a ‘thank you’ to the driver which made you feel even worse (if that were even possible) your defences began to break down.

Tears streamed down your face in the frozen evening air, slipping between your trembling lips and the salt tingling on the tip of your tongue. Your nose ran viciously because of the wind, which also mussed up your hair causing you even more frustration as you tried to hold it out of your face, only for it to cover eyes uncomfortably again.

Your voice seeped into your breath as you tried to remain silent, strained whines at the effort it took to not openly weep as you needed to, whilst you prayed endlessly that no one would pass you by on the street and see the mess you were in.

Fumbling with your keys, just inches from being inside and away from the world, almost sent you over the edge. The key had got caught in one of the keyrings and with your shivering fingers and blurry vision, it seemed the world was kicking you while you were down.

A sob rose in your throat, and you forced it down as best you could, until finally you crashed into the house, bags toppled by the oven. Slamming the backdoor behind you with a strength you didn’t realise you had left, you slipped to the floor and sobbed so hard no noise came from your body.

Your chest constricted upon itself, ribs very nearly bruising your lungs and heart, until you finally caught some air and howled.

You were ashamed of how you must have looked, sprawled on the kitchen floor, weeping hysterically, no doubt with a muddied skirt and torn tights and hands pressed into wet footprints upon the linoleum floor.

If you’d been told to write the worst day you could have, today took that itinerary and then dragged it through hell.

You didn’t have the energy to stand, even if the puddles from outside that your shoes had dragged inside were being soaked up by your shirt, barely tucked in beneath your belt anymore.

You wished that no one would see you in this state. But the world wasn’t particularly on your side.

You just about heard the footsteps outside, before the door opened. You didn’t bother to look up. You didn’t want to know who it was, you just wanted them to go away.

The sharp inhale that pricked at your ears only made you cry harder, the tears dripping from your cheeks and dappling the woollen sleeves over your arms.

The door closed, and the person knelt down beside your head.

The voice was hushed and filled with concern, “Y/N...!”

The man’s palms hovered above you, unsure of what the situation was and what to do about it.

It was Kun. Soft, caring, and extremely worried.

You opened your mouth to speak, but a broken cry was the only sound you could make.

“Y/N, are you...?! Ar you hurt?! Sick?!” he exclaimed, lightly brushing your hair from your face to try and understand what was wrong. “What’s wrong love? P-please, I don’t...”

You shook your head as best you could, and as soon as he felt the wet streams upon your cheeks he seemed to understand.

“Oh, love, oh...” he trailed off, unable to find the words. Seeing you like this hurt him beyond explanation. Slipping off his shoes as quickly as he could and discarding them by the door, he reached his arms under your shoulders. “Come on, love, let’s get you up.”

He scooped you up nearly effortlessly, as you became a rag doll in his hands, limp as you head span, your weeping having constricted most of the air out of you, abandoning you to feel the consequences.

Your feet dragged as the two of you slowly made your way through the house and up the stairs. You were barely putting in any effort, too ebbed with melancholy to do so, and you quickly realised Kun was practically carrying you, doing all the heavily lifting.

It almost made you break into fresh tears at the thought, when Kun murmured in your ear softly, “It’s ok, love, it’s going to be ok.”

It seemed that he was unfazed by your lack of input, continuing to hold you close as he whispered tiny instructions and words of support while helping you stumble into your bedroom.

He set you down on your bed with a gentle sigh, folding some of the clothes you’d discarded on the covers that morning and moving them out of the way. “There you go, we made it upstairs.”

He came back to push the hair from your face, wiping your eyes firmly with his hand as he held it at your cheeks. “Though those clothes need a wash, love, they’re a little bit mucky.”

You felt your eyes prickle up once again, as you choked on an apology. “I... it’s m-my... fault I—the floor, I’m such... such an—”

He shushed you, stroking your hair desperately, instantly kneeling to the floor so he was closer to your head height. “Love, sweetheart, it’s ok! It’s ok, it’s not your fault!”

He cursed at the carelessness of his words.

“The only thing is that we’ll need to get you out of these and into new ones, is what I mean, love,” he explained delicately, “I’ll go and get a new set out for you so you don’t have to do as much, and don’t worry about all the washing and drying, I’ll do all of that for you too.”

His kindness was tugging at your heart, smashing it to pieces in your vulnerable state, only to pull it all back together again. You didn’t feel worthy of his care, but on the other hand all you wanted was him to stay and never leave you.

He stood with a final rub of your temple, enquiring which drawer had your pyjamas in them.

You shivered as you tried to work up the energy to answer him, instead barely raising a finger to the drawer second from the top of the case.

It dropped to the mattress as soon as he nodded, pulling out the warmest set he could find and placing it at your side. “You going to be alright?”

You lifted your hand to try and pick them up, only to discover it was so heavy you couldn’t lift it. You whined in frustration, which led him to immediately kneel on the carpet again.

“What’s wrong, love, do you have the energy?” he asked. “Are you too tired?”

You nodded once, which was all you could really manage. If you’d been more awake you would have questioned where all your energy had gone to specifically, never having been this lethargic before, but—and quite fairly—that would be a question for later.

You didn’t want to cause Kun anymore stress, but once again he understood. “That’s alright, love. I’ll help you then, ok?”

He didn’t move until you explicitly agreed. In this case, it came out as another bow of the head, and another apology. “T... thank you... I’m s-so sorry, Kun...! I just-t...!”

“It’s ok, Angel, you don’t need to apologise. I’ve got you,” he assured, hushing your babbling and helping you to your feet again.

You went limp again at his words, leaning into his shoulder and focusing only on the warmth you found there. He swiftly unzipped your skirt and, after setting you back on the bed, retrieved it from your feet, throwing it surprisingly haphazardly over the back of your desk-chair.

Raising the hem of your shirt, now freed and hanging loose, he gently dipped his fingers under the seam and began to roll them down your hips and legs, lifting you slightly whenever necessary. The ripped tights were discarded just as the skirt was, whilst you pulled your legs up and together, desperately trying to retain heat. Your room had always been cold, though you hadn’t felt the full brunt of it until now.

As the goosebumps rose upon your skin, Kun returned. Instinctively, he placed a hand on one of your thighs, rubbing along to try and restore some heat, as his other hand unfolded the baggy trousers of your pyjamas.

Slipping them over your feet and up to your hips, he moved onto your blouse, undoing several buttons and pulling it over your head. Stroking some strands of hair that had become dishevelled out of your eyes, he shifted to retrieve the pyjama shirt and place it over your hunched torso.

Once your head had appeared from the collar, he sent you a small, sweet smile, guiding your arms into the sleeves and pulling it finally the rest of the way.

All done.

“Feel a little more comfortable?” His hand was at your temple again, fingers tracing tiny circles into the skin there.

You tried to pull your eyes up to meet his gaze, but finding yourself lolling, you settled on another nod.

“Do you want to go downstairs?” he asked.

Lethargically, you managed to reach your hand to his shoulder, attempting to haul yourself up as an affirmation. He rolled with your action, aiding you up again, and back down the stairs.

Eventually you were on the centre of the sofa, all the remotes beside you, and Kun was stood to head to the kitchen. “I’ll make you some food? Ramyun will be good right?” he hesitated. “Or grab you some blankets, anything you need.”

You hummed sadly, trying to draw your lips together to speak.

“Yes, love?” He was so patient.

“I...” you swallowed, hands tiredly lifting away from your body and towards him, as outstretched as you could manage, “w-want a h...hug...”

His features softened even further, if that were even possible, his eyes regarding you carefully as his lips curled into a smile.

Before he could answer—and make no joke, his answer would have been to take a seat beside you and instantly take you into his arms—there was a clatter, as the door opened. Several voices swarmed over one another, littered with giggles and whoops as they bickered in the falling darkness.

Kun’s head turned to the backdoor, and he nodded as he saw the face of one of the members through the doorway. “I think you can get a really big one, now,” he remarked, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

Not quite understanding the situation, you merely pouted, feeling the burn in your heart as your mind spiralled. He’d said no. He didn’t want to hug you. He didn’t like you, really. You were merely a—

“Angel, I can’t leave them in charge of cooking can I?” Kun explained with a chuckle, thumb brushing a single stroke across your cheek. “Please don’t be sad, love, I’ll hug you later I promise.”

“Promise?” you asserted.

“With my whole heart.”

His words threw your own through a loop.

Kun meanwhile called out to the others, “Welcome home! You’re late, but I’ll let it slide if you come here and help me.”

There was a couple of confused ‘eh’s until a few familiar faces came into the room, shrugging of their coats.

You almost broke into a fresh tears as you saw Yukhei’s bright, sunny smile drop from his face when he laid eyes on you.

“Y/N?!” he exclaimed, glancing at Kun for an explanation.

At the sound of his deepset shout, Sicheng leant out from behind the giant puppy’s shoulders to see what Yukhei was so upset about. He too went from quietly happy to extremely concerned at the sight of your reddened cheeks.

You quickly became very embarrassed. You hadn’t been cute crying, exactly, and you figured you looked like a dazed, tear-stained mess.

That was when Ten slipped past the two of them abruptly, running over to you before you could even cry in surprise.

“No no, no...!” he cooed, perching very carefully on the edge of the sofa, body turned completely towards you as he extended his hands to your face. He dabbed at your mottled cheeks rather frantically, the coolness of his fingers making you shiver, as they were chilled the winter, whilst your skin had been made hot by tension and stress.

“No, baby, are you ok? What’s wrong? What happened?” He glanced back at Kun who was heading through into the kitchen. “Kun, is it just my hands or is she running a fever?” Before you could answer he continued, eyes shining, “Are you hurt? Sick? Did someone hurt you?”

“They better not have hurt you!” Yukhei interjected, leaning over the back of the sofa. “If they did then you tell me their names, Y/N,” he said diligently, “I’ll make sure they never even look at you again I swear—!”

Sicheng rolled his eyes, a light scoff drifting from his lips as he patted Yukhei’s shoulder once, before heading round to the chair opposite you. “It’s ok, Ten, she’s not dying.”

He’d said it with a joking lilt an a gentle tone, but Ten’s mouth hung open as he shot him a look. “I know she’s not, but she’s upset and I’m not having that!”

“Neither will I!” Yukhei emphasised, folding his arms proudly.

“Yukhei, you couldn’t hurt anyone even if you tried,” Ten sassed, turning his full attention back to you. “Now, if my girl is not sick, and not physically hurt, then I know exactly what she needs, don’t I?”

As soon as he grinned at you, you couldn’t help but let the corners of your own lips lift. And, much like a chain reaction, as soon as he saw you brighten, even if only slightly, his smile grew into a beam.

“My girl wants hugs, doesn’t she?” he murmured, giddily tapping his finger against the tip of your nose.

You couldn’t avoid emitting a squeak at the contact—his fingers were too cold—but rationale had also left you in some parts, perhaps, as you nodded eagerly, dragging your arms up and throwing them out to welcome him in.

Ten slipped back on the sofa, pulling you into his chest protectively. He was careful to place his hands where they wouldn’t touch your skin, but also where you would know he was there, and so he nestled one into your waist and the other upon the back of your head.

Adjusting your position only slightly to lessen the pressure off the bridge of your nose, you settled you face in the nook of his neck, fingers laced in his shirt, as you took in the scent of his cologne. He must have several varieties but this one was easily your favourite—whatever it was. It was light, but deep and welcoming, with the openness of a spring day but the independence of a lucid dream, which was kind of how you felt held so close to his heart. You could feel it beating against your arm, seeping through your sleeves and sinking into your skin, through to your own heart, which skipped as soon as the thought of it all struck your conscious mind.

You very nearly forgot about the others around you, though as soon as you’d been dipped into the waters of serenity, you’d been pulled out by your own awareness.

Ten was stroking your hair gently, though his touch was shallow to avoid both knots and making you shiver. Kun was instructing Yukhei about something, words just out of reach for you to piece together, but no sooner than he’d finished, the boy had yelled, “group hug!” and had bounded around the sofa. You couldn’t see Sicheng, so had no idea what he was doing, but you heard a chuckle that sounded like his. And a second after you’d questioned the reasoning behind his amusement, you felt a weight crash behind you, as Yukhei joined you two on the couch.

Ten snapped up out of surprise, indicating he perhaps hadn’t seen in coming either, and with his hand leaving your head, you pressed yourself up slightly to try and get a better look at what happened.

It was no use however, because you were knocked back against Ten with a yelp from both of you, as Yukhei practically slammed his weight against your back.

Ten hauled you up as best he could so you weren’t stuck in a folded position but what you had ended up in nonetheless was still not overly comfortable. As you glanced at him you could see his lips wavering, formulating a sentence to most likely scold Yukhei with. But there was no need, as you felt a pair of much longer arms encircle you and pull you more upright, a chin coming to rest surprisingly neatly on your shoulder.

“Hi, Y/N!” Yukhei sang, tapering off into a giggle as he gave you a tiny squeeze.

You laughed bemusedly, relieved to be alive, but also welcoming the warmth from the other side. Yukhei was in fact much warmer, to the point he could be described as an actual radiator, and with him smushed against your back you felt extremely secure.

And, after a few seconds of his eyes evaluating the sight he could see but you could not, it seemed that Ten appeared to accept it eventually too. Even with you practically stolen from his arms, he laughed it off, identifying that he could be perfectly comfortable laying into you rather the other way round.

With roles reversed, Ten slipped a hand up to your collarbone, resting his head just above the other, and seeking the opportunity to wrap one of his legs over yours, which was jutting out over the side of the sofa.

Now you could see the room more clearly, and, with a tired laugh, you waved at Sicheng who was watching the borderline catastrophe with a confused but delighted grin on his features. There was a shade to his eyes though, something that you couldn’t quite place.

Peering over Ten’s head, you could see Kun leaning against the doorway, smiling proudly, as if the whole thing had been his doing. Though thinking back to Yukhei’s sudden but most likely inevitable surprise attack, it maybe had been.

“Hi...!” You waved at him too, leading him to chuckle.

“Hello,” he replied, “you look better already.” And with a brief scrunch of his nose, he was pushing himself off the wall’s edge and heading into the kitchen.

You pressed you chin into the crown of Ten’s head, smiling tightly as quiet settled over the room.

You loved all of them, you honestly did, and you would never do without their bickering and yelling and screeching laughter. But it was relieving to hear peace every once in a while, with the only sound being the sound of steadied breaths—two pairs of which had become more-or-less synonymous with your own.

“You sure you don’t want to join us, Chengie?” It was Yukhei that spoke. You could have bet a million with certainty that it would be him that broke the silence. Man could never stay quiet for long, which was often one of the most endearing parts about him, as it often led him to some extraordinary lengths to find something, anything to say, crafting absolutely wonderful results. A lot of what Yukhei had to say ended up becoming in-jokes for all eight of you in the house, and at least a quarter of them were from situations like these.

Unfortunately, this one didn’t spark much interest.

Sicheng shook is head once, voice neither amused nor melancholic, answering, “No. But thank you.”

“Oh, ok!” Yukhei’s response was bright as usual. “More space for us!” He punctuated his words with another, tighter squeeze, which made you cry out in mildly strained laughter.

“Yukhei!”

“Dear lord...” Ten sighed, rolling his body-weight to allow his voice to carry into the kitchen. “Kun! When are the kids getting back? Yukhei’s getting boisterous again!”

You poked Ten’s side, making him jump. He flicked his head away from your neck to look you in the eye, immediately flipping into a pout complete with puppy eyes. “Hey...! What was that for...!”

“Play nice Ten,” you asserted gently, reaching out to pull him back down. He’d left your torso open to the cold with his retreat and you missed him within seconds. Luckily he wasn’t in a snarky mood, or had accurately read the situation and had worked out it wouldn’t be a good idea to get mischievous and tease you, and so he came straight back down. Though his grip was a little firmer once he’d reestablished it, with one now warmer hand finding its place upon the bare skin below the hem of your shirt, shielding it from the chill of the room while simultaneously making your heart beat just that little bit quicker.

The kids, as Ten had dubbed them, arrived not long after, just as the delicious scent of Kun’s famous cooking began to fill the whole room to the brim. They stepped into a delightfully warm house, their faces reddened from the cold outside, and immediately were stripping themselves free of their coats, as the temperature difference made them feel too warm to cope.

Ten and Yukhei had finished their tussle over you, leaving you to rest in peace between the two of them. Sicheng had taken out his phone a while ago, ocassionally showing you funny memes and pictures he found. You didn’t really understand some of them, and he had to explain them, but you enjoyed it nonetheless, even if that same shadow tinted his eyes again as he did it.

Xiaojun regarded the sight of the three of you piled on the sofa with curiosity, to say the least, brows furrowing as he let the two behind him pass. Yangyang barely scraped a glance at you, until he came back and saw it properly, smirking. “What is this?”

“Y/N was feeling sad, so we had to come and cheer her up!” Yukhei explained, knocking his head into yours like a puppy.

“By... piling on the sofa?”

“What’s wrong Yangyang?” Ten snickered, before cooing, “Do you feel left out that I’m not babying you too?”

Yangyang narrowed his eyes defiantly at the elder, who merely stuck his tongue out.

“Yangyang, you can join us if you want,” you interrupted cleanly, the wobble in your voice long gone.

“Can I?!” Hendery called from behind the two stood in the walkway, slipping through to poke his head around Xiaojun where you could see him. His lips were curved into a tiny little smile, eyes wide and clear and glimmering in hope for a ‘yes’.

“Of course!” you replied, hand leaving Ten’s back and beckoning both Yangyang and Hendery over.

“I don’t think there’s any room,” Xiaojun remarked, exhaling amusedly, “you might have to take it in turns.”

At this, you felt both pairs of hands’ grips tighten, as if in reflex.

“But!” Yukhei stuttered in defence. “But I’m—”

Ten whined, “No, I’m comfy. You’ll have to drag me off yourself.”

Sicheng looked up from his phone. “Not sure that’s a wise idea, Ten, you’re the lightest one here.”

As Yangyang and Hendery glanced at one another, grins affirming before snapping back to begin stepping over to the smaller link in the chain, Kun declared from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready! Come get it! And someone can come and get Y/N’s for her—no complaining about that either, she’s had a tough day.”

But no one complained. In fact, it became more of a rush to get in the kitchen first, to collect their food because they were starving or because they wanted to be the one to grab your serving, you couldn’t tell.

Yukhei was swayed by food, which you had anticipated, and with a final, almost crushing squeeze, he slipped out from behind you, leaving you to adjust yourself to not fall over while supporting Ten upon your front.

This was because Ten was not affected as severely by the thought of dinner, and instead remained upon you, pressing himself against you as best he could.

“Can’t we stay here and eat dinner?” he mumbled into your shirt.

“I don’t think Kun would ever allow that.” You giggled. “Not after last time.”

Ten sighed, before shouting back, “Kun! Can Y/N eat her food on the sofa?!”

“No!” The man’s response was immediate. “Not after last time!”

“See,” you snorted, “told you.”

Ten rolled his eyes, sitting up reluctantly, then stretching his arms and back. “Fine. Come on, let’s go get dinner.”

Dinner was a ruckus, as usual. You cram eight people around a table and it will always be noisy, due to the sheer number of people. But then you make half of those people crackheads and the others happy to allow them to be crackheads Then you’ve got a table of chaos.

With the conversation flitting every few seconds, words bouncing from one side of the room to the other to a rhythm of laughter, many would probably have arranged to sit in their rooms to dine, but you would never dream of doing such a thing.

Hearing the banter, weekly in-jokes and teasing was necessary, as it always lifted your spirits. As long as you weren’t upset at the time they picked on you.

Luckily the previous cuddling had worked, and you were back to feeling ok, your problems not seeming so impossible anymore.

However, ‘ok’ was not good enough for the others, and you knew they wouldn’t leave you at just that. Besides, you had a promise to keep to the two youngest.

As soon as you spotted the natural lull in conversation, you jumped in, “Do you guys want to watch a film tonight?”

Your suggestion was met with a flourish of agreement, only that two faces also fell. One tried to hide it somewhat valiantly, no doubt to protect you from feeling bad. The other didn’t possess the finesse for this as such, and more-or-less openly sulked at the dining table. You looked to the two of them. “Ten? Yukhei?”

“SuperM,” Ten remarked, voice monotonous, “meeting on tour dates.”

You let out a small ‘ah’ in understanding. You attempted to look on the brighter side. “There’s always next week...!”

Yukhei nodded sadly, while Ten huffed earning him a side-eye from Kun.

“In my defence,” he began, “they’ve worked out all the dates that don’t clash for us. It’s 127 they’re having trouble with, and the managers there can’t seem to do basic maths, because they’ve confirmed two lots of dates that don’t actually work. It must be driving Taeyong mad over in Korea.”

“Why do you need to be there, then?” Yangyang asked.

“We don’t,” Yukhei emphasised.

Ten sighed. “No I think we do. Even if we’ve outlined our schedules a hundred times, we still need to be in the room while they set the dates, for legal reasons. It’s just that guy is driving me up the wall. He never lets us talk on these meetings, and I’m sick of subtly dropping hints to his boss about it.” He stood, offering to take the others’ empty bowls and plates. “Guess tonight won’t be very peaceful, but it’ll be worse if we don’t leave soon.” As he leant over the table to collect your bowl, he whispered, “I’ll be here pretty much all tomorrow though. You?”

You nodded, trying to still the beating of your heart picked up in tempo following the wink he sent you in response.

Yukhei collected the remaining utensils in one hand, giving everyone individually a big wave with the other.

“What are you going to do?” Xiaojun enquired. “About the ‘guy’, I mean?”

Ten shrugged. “Guess if he tries anything this time, he’ll face the pure wrath of this bad bitch.”

“Ten!” you cried in faux shock, a gasp quilting the air. “What have we said about swearing in front of the child!”

Laughter erupted as everyone synchronously looked at Yangyang, who was sending you an exaggerated scowling pout. “For the last time, I am not a child!”

“Oh yes that’s right, you’re not a child, Yangyang,” Kun interjected plainly, leading the table to hush as each person accepted his words as an instruction to quieten. Except everyone was wrong. Kun glanced at you with a suprisingly sly smile, and then at Ten, before looking Yangyang dead in the eye, and said, “You’re baby.”

There was a chorus of boisterous, teasing ‘OHHH!’s as Yangyang accepted his fate as ‘burned’.

You bid the two of them farewell, hearing them slip out of the backdoor, but you barely caught Kun as he seemed to follow them. You very nearly leapt into the kitchen, hearing a car door slam, eyes searching for the leader.

"Kun?”

The man jumped just outside, halting his motion to shut the door as you poked your head into sight. “Oh, Y/N. Is everything ok?”

You nodded, humming, though pulling your shirt further up to your chin to try and retain some heat in combat with the cold outside air. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, giving them a lift, so they don’t have to walk, since it’s cold out,” he sheepishly apologised, “I should have mentioned it, sorry. You can start the film without me, I don’t mind.”

“Oh, ok,” you mumbled. You had been about to say you’d make sure everyone waited for him, as you were aware the drive wouldn’t be long, but his words had stopped you in your tracks.

“I’ll see you in a bit, Y/N. I promise I won’t be long.”

You tried to lift your arms in time to request that hug he owed you, but the door had closed before he likely even saw you in the darkness of the kitchen.

There was a slosh of water that made your ears prick up, leading you to turn towards the sink. You’d barely noticed Xiaojun there, doing the washing up (as he’d been elected to by Kun as he left the table). Though it was no surprise, since he’d been practically silent the whole time. And he was doing it in the dark.

“You alright, Y/N?” he enquired, adding more hot water to the bowl.

“I could ask the same about you?” you glanced around the room, looking for the lightswitch. “Has the bulb gone again?”

“No, the light’s fine.”

“Oh, well...” You made your way over to the switch.

“Don’t turn it on,” he announced, tipping his head over his shoulder. The lights from the next room crystalised in his eyes, azure-gold and tracing a diamond upon his cheek. It illuminated the curve of his lips, as he spoke again, quieter this time, “Come here.”

You did what he asked, brushing his shoulder with yours as you came to his side. You tried to meet his gaze, looking up to his face and drawing across his features. You got distracted by the shine of his silver hair, tracing down his skin and curling round the shell of his ear so neatly. Plush lips parted as he spoke and you raised your eyes to meet his, only to have him turn away at the last second. You were left with no choice but to follow where he was looking.

“Look, out there,” he whispered, gently placing a plate at the bottom of the bowl.

You peered into the garden, dimly lit by the light from the living room dancing beyond you, next door’s garden light and nothing more—the sky starless and as dark and thick as ink. You couldn’t see anything, and it disheartened you to have to explain it to Xiaojun, who was clearly much more excited than you were.

“Jun? I can’t see anything,” you murmured, but he hushed you suddenly, leaving you to slam your lips shut, heart pinched.

After a few seconds he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper, “We have to be really quiet. And no sudden movements. She’ll appear very soon, I know she will.”

You frowned, glancing through the dark window, confronted by the hazy grass of the garden, and then your own musty reflection as your eyes switched focus. You couldn’t see much of Xiaojun in the glass, the shadow engulfing much of his mirrored-self. However, you could see one half of his face, shaded as if through clouds, his crown crudely lit like a halo from the light behind.

A sigh very nearly left your lips as you stole another glance at his real face, his brow furrowing while his eyes narrowed into the darkness outside, teeth ever-so-slightly teasing his bottom lip as he peacefully waited. It wasn’t fair how ethereal he was sometimes.

Suddenly he perked up, eyes widening, and leaning into you as he carefully pointed with a soap-sud painted finger into the black. “Look! There!”

You leant forward on the edge of the counter, eyes desperately scouring the garden until you spotted what he was waiting for.

A small bundle, tapered with jagged edges upon its top, snuffling through the shadowy green.

A tiny hedgehog, on the search for food.

As she came closer, you could just about make out the twitching of a nose, while she made a somewhat beeline for the fence on the left hand side of the garden. There you could see a weathered blue pet-bowl, filled with some food of sorts.

“There she is,” Xiaojun sighed, whispering a laugh sheepishly. “I was beginning to worry there for a bit, I’ll be honest.”

A wide smile rose to your face, overtaken by the purity of an animal that small shuffling through the cold to find food which had been placed in the back garden just for her.

“Did you...?”

“Yeah, the dog food was me,” he replied. “She only comes when it’s quiet here, which isn’t often but it does happen after dinner. As the others get quiet, retreating upstairs or sitting on their phones for a bit. That’s why I offer to do the work here, so I can check up on her.”

You couldn’t glance away from the hedgehog, especially when she finally reached the bowl and began to tuck in. Though it was in the shade and it was very hard to see anything besides the bowl by that point, made to stand out against the night by the brightness of its sides.

“She’ll eat it all no doubt, she didn’t come yesterday. Unless she has somewhere else and is just running rings around me,” he chuckled, picking up the plate.

“Why didn’t she come yesterday?” you asked, wrenching your eyes away to look at Xiaojun again.

The corners of his eyes rose as he wrinkled his nose briefly. “Yukhei’s euphoria last night?”

You stood confused for a second, trying to retrace your memory, until you finally struck gold. “Oh yea! We got a message from Jungwoo! I think it was everyone’s euphoria to be honest,” you sighed, “I’d been worried sick about him. No matter how many times anyone assured me he was ok, I knew I wouldn’t settle until I heard it from him himself.”

“It’s alright, I understand that. And I’m pretty sure the others do too.” As your eyes fell, remembering the anxiety you had about his condition, Xiaojun’s finally settled back on you. “You’re extremely kind Y/N, you almost care too much,” he said, “I know Jungwoo can’t wait to see you again, too.”

You finally met his gaze, letting a small smile rise to your lips as you did so. He was just so beautiful, you couldn’t actually look away even if by some bizarre curse you wanted to.

“Thank you, Junnie.”

“I mean it though, Y/N,” he insisted softly, “I worry sometimes you care too much about others, and though we appreciate it very much, I don’t...” His voice faltered, as if he’d spoken too much. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself in the process, and forget to care for yourself. We all love looking after you, but we also don’t want you to be hurt at all, if we can help it. So if something hurts you, let us know immediately, so we can support you... yeah?”

You nodded, swallowing as you felt your throat clench. Blinking quickly, you looked back into the garden, you spotted the hedgehog making her way back to the hedgerow.

At that moment, a voice rose from the living room. “Y/N! What film do you want to watch?”

Somewhat grateful for the distraction, you felt the urge to cry dissipate as you took another glance at Xiaojun. He hadn’t looked away from you this time, it seemed, but you didn’t focus upon that for your own sanity. “I’d better go,” you said, “thank you for showing me the hedgehog. She’s really cute, I’m glad you feed her.”

“No problem, I’ll let you do it tomorrow, if you have time and would like to?”

“That sounds great!” You sent him a grin, covering any sadness you had felt a few moments before. You lay your hand on his shoulder for a second before you passed, as a small farewell, making our way to the living room to go help Yangyang.

As you reached the archway, you turned round to ask one more thing. “Oh, Xiaojun?”

“Yes?” He finished washing a plate and placed it on the draining board, peering over his shoulder at you once again.

“Does she have a name? The hedgehog?”

In the shadows of the kitchen, you thought you saw him falter, in the silence, heard a stutter in his answer. “Actually, no, I didn’t think to do that. Maybe you could come up with one?”

You reasoned with the suggestion before nodding. “I’ll see what I can come up with. See you in a bit!”

After you left the room, however, he let out a sigh of relief. He was glad you’d fallen for that excuse, especially since it was far from the truth. The first thing he did, once he realised the hedgehog was a regular, was give her name. And since she was adorable, with her little nose and love for food, he decided to name her after the first adorable thing he thought of.

He hadn’t foreseen the issue that would occur if he showed her to the person of which he’d secretly named the hedgehog after.

As you spun round the door-frame, hands clapped against your cheeks, desperately willing them to cool down and lose their pinkish hue, Hendery spun round the corner and collided into you.

His sudden appearance made you jump, causing you to haphazardly step backwards and very nearly trip over a blanket draped half on the sofa and half on the floor.

Luckily Hendery’s reactions were faster than your falling, and with hands clasped at your shoulders he pulled you back into your centre of gravity. Holding you still there, watching you wobble until coming to rest, he exhaled in relief.

His face had been a picture, lips pursed into an ‘o’ of moderate horror as he’d almost knocked you to the ground, and then spread into a wide smile as he giggled sheepishly. His eyes were clear as glass, dark and glinting and rueful.

“Sorry Y/N!” he said, mischief lacing his words.

You scoffed, shaken and avoiding his clear stare. “Yeah, you will be!”

He laughed at your response, taking to your side. “We need to choose a film, what one do you want to watch?”

“I don’t...” you shrugged, “really know.” You were glad that you didn’t need to look at him now that he was at your side. You could feel his stare on you however, and it made you want to shiver.

He nodded, interlinking his arm with yours. “Shall we go have a look, my lady?”

Before you could let any words slip through your lips in bemused amusement, he pulled himself closer to you and then led you through to the corridor with the shelves stacked with movies.

Yangyang was already there, squinting up at the top row as you reached the rack, fingers running across each box like a small child reading their first book.

Hendery extended his free arm towards the shelving, bowing his head, “Your moving pictures, my lady.”

You snorted, taking in the sight of amass of films. They’d been ordered alphabetically by title, and you remember the day starkly that you’d sat down with Yukhei to organise them.

He wouldn’t have been your first choice to help order things, since his attention span normally lasted around that of a cocker spaniel with a new toy, but he’d been the only one in the house at the time, and he was the only one tall enough to reach the very top shelf regardless (you still didn’t understand why that top shelf had been installed and even being used, because if Yukhei wasn’t around—which did occur often due to his new schedules—then it was a real safety hazard to get a film down from there, seeing that no one else in the group managed to grow anywhere near 6″).

On this occasion though, he’d been uncharacteristically focused, listening to your instructions, and only making jokes about how short everyone else was a couple of times! He’d been a very big help, and it also proved useful in the sense that you weren’t the only one with a better idea of where all the movies were. Even if they were organised well, the two of you could still find them faster than the others usually could, simply due to the fact you could remember where you’d placed them on the shelves in the first place.

Kun had been extremely happy with the end result too, and Ten still didn’t believe you’d managed to get Yukhei to sit down and do it with you.

You did admonish the system you’d used now though. Perhaps taking the extra time to organise them into genres would have been better. After all, you rarely knew a specific movie you wanted to watch.

Scouring over the titles, you eventually straightened to join Yangyang in peering up at the very top row—the row of box-sets.

“What’re you looking at?” you asked Yangyang quizzically.

“Did we watch the final part of The Lord of the Rings?” he answered.

You and Hendery both nodded.

“Oh, well there goes that suggestion then,” he shifted down from tiptoe and came to lean against the table beside the shelving, sending you a sweet smile. “Y/N, what type of movie would you like?”

Eased, you smiled at him, glancing down at the films at the lower rungs. “I’m not sure, really. Nothing too heavy, and nothing that will make me cry.”

He hummed. “So, a comedy then?”

Hendery’s eyes went wide, a look of genuine fear playing on his features. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Our senses of humour in this house, when it comes to films can...” he paused, silk voice tentative, “...vary, a lot.”

You nodded in agreement. “Remember what happened over that Robin Hood film?” You shook your head very firmly. “Bad times, my dudes.”

Yangyang cocked is head to one side in thought, frowning at seemingly nothing. “Fair enough...” Suddenly, h perked up, showing a grin you knew well. “I’ve had an idea. What if we watch a really bad movie, one that’s so bad, it’s actually kind of good?”

You clicked your fingers, before shooting him finger-guns, “Now that is a good idea!”

The three of you turned towards the mountain of films. Hendery lent upon your shoulder, and once again you were convinced he wasn’t perhaps focused on the films.

“Ok... bad... films...” Yangyang murmured, pulling out a blue box to read its description on the back.

Meanwhile, you glanced over at Hendery, who was a lot closer than you had previously thought. You sent him a smile, pressing him back with a single finger before enquiring, “Do you have any ideas, Hendery?”

He smushed his lips together, as he usually did when he was thinking, something of which that always made your heart simper, and let his eyes wonder away from you and up to the penultimate top shelf.

“’Azure Shadow’?” he said, reaching up and grabbing the box. “I heard it was pretty bad—hey The CP Times gave it 4 stars!”

“My god,” you snickered, leaning over so your head almost brushed his, and peered at the back of the box, “what were they on?”

“No idea but maybe it’s not bad enough,” Yangyang remarked, earning a nod from the two of you, and leading Hendery to put it back on the shelf.

“What about ‘The Man of Blade’,” Yangyang measured, scoffing as he retrieved it, “this one doesn’t even show its ratings, it must be awful!”

You skipped over to him, placing your hand on his shoulder and leaning your head against it to see the description.

“’A man makes a wish to a genie’,” you began, the corners of your mouth twitching already as you attempted to keep your tone serious, “‘to become the most powerful man to ever live so he could face God in a one-to-one’—”

“I’m sorry what?” Hendery merely laughed.

You tried to hold it together. “—a-and restore not only his pride but his... his...”

“Oh no, what?”

Laughter bubbled in your throat as you forced the final sentence from your lips. “His valiant steed’s honour—yo, what the actual—?!”

Yangyang cackled as he began hastily opening the box. “It’s decided! We’re watching ‘The Man of Blade’! And we can all suffer together!”

Hendery wiped his eyes to free them from tears of laughter. “I’m sorry, but why on earth is that even here?! Who bought it?”

“It must be a present?” you insisted. “Surely! No one in this house would buy this in their right mind—”

“I bought it.”

Three heads simultaneously turned in the direction of the living room. There, standing in the archway, was Sicheng.

There was a moment of silence as you all stared at him, mouths agape and words faltering, until you exclaimed, “Chengie, no!”

“Look,” he projected, before the other two could add to the confusion, “it was supposed to be dumb gift for Ten, something that I could hide his actual present behind, and so I decided to hide it plain sight until his birthday.”

“Ohhh.”

“But, does that mean we can’t use it then?” Hendery questioned.

“Oh, yeah, damn,” Yangyang said, closing the box, “it’s ok Sicheng, we’ll put it back.”

“Actually,” you began, eyes flickering from each man, and finally resting on the box, “Ten isn’t here, so as long as no one tells…”

“We can still watch it!” Hendery finished, clapping his hands and motioning for the box. “Let’s start it up, I want to see the menu page!”

As the two fought over who got to put the disc in the player, you turned your attention to Sicheng.

His eyes, dark caramel and hidden from the light, were down-turned and avoiding your gaze. They seemed to graze across your cheeks instead, flickering up to your own only occasionally. You offered him a smile, small and soft, and then walked over to him. “Hey, thanks for the film! It sounds perfect for tonight.”

“It’s no problem, I’m curious to watch it too,” he grinned back, before easing you out of the way of the two bundles of energy that bounded through into the living room, “I really hope it’s as bad as it sounds.”

“Oh it’s got to be!” you cried, feeling warmth settle back into your system, slowly, but surely, as you laughed. “Come on, Chengie, help me get some snacks?”

“Of course.” He stepped backwards, letting you past to lead the way.

Back in the kitchen, you began to scavenge for all the food you could find, layering Sicheng’s arms with bags upon bags of snacks. You weren’t exactly paying attention to the number you’d piled, however, until you swung all the cupboards closed and aimed to place a final packet on top, only to find that you’d formed a tiny mountain, and Sicheng’s face was practically completely hidden.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry Chengie, I didn’t notice how much…”

“It’s alright,” he answered brightly, peeking carefully round the precarious pile, “I got it!”

He stepped forward careful to request the final snack be crowned upon the summit above his eyeline, and with caution, you obliged, balancing it on top as best you could.

“Alright! Now all we have to do is get you into the living room without dropping them—are you sure you don’t want me to take half? It’s not hard at all for me to do so…!”

He turned so he could see you. “It’s ok, you’re already doing too much by organising this. I can carry a pile of snacks don’t worry! Just, warn me if I get too close to a chair.”

You nodded, peering over his shoulder to see his way. “I can do that. You ready?”

He hummed in affirmation, and the two of you began your slow, careful trundle into the living room.

With snacks arranged on the coffee table, you slumped on the sofa, taking care to mind your feet as you went—you didn’t want to knock all your hard work on the carpet, as then you would have to vacuum it all up and unless you had someone to make the pain more bearable, it wasn’t fun in the slightest.

You watched as Hendery emerged victorious and scampered over to the TV, fiddling with the dvd player. Yangyang, pouting from the sidelines, perked up once he realised that he now had a crucial advantage.

He bounded over to you, barely choosing a side and instead practically flung himself onto the sofa too. He threw his arms open to encase you as he went, and once his back hit the cushions, he pulled you into him.

You shrieked in surprise and glee, shuffling yourself round so you could rest your head more comfortably on his chest.

“There,” he murmured proudly, “comfy?”

“Very.” Your voice was muffled against his hoodie.

Hendery glanced back over his shoulder at the sight, and hurried himself. Sicheng meanwhile took a seat where he had been previously, spinning the chair around so he would be able to see the screen.

“Hey,” you called softly to him, causing him to swivel a bit further round to see you, “you sure you don’t want to come sit over here? It’s comfier than that desk chair.”

“But it is a spinny ch—” You hushed Yangyang before he could finish.

Sicheng smiled, the dim in his eyes growing as he shook his head. “No, it’s ok, I’m good here.”

“You sure?”

Your response was a nod, and the very gradual spin as he pushed himself back to face the TV subtly.

You tried not to take it personally, but you couldn’t hide the falter in your smile.

Yangyang couldn’t quite see it at his angle, but Hendery did, pouting at you as he came over.

“Y/N?”

“I’m ok, don’t worry!” you declared. “Just tired, is all.” Your response had been too fast, and you knew both Yangyang and Hendery had noticed—Hendery had quickly settled down beside you, inclining into your sloped body as he held your hand tightly, whilst Yangyang had shifted his weight to bring you just a little bit closer.

You did wonder if it was slightly out of something else, but you didn’t have long to consider that thought, with the film menu loading up and sending you all into a bout of horrified laughter.

“What even is that?!” Yangyang yelled above you.

“That is an actual, colourised depiction of hell,” you countered, lips twisted in terror as you sat up instinctively. It was as if the atrocity had immediately set off fight-or-flight responses of every single person in the room.

Hendery snapped his head over to you. “In the shape of a horse?!”

“It’s never going to leave my head,” Sicheng murmured. “There it is. Emblazoned into the insides of my skull. Set me free from this torment—”

“What’s going on?” Xiaojun had come through from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel and striding through into the living room as if he’d been summoned.

“That!” Everyone simultaneously pointed at the TV, the single shot menu screen of an abominable CGI horse crowding the entire screen.

“What’s wr—mother of sweet jesus—”

“I know right!” Yangyang exclaimed. “It’s horrifying, I hate it!”

“It’s actually cursed,” Xiaojun stated, unable to draw his eyes away from the savagery of art he’d been presented with. “Obscene!”

Winwin’s voice was still low, but you could just about hear it over the whoops and cries of the others; “My sleep paralysis demon.”

“Is this what we’re watching?” Xiaojun asked, deep eyes wide and begging for the answer to be any cognate of ‘no’.

“Yep.” You grinned.

“This crime to humanity?”

“One hundred percent.”

Xiaojun stared at the screen, eyes alight with the tacky flames of the anathema displayed before him. Eventually he snapped out of his cursed gaze and headed back into the kitchen. “Dear lord—don’t start without me!”

Eventually, as the laughter died down, you settled back into Yangyang’s embrace, ushering Hendery to come closer too so you could have him near too. He looked over to you, feeling the tug on his hand, and with only a momentary pause to check if you were sure, he flopped down onto your stomach, exhaling happily with an arm stretched.

“You feel happier now, right Y/N?” Yangyang suddenly asked, voice low, and just below a whisper.

You were surprised, but nodded. “Yeah, I’m feeling much better than I did before. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” He cleared his throat, shifting his balance to support the extra wait Hendery brought to the table. “You’re certain we don’t need to enact special measures?”

You frowned, tilting your head up to come to look at his jaw, as he quickly looked back up to somewhere else in the room that seemingly wasn’t the TV for very rational reasons. You bemusedly asked about his supposed ‘special measures’, but won little response. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, before he glanced down at you, eyes flickering across each paradigm of your face with his lips pressed plush as he thought. He parted them eventually, ebbing with air and possible words, until you felt the rise of his chest as he inhaled and readied himself to speak.

Only then did Xiaojun enter the room and take the final spot at the end of the sofa, patting Hendery’s legs to get them to move.

“Ok, I’m back, we can start now!” he announced.

The ball of conversation was knocked from its ledge and rolled in a different direction to that you’d hoped.

“Who has the remotes?” Hendery piped up, feet replaced, but this time on top of Xiaojun’s legs. The elder of the two picked them off by flicking his soles.

“I do,” Sicheng replied, already frowning at the buttons. “Can someone get the lights?”

“Sure.” Yangyang stretched up behind him, hand awkwardly sliding up the wall as he sought for the switch. Eventually his fingers struck gold, and the room snapped dark.

And then the menu finally disappeared as the horror of a film began.

The movie was utter trash. But it lived up to expectations and it was absolutely hilarious. You’d spent the first hour shrieking with laughter, and then proceeded to tear each scene and every piece of dialogue apart as a five-piece. The entire film was cursed.

Hendery was slapping criticism on the plot left, right and centre to the pooint it made you wonder why he was here at all and not a movie critic. Meanwhile, Xiaojun just snorted at everything he said. The two had come to an unspoken truce, after squabbling over where Hendery could put his feet. They were now situated on Xiaojun’s thighs, and swinging every now and again.

You felt your heart burn at how adorable it was, though also suffered the pain of the jerks that Hendery made everyday he had the sole of his feet poked or tickled, which Xiaojun seemed to enjoy doing too much.

You stroked Hendery’s hair gently, lightly pressing his fringe out of his eyes where his head rested on your stomach, whilst you peered around to Sicheng to check if he was alright, having not heard a peep from him in half an hour or so.

What you found was that he seemed to be too engrossed in the movie. A grin was plastered on his face as the lights of the terrible CGI glowed in his irises and made him look like an evil mastermind in a fantasy movie of the same calibre. You hushed a chuckle behind your hand, as you leant back to turn your attention to Yangyang.

He’d been the forerunner of the jokes, cackling at every small thing and turning it into pure comedy gold for the rest of the people in the room, which you were very grateful for. The movie would have been brain-drivel without him.

He’d re-positioned himself slightly so you were higher up on his body, head much closer to be of an equal height to his. This way you could press your temple against his cheek, if you wanted. However, it was him that had his head nuzzled against you, his cheek resting in your hair.

He eventually quietened down as he grew more drowsy, instead taking in the scent of your hair, which only lulled him into more peace. With you in his arms he felt complete, in a way. As if he had a duty of sorts and when you were there he was completing it. But he wasn’t sure what this meant to him, and he didn’t want to think about it too much. A part of him deep down knew that it would cause some pain, somewhere along the line. And so he didn’t spare the thoughts a chance.

However, he couldn’t still the beating of his heart whenever you moved against him, whenever you looked to him and smiled.

As the credits rolled, there were several sighs of relief, but otherwise it was complete utter silence as the room tried to comprehend what you’d just witnessed.

You glanced over at everyone to see if they were just as confused as you were. Seeing you were in firm company in your bemusement, you announced, “The Oscars are clearly rigged for this not to win.”

Yangyang snorted. “Of course!”

“Best film ever! Y/N couldn’t make a better one even if she tried.”

Xiaojun flicked Hendery’s toe for that one.

“Oh of course, honey.” You leant over slightly, arms gently squeezing the boy in your lap, giving him a squeeze. “And you couldn’t make a worse one.”

Hendery seemed to take it as more of a compliment as he grinned, nose scrunching as he headbutted you softly. You tickled his sides briefly, seeking joy in the squeal that it earnt you, and let Xiaojun take the fall as he got kicked in the arm. You sent him an apologetic pout, not that you deep down meant it wholeheartedly.

“Ow!”

“Karma for all the headbutts I got in the stomach!” you asserted and Xiaojun shrugged.

“Yeah, that’s fair—”

It was Sicheng that interrupted. “Oh.” His voice was disappointed, and where his melancholy suddenly procured from confused you. He’d been so sunny during the movie.

You looked over to him. “Chengie?”

“The time,” he said, holding up his phone.

It was nearly midnight.

“How long was the movie?” Yangyang exclaimed.

Sicheng answered, “Longer than you’d expect.”

“Well over two hours?” Xiaojun suggested. “But that time included the credits.”

“Haven’t you guys got to be up like, stupid-early tomorrow?” you asked, voice timid, fearing the ‘yes’ that you knew would follow.

A hiss of irritation ricocheted across the room.

Xiaojun confirmed it for you. “Yeah, we do.”

“I don’t want to go...” Yangyang whined.

“I’m sorry but you gotta,” you encouraged sadly, “you need sleep.”

“And so do you,” Hendery added, kicking his legs off the sofa and stretching as he stood.

It was your day off tomorrow, though you couldn’t deny you were pretty tired. “I guess so.”

“Yeah, come on, otherwise Kun will be mad at us,” Xiaojun chuckled, “not sending you to bed at a responsible time, you know.”

You snickered, slowly shifting yourself out of Yangyang’s arms. His hands seemed resistant to the idea, catching on your shirt as you moved away.

Eventually though, he was freed from his constraints and ordered by you to head to his room. “Come on, Yangyang. You gotta go.”

He pouted at you, before reluctantly nodding his head. “Yeah, ok, I’m going.”

Hendery and Xiaojun followed, bidding you goodnight as they passed. You remained in the living room a bit after they went, opting to stretch out on the sofa instead of getting up.

“You need to head up too.” Sicheng’s voice was light and airy, like the shadows had engulfed it. You barely heard him.

“I know,” you assured just as quietly, “I’m just... taking my time.”

You could just about trace the lines of his smile in the dim light after he turned the TV off. His presence was faint, but what you could feel was warm and gentle.

He whispered something that this time you didn’t catch.

“Sicheng?”

“Don’t worry.” He sighed, getting to his feet. You heard the crinkling of wrappers and the clatter of bowls as he began to tidy up.

“Here, I’ll help,” you began.

But as you sat up, you felt an hand press firmly against your shoulder. “There’s no need, it’s ok.”

You frowned into the dark. He wasn’t looking at you, which was why his voice sounded distant. You could make out his silhouette, broad and proportioned as if he was drawn. He was like an artists unknown creation, stood in the background of their studio, overlooked by many but appreciated much more than any by the few that knew him.

You worked up the courage to enquire about the occurrences earlier. “Why wouldn’t you come over and sit with us? Like, during the movie or before.” Feeling intrusive, you hurriedly added: “I mean, I don’t mind of course, just... you know?”

That caused him to look at you, but he remained silent for the longest time. You were about to change the subject when he finally replied.

“I didn’t want to get in your way,” he cleared his throat, scooping up an unopened snack bag under an arm, “besides, you were already quite busy with the others, so... I didn’t want to overwhelm you with anything more.”

Your features softened at his words, a pang in your heart. “I appreciate that, Chengie. But please remember that you won’t overwhelm me or get in my way. I like hanging out with you just as much as the others.”

You could make out the smile on his face, small and sweet, before he ushered himself away towards the kitchen. “You need to head to bed, Y/N, you need some sleep.”

He was right, but you were convinced you weren’t going to leave until you got one thing.

You headed to the entrance into the kitchen and waited for Sicheng to come back. Upon his return, he almost bumped into you, but caught himself just in time. Your eyes met in the darkness, lit by the streetlamp from outside the window far behind you. His glimmered with the golden haze, as he wordlessly questioned why you were there.

“I know, I’m heading up I promise,” you answered for him. “But... can I have a hug first? Please?”

Lips pressed into a small ‘o’, he looked shocked by your request, before melting into another soft smile. “Of course.”

His hands brushed along the curves of your shoulders, as if to appear to find their way, and eventually travel down to wrap around you. The position wasn’t exactly the most conventional, as you found your arms bunched at his chest, but you made the most of it regardless.

He held you delicately, but firmly against him. It was reassuring, despite the lack of time you spent there pressed into his warmth, as you felt your breath slow, and your eyes close.

You didn’t want to let go, but Sicheng was more sensible than you, and drew himself away gradually.

“Come on,” he murmured, placing a thumb against your temple and massaging the skin there lightly in encouragement.

His palm barely touched your jaw, the contact was so brief it felt like the breath of a ghost, but it sent your heart-rate into a rapid drumbeat. You imagined he could hear it, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he merely continued, upping the tempo of his caress, and sending your thoughts into a spiral of sorts. You couldn’t work out what they were saying, but it was giddy to say the least. Eventually though, conscious reconnected to subconscious and allowed you to function again. You nodded, reluctantly leaving his touch that sparked your heart rate to spike, and began the long journey to your room, leaving Sicheng to finish up downstairs alone.

Something ebbed in your heart about it, but you didn’t know what it was, nor how to express it.

Eventually reaching your room, you left the door ajar as you clambered into bed, feeling a strange loss of peace.

You decided to watch Youtube for a while to calm yourself down a bit after... whatever had happened with Sicheng, and consequently ended up staying up long enough for the others to return.

That’s when it hit you, the reason why you’d been unable to settle. Or at least one of them.

Kun had promised to return quickly, but he had been gone all night. You wanted to ask about it, but it was late, and you were comfortable in your bed. Luckily, after a few minutes, once Ten and Yukhei had retired to their rooms, your prayers were answered as Kun knocked on your door, face peaking through the gap.

You stared up at him, eyes big and expectant with your lips pursed. He had explaining to do after all.

And he was aware of this fact, as the guilt was written over his face.

“Hey, Y/N, I’m sorry,” he began, “can I come in?”

You pretended to think about it for a few moments, even though you both knew the answer. He waited though, and it was only when you gave him a ‘yes’ did he come inside.

He sidled over to your bed, eyes sweeping the shapes formed by your bed covers, to eventually perch on the side without accidentally sitting on your feet beneath the blankets.

“I’m sorry, I promised I would come back but the other two swore it wouldn’t be long, and it would be more rational to stay,” he explained, “but then it took longer than they thought, but I couldn’t risk coming home only to then head out again and... I don’t know why I listened to Yukhei about it to be honest, it’s not an overly rational thing to do.”

“Did Ten tell you to stay?”

He nodded.

“Well, I’ll let you off then,” you let the scowl fall from your face and giggled instead, “we know how persuasive he can be.”

Kun paused, eyes flitting to yours. “So you’re not mad?”

You scoffed. “Kun, I wasn’t even that mad to begin with, I promise! I can’t be mad at you for long anyhow. You’re just too—”

You’d let your mouth talk without your brain, and it suddenly occurred to you what you were saying. As your voice faltered, you weren’t sure what was supposed to follow. Kind? Sweet? Cute? Handsome?

Kun was waiting for you to finish, and unfortunately, you panicked a bit.

“Kun.”

He frowned bemusedly. “I’m too ‘Kun’?”

You nodded awkwardly, while you interrogated your own intelligence in your head. “...To be mad at for long, yes.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Well, I mean, I prefer that to you being mad at me.” He exhaled, clearly relieved. “Did you enjoy the film?”

“Oh it was awful!” you exclaimed. As you saw his eyes widen again, you laughed. “We enjoyed it so much.”

He was clearly very confused, and his lips wavered as he didn’t know how to respond.

You took some delight in his confusion, you couldn’t deny. “Well,” you propositioned coyly, “you’d understand if you’d been there.”

“I’m sorry!” he reiterated, eyes wide and searching yours.

“Ok, I’m sorry, I’ll stop now,” you laughed, though felt a little bit guilty and sighed, sending him a small sweet smile. Although it occurred to you that he still owed you. “But… there would be something that would make it all up to me—”

To your surprise, Kun interrupted you, already one step ahead, “I know. Here.” He shuffled along the bed so he was much closer to your body, arms held out for you.

You didn’t hesitate, much to his gratitude, and levered yourself up and straight into his embrace. His hands held your back firmly, gently pulling you even closer as he nestled his nose into your neck, mimicking your own positioning. Tender and tranquil, Kun seeped solace. While his fingers drew art upon your back, his head tipped into yours, his voice a deep murmur, “I’ve been waiting hours to do this.”

Your heart skipped a beat, you couldn’t even help it, though you shook it off. You’d been all over the place that day, emotionally, so of course you were going to be reacting all fuzzily over kindness. Well, that’s what you told yourself. Besides, he was just stating facts.

“Me too,” you finally answered, barely able to work up the effort to speak anymore. The tiredness swept over you suddenly, but you didn’t fight it. Your body was crying for sleep, and your mind had finally agreed that it was time to give into that small, tired voice.

You pulled yourself away gradually, hands coming to rest on his shoulders as you peered up at him. He held you at arms length, studying your face as you did his. You’d never noticed how rouge his lips were naturally tinted, how they curved into a smile as they opened to speak. Or how soft his cheeks were, as a long, slender dimple appeared as he did.

“You really need to sleep,” he said, “your eyes are constantly closing.”

You acknowledged his remarks with a lethargic nod, before shifting your weight once again to allow yourself to lie down under your covers.

Kun stood to allow you more space, letting you curl up to conserve warmth.

“You got everything you need?” Voice as light as silk, he leant over to catch your eyes behind the bundled blanket.

“Yeah.”

He nodded, straightening up and heading for the lamp on your bedside table. As his fingers flipped the switch, his brain stuttered. He’d wanted to do something for a very long time, and this was the perfect opportunity to do it. You’d already been desperate for a hug from him and him specifically. But it was if something was stopping him.

The lights went out, and he felt his feet moving by themselves towards leaving the room.

“Goodnight, Kun,” you called after him, watching his retreating silhouette in the light from the landing.

As he reached the door he held it open, head peering into the darkness to catch a final glimpse of your face in the dim light for the day. You already had your eyes closed, hair around you like a halo, temple exposed and waiting. You looked so adorable wrapped up and surrounded in warmth.

“Goodnight, love.”

And with that he left the room, leaving the door ajar, rubbing his own lips to make up for the contact he missed as his cowardice took over once again.

There would be another time. He prayed that there would be, and that it was him alone who got the opportunity.

But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

~~~

AN: longest thing ive written and published wtf. It’s also unedited as of yet and with a piece this big it’s bound to have mistakes so I am very sorry for them and will get round to editing eventually i still need to update my masterlist oop

Also, all film names were randomly generated on a title generator. If they are actually the names of films then they weren’t intended to be.

Masterlist

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ravenbrenna09 · 5 years ago

Text

Safe - Chapter One

AO3

...

Hey, everyone! I finally got around to posting the first chapter of Sander's POV of Unattainable. When I asked at the end of Chapter 3 of Unattainable, a lot of people wanted it so I decided to go ahead and write it.

Now, I'm letting everyone know that it will be a bit heavier than some of Robbe's story with one main point being (if you saw the tags) that there are mentions of past abuse. Please do not read this story if you feel uncomfortable with these topics or it's too triggering.

Also, this chapter was soooooooo long and it was only HALF of what I originally wanted to be Chapter One, so the entirety of the chapter is on AO3 now. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

...

italics = receiving; bold = sending

...

Sander wasn’t for sure the last time that he felt remotely safe.

The use of the word was foreign to him, but the only time that Sander could pinpoint a moment that he might’ve felt safe was at the warehouse, the one that he was headed towards now, the purr of his motorcycle vibrating his legs as he drove. It had been a staple of his high school, so much so that he still remembered the route to take, the knock on the garage door. He hadn’t been here in years, not since his final year, before his mother had packed up him and Camille and took them with her to Paris for a job, to get away from his father.

As if the mere thought of the man that was equivalent to a sperm donor had summoned it, his scar lit up like an uncomfortable burn, like an old would that was reopening.

Back when he was younger, back when his father’s passive-aggressive comments and the way he held them too tightly when he got angry had been considered how he showed love, Sander had been nothing but obedient to him (sometimes, even now, he wished he could turn back the clock, back before the harsh reality of his father’s words fully sat in, because he missed the man he thought his father had been). He listened to his father’s every command, dodged his wrath endlessly, and remained on guard, so much it seemed normal. But, then, he realized it was wrong, the way his father showed love, and so he fought back. His mother would try and divert his father’s rage, but Sander would fight back against him harder, unable to see his mother be the only one getting hurt anymore.

(The first time he walks into school with a black-eye, he claimed that it was a fight that he had won in an attempt to divert attention away from his mom, not wanting to get her in trouble. His high school art teacher didn’t buy his story and his French teacher pulled him aside, giving him makeup to cover it up, which he took, and encouraged him not to fight… but if Sander was being honest, she didn’t believe his story either.)

Part of the reason he snuck out to the warehouse was to spite him, but Sander admitted that he kept the events of the warehouse to himself. His father was a cop, rigid in making sure that Sander didn’t embarrass him by getting arrested. When Sander had been caught smoking with spray paint on his fingers, he was blessed with a broken arm, a bruised eye, and a scar on his chest (his tattoo covered the scar from sight, only able to be seen if someone knew where to look). The events leading to him in a hospital had been something of a blur, but his mother had enough, grabbing her children and all the important things and charting them on the first flight to Paris.

It was how Sander had met Eliott, who was his friend before Sander became Instagram Famous and Eliott became an established director, and, through him, all of his friends.

But, after moving back to Antwerp, Sander hadn’t been back to the warehouse, partially because of Britt (his now ex-girlfriend), partially because he didn’t have the time, and partially because he was afraid that his father might show up and break his arm again for even thinking about going to the warehouse. He knew the fear was largely irrational because his father had denounced all claim and moved to the Netherlands (but, no matter how irrational his thoughts were, he knew his therapist would insist that his feelings were valid).

Over the horizon, he spotted the warehouse. It still looked the same, maybe a little bigger, and there were a handful of bikes and cars pulled up outside, partially obscured by the shadows of the trees around them. It might’ve been something of a miracle that it had never been found before now, by the police or anyone, because there was surely something suspicious about cars and bikes and, now, a motorcycle pulling up to an abandoned warehouse surrounded by trees.

Sander directed his bike beneath a tree, using his foot to balance as he pressed down the kickstand, cutting off the engine, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Without thinking, he pulled up his helmet, just enough to uncover his face, and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, tilting his head back. When was the last time he had been out of his apartment? Living in his new apartment, even surrounded by unpacked boxes that weren’t getting emptied quickly enough for his inner, meticulous satisfaction, Sander had finally started feeling normal again.

Now, outside of the warehouse and the unknown family that he missed so much, he felt a little exposed, a little nervous, like he had changed too much from the person that he had been before.

His phone buzzed in his hand and he glanced down.

noor.bauwens sent a message.

We’re on our way. I know you’ll probably be taking tons of pictures. But come say hi :)

Sander smiled, unable to contain his smile.

Noor Bauwens had been an old friend of his, back in art school. The two of them got along swimmingly and were interested in more of the same stuff. Aside from Sander’s intense love of David Bowie, the two of them had the same music taste, the same interest in art, a certain fascination for well-done tattoos, the warehouse that he was at. In fact, it was through her that Sander had met Britt (whether that was a good thing or not was still undecided), but it increased the frequency in when they saw each other. When Britt and Noor had a falling out, Sander felt like he lost Noor too. Their uni classes were on different blocks and they always promised to meet up, but they never ended up following through.

Now, though, they had a chance to reconnect. Sander missed having friends outside of Britt and her friends from uni. Since their breakup over a month ago, Sander had come to the shocking realization of how lonely he had truly been. The fact that Amber was always with her boyfriend and his friends, his sister was out of the country on a friend-vacation, and his mother was in America had really sobered up his realization of how controlling Britt had truly been.

Sander returned his attention to Noor’s earlier messages. When she had messaged him earlier today, Sander realized, quite suddenly, that he no longer had anyone stopping him from going to the warehouse. His father used to sit and watch him until he went to sleep, angry when Sander’s restless mind prevented him from slipping into sleep. Britt had condescending words, often treating him like a child in need of guidance and Sander had gotten used to her words and passive-aggressive comments, wanting to avoid an eventual fight.

Hey, Sander. Are you still into photography? If so, can I ask for a super big favor? My boyfriend and mine’s four year anniversary is coming up and I’m doing a piece at the warehouse. But, obviously, we can’t have the mural forever so I was hoping that maybe you could take a photo? And, then we’d be able to have the photo with us forever?

Of course, I would pay you! Whatever the cost.

Nonsense. I don’t need to be paid to do a favor.

Sander, I’m paying you.

Nope. Not going to accept it. I don’t need any money. I get paid enough with commissions so you don’t need to worry. Just let me do this for you. As a friend? Use the money and go out to a nice restaurant or something.

Are you sure?

Yes. Absolutely.

Okay, fine. I’ll be at the warehouse later. I HAVE to finish tonight. Busy week & no time to go out and finish. I might bring my boyfriend. He likes keeping me company.

Awesome! Knock still the same?

Yep. I’ll see you later tonight!

Yup, can’t wait to meet this boyfriend of yours.

Lol, yeah, I usually bring him around. If not him, then I might bring my friend, but I think he’ll come tonight.

Returning his phone to his pocket, Sander adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. His camera weighed down inside of it and his apartment keys dug into his thigh, practically cutting through the fabric of his pocket. He quickly replaced his motorcycle helmet with a black mask that covered his nose and mouth, pulling his hood over his head to obscure the rest of his features. The last thing that he needed was for someone to recognize him as earthlingoddity here in a, probably illegal, spray-painting ring.

That was another reason that Sander stopped feeling safe.

earthlingoddity was his Instagram handle. Before he had gotten that commission for Eliott’s Polaris, before he quickly gained enough followers to rival some other art Instagrams, he had simply posted what he wanted to and showcased his art. Once his followers reached a certain point, they wanted to know more about them and Sander was willing to give some piece of his life, of who he was, because he loved each and every one of his followers that supported him and loved him. He loved being recognized in public and hearing from his fans in person.

But, since he returned home with Camille, bickering over what to eat, only to find a brown-haired girl (who, he later learned at the court hearing where he was granted a restraining order, was named Estelle) that he had seen almost everywhere he went in his living room, a set of keys with his front door key on her keyring, he couldn’t help feeling unsafe and not wanting to be recognized. He packed up his things within a day, moving back in his mother’s house, but he didn’t feel safe there either with the memory of his father lurking around, so he found a new apartment, one with higher security, one where only residents could get in with key to the gate outside or a specific combination that was lengthy, and moved there. It was part of the reason why he stayed home so much.

If he went out and looked over his shoulder and saw Estelle there, he was afraid that he would never feel safe anywhere ever again, forced to only live in a space that was only halfway safe.

Letting out a sigh and whispering, you’re okay, to himself until he believed it, Sander rose from his motorcycle and moved to the warehouse. His knuckles rapped against the metal of the garage door, echoing slightly. The knock was still ingrained in his mind, beat out with his fingers as he sketched, forcing himself to remember the beat of the knock. Once the rhythmic tapping was complete, the door was rising and Sander quickly ducked beneath it so they could lower it back down.

He didn’t recognize the eyes of them right inside the warehouse, but one approached from further in. He was older and taller, his hands shoved in his pockets, and Sander didn’t know his name, or remember the code name he used to use, but he recognized (vaguely) his grinning green eyes and the patch on his black jacket. He quickly moved to embrace Sander, grabbing his hand and patting him on the back, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our own camera boy! Where’ve you been man? It’s been years!”

Not wanting to go into a long story, Sander shrugged and quickly changed the subject, “Around. Mind if I take pictures tonight? One of the others asked me for a favor.”

“‘Course! Been a while since we’ve had someone here to document it all. Always nice to see the progress you know? And, besides, you know that you’ve always been welcome. Just promise not to disappear for years after tonight, yeah?”

Sander laughed, real and genuine, the first one that he’s had in a while. “Yeah, course, just a lot of things happened all at once and I couldn’t get away. Should be here more though after tonight.”

“We’ll catch up later, okay?”

Sander nodded, fairly sure that he had been winked at, but he simply rolled his eyes, moving further into the warehouse and digging his camera out of his bag. Compared to all those years ago, there was at least twice the number of people. More artists talked to one another from behind masks, combining and collaborating on spray-painting masterpieces around the room, on the walls, on trucks and pillars and any surface that would allow for some form of expression.

It was addicting and fascinating.

Without fully realizing, the camera was level with his eye and he began taking pictures of anything and everything and everyone around him.

He took so many pictures that he had to switch out memory disks. He had used whatever remained on the one in his camera, which had only really been half full. Luckily, he had thought about grabbing his extra memory disk and switched them out. He knew that he would never be able to post these photos on his Instagram, or even display the more detailed ones outside of his apartment. But, seeing this environment, experiencing it, sent a thrill up his spine that he had missed desperately. He missed being here.

It had been too long since Sander had been able to capture this atmosphere without having to worry about getting home to Britt to avoid another fight.

Over the past years, he had fallen into the comfortable lull of being in a relationship with Britt.

At best, their relationship was fragile, switching back and forth from good to bad like a light switch being flipped, a relationship bounded out of necessity, not of love. At first, it was nice, the sex was good and she was good to him. But, then, once she found out about his episodes and his medicine and everything else that had happened, everything that Sander ever did was a byproduct of his “mania”. Sander wanted to shout that it didn’t work that way, but that would only be a result of his mania too.

However, as much as Sander didn’t want to admit it, he needed Britt more than he cared to admit. He wanted to be loved, but Britt’s love for him was all he might ever get, might be the only love that he would ever get in this world. She was controlling and Sander gave in to her demands if only to prevent a useless fight that he would never be able to win. She spoke to him like he was a child and she was his mother. But, through everything, through all the breakups and him getting with others, she had stayed around, been with him through his episodes, and, in her own way, loved him.

But, following yet another breakup and yet another hookup after weeks of Britt’s passive-aggressive avoidance, she had reached up, slapping him across the face and shouting at his face for him to “be normal!” and he had enough. At that moment, Sander had finally come to the conclusion of what he was doing to himself and he had enough. Sander wanted to be loved, but he had seen what had become of his mother in the shell of his father, and he deserved better than that. So, he snapped and kicked her out, leaving a shocked ex-girlfriend standing outside his front door.

He didn’t deserve that.

No one did.

Looking through the lens at the arts around him, Sander realized that he didn’t have to be Britt’s “abnormal” boyfriend anymore, the boyfriend who dragged her through rough times, the boyfriend that caused her to complain to her friends, the boyfriend who pretended that he didn’t hear her friends say that she was “so strong” to be with him. He could be anyone that he wanted to be. Next week, he’d be another artist, spray-painting the walls in an explosion of color. But, tonight, he would only be an observer.

So, Sander took pictures of anything and everything and then some. There was a couple in the corner, pulling down their masks down to kiss, running their fingers through their hair. An artist stood in the middle of a section of the floor, his masterpiece coordinated off by the backpacks of the other spraypainters. There was a man with his hair tied back in a bun, a mask over his face, with a can of spray paint in one hand, a used paintbrush behind his ear covered in bright green paint, and a palette balancing dangerously on his knee, and Sander kneeled to snap a photo of the delicate balance.

After snapping a photo, Sander turned to try and find a new person to shoot and found Noor on the other end of the warehouse.

She was at the side of the warehouse, towards a wall that hadn’t been touched all night and a half-finished piece plastered on the wall. She wore a black shirt, her jacket was wrapped tightly around her waist, and a deep red skirt. He could tell from the way that her masked moved that she was talking to someone, moving away from the wall towards a pillar where there was a set of legs.

As Sander moved his lens and moved to take a photo of the wall, to depict the progress of Noor’s work-in-progress, should Noor ever want it, through his camera lens, she caught sight of him.

There was a man that sat against the edge of his pillar, leaning up against the untouched pillar of a quiet warehouse. He was sitting on the floor with his phone in his hand, his jacket two sizes too big tucked behind him. He was beautiful, dressed in a pair of denim jeans and a sweater that was a size too big. His hair, brown, was all messed up and ruffled, like the wind had been blown through it, and the tips curled upward. The bright blue moonlight bathed down on his shoulders, accenting every part of his face that Sander could make out from this way.

The mask on his face hid half of his face from Sander’s, but through the camera lens, he could see that he had brown eyes that scrunched up when he laughed. The mask obscured the majority of his features and locked them away from Sander, but there was a knowing twinge in Sander’s stomach, in his mind, his soul, as if everything in his life had simply been leading to one, singular thing…

Him.

Sander blinked in realization, his heart swelling in his chest.

Was this what Senne had talked about all these years ago?

Senne had been one of his closest friends and his roommate for almost two years before he moved back in with his girlfriend at her apartment. Then, life had gotten in the way. Senne had been in desperate need of a place to live now and Sander had been in desperate need of a roommate now. So, Amber had traded their information and they had quickly moved in together. For the first two months of their roommateship, Senne would stumble home drunk, curling in his bed and clutching at a gray blanket. Sander would always grab him some medicine, leaving it by his nightstand and pull his blankets over his shoulders.

It was after two full months later, as Valentine’s Day approached, when Senne came home drunk, wasted beyond relief at only midday, barely able to stand and leaning against Sander as he guided him into the bathroom, that Sander learned why he was drinking so much. It ruined his plans with Britt, who was annoyed that Sander would cancel their plans to take care of the drunk, wasted Senne, but Sander didn’t care. Senne needed him. As Senne bent over the toilet and Sander rubbed his back, Senne choked out, “I thought she was the one. I thought that… I had finally found someone who would always be there and then I went and fucked it up completely.”

It’s nearly six months later before Sander found out what happened, everything that happened. How Senne’s brother had taken advantage of Zoë, how he had tried to get between Senne and Zoë, how it was almost worked in tearing them apart. But, Senne had been there for Zoë, going with her to the police station, urging her to testify so she could seek justice, trying to do what was best for her. In the end, she needed space and had ended their relationship. Senne couldn’t blame her at all, but that didn’t make the pain hurt any less.

Even drunk, wasted beyond belief, Senne had been so sure of what he was feeling.

He was right.

By the next Valentine’s Day, the two of them were back together. Sander would receive messages to avoid the house so they could have some privacy and Sander would tease Senne because he would never let Sander meet her, but Senne would laugh, saying he didn’t mean anything by it. By the time that Senne moved back in with Zoë at her apartment, he had only met Zoë had a handful of times, only in passing as he entered the apartment and she left it. They made promises to meet up, to hang out sometime, but Britt kept him away from his other friends, claiming that he never spent time with her. Sander would agree with her, only to avoid fights that he couldn’t win, but that never seemed to work out for him.

Yeah, this was that feeling. It had to be, Sander thought, staring at the man with Noor, playing on his phone and chatting with her. His eyes were squinted like he was smiling. He was the one. It was only once Sander took a half-a-dozen photo, knowing that the camera and the photos wouldn’t be able to properly capture the sight in front of him, that he remembered Noor’s message from earlier. His stomach dropped and he fetched his phone from his pocket.

I might bring my boyfriend. He likes keeping me company.

His stomach flipped, jumping around in his gut.

Fuck.

It had taken Sander hours to work up the courage to go over there. The entirety of Sander’s fresh memory card was filled exclusively with pictures of Noor’s brown-haired company (well, almost, he needed some room for Noor’s masterpiece), still playing on a phone, his head down, his head up, looking around the room. His heart thundered against his chest. He’s the one. But… if this man was Noor’s boyfriend… He had to know. If he was happy with Noor, if he had been happy these past four years with Noor, would Sander be doing more harm than good? Could he walk away, pretend that it had all been a fluke and that he didn’t have this deep emotional sense of knowing, if it meant that he would be happy?

As Sander walked over, as Noor stood on her toes and hugged him tightly, as the man’s big brown eyes rose to meet Sander’s green ones, a look of indifference and confusion on his face, as his heart fluttered at the look of innocence on his face, Sander hoped that he could. Because, if he was happy, it was going to hard to walk away. As Sander moved to respond to Noor’s question of how he was, the phone in her hand vibrated and she turned towards the man beside her, extending the phone.

The man looked away from Sander, down to the phone, and took it from her grasp, whispering, “I’ll be right back,” and walking away. Sander watched him go, spotting the look on Noor’s face. Worry and concern covered her face as she watched after him.

After a couple of seconds, Sander broke the silence, commenting, “He’s cute. Your boyfriend.”

Noor turned towards him, chuckling. “No, he’s not my boyfriend,” she replied. Sander tried to control his breath of relief, and probably failed. “He used to be, but we ended up becoming friends afterward. My boyfriend had to go home. He’s got an important meeting with his mom in the morning.” She glanced towards him again, Sander followed her gaze to him, he had pulled his mask down to talk on the phone, and Sander felt himself breathe a little heavier. “So,” Noor spoke up, nervous and drawing Sander’s attention back to her. “What do you think?”

Beautiful.

Oh, she meant the mural.

“It’s amazing, Noor. You put so much work into it,” Sander informed her, turning back to the mural. “I’ll definitely get a lot of good pictures. We can meet up and you can pick out the best one. Once I can edit it for clarity, I’ll print it out and frame it for you. Just let me know when to bring it.”

Noor nodded her head. “Thank you so much, Sander.”

“You’re welcome.”

For a heartbeat, they’re quiet.

“I’ve missed you,” Sander spoke up.

Even from behind the mask, Sander could tell that Noor was positively beaming. “I’ve missed you too.” She threw her arms around him in a hug, holding him so tight that Sander had to squirm to get her to loosen her grip. But, then she pulled back. “We’ve definitely got to meet up. Outside of the picture stuff. We haven’t been able to properly hang out since before you and Britt got together. I miss when it was just the two of us.”

“Me too,” Sander confessed.

Noor smiled, beaming. “I wish I could stay here longer. But, we need to get back to our apartment. The rest of our roommates have already gone to bed and I’m likely going to be woken early up in the morning by my boyfriend. Maybe we can meet up sometime next week?”

“Of course,” Sander replied.

Noor grinned, bending down to collect the remains of the man’s things and rushing over to him. Sander watched her go, holding up his camera to take multiple photos of the mural. There was so much that he had loved about it and he knew that there must’ve been some form of special connection to Noor and her boyfriend. She had been meticulous about every detail, the blending of colors on the wall, the detail of the stars in the night sky. Sander turned to find them talking, the man’s mask still at his neck, and without thinking, he reached up, snapping a photo of the man as he talked to Noor.

Then one more.

Then another.

And, then, Noor took him by the wrist and pulled him towards the exit. The man followed easily as Sander turned towards the mural again, taking a couple more. He wanted the photo and the frame to be perfect for Noor, for her boyfriend, because Noor was important to him, still, after all these years. But, still, he couldn’t help turning and watching them go, out the warehouse door and into the abyss outside.

Once the man was gone, Sander left soon afterward, letting out a breath, his shoulders lighter than they had been before.

His Instagram story, a photo of himself, his features shrouded in darkness, and the white text across the photo, slanted in a diagonal across the screen, his words reading: Do you ever see someone and just know that they’re the one?

His phone had blown up with texts, comments, likes, replies, and direct messages. While he had disabled notifications on the majority of his social media accounts, his phone had been slammed with them as soon as he opened his app. That also hadn’t stopped Eliott, and Lucas through his boyfriend’s phone, from sending him over a dozen text messages. He had made the post on a whim, like he did everything else, but he didn’t care because he had to get it out, confess it to the world. That was him. That was it.

And, still, hours later, even though Sander hadn’t responded to the original screenshot from Eliott or Lucas’s follow up messages when he didn’t answer, he was still getting messages from the couple through Eliott’s phone.

Sander.

S-A-N-D-E-R.

Answer your goddam phone.

We need answers. (-Lucas)

Hey, Sander, it’s Eliott. Take whatever time you need. Lucas is just concerned.

No, answer back right now. I need answers. (-Lucas)

And nosy.

As you can tell.

Sander laughed, typing out.

Eliott, calm your angry hedgehog.

I NEED ANSWERS, SANDER (-Lucas).

Get home safe. I’m taking the hedgehog to bed (-Eliott)

...

READ THE REST ON AO3

#sander driesen #robbe ijzermans #sobbe #rosander #my fic #wtfock fic #sobbe fic #rosander fic #safe: an unattainable spin-off #tw: past abuse #past abuse #i'm sorry once i saw this theory i haven't been able to move away from it #so i'm sorry #brief appearance (through text) of elu #noor bauwens #this thing was 12k words

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letterfromtrenwith · 5 years ago

Text

The Night Shift Before Christmas

Poldark Advent Calendar - 22nd December

A Carolight fic set in my hospital AU, but you don’t need to have read that.

Dwight works some unsociable hours

[Title borrowed from Adam Kay]

"In the dish, in the DISH!" Rosina's exclamation was cut off by the sound of loud and extended vomiting emerging from behind a curtain somewhere over by the entrance. The police constable whose forehead Dwight was stitching grimaced, although whether it was from the noises or the fact that they likely came from the woman who'd sliced his face open with her stiletto he didn’t know.

"Why can't these fucking idiots go out for ONE night without getting fucking shit-faced?" The copper's partner was half in and half out of the cubicle, keeping a watchful eye on the rest of the A&E.

"We'd all have a lot more free time if they did." Dwight replied, carefully tying off the end of the stitches. He did his best to be sympathetic to everyone he treated - more sympathetic than the police sometimes were - but tonight he was finding himself in rough agreement with them. Every since Christmas party season had begun at the beginning of the month, they were seeing even more drunks than usual, which meant more stupid, preventable injuries and more abuse and attacks on staff. Just two days ago Emma Tregirls - who didn't even work in A&E usually but had volunteered to help out - had been thrown to the ground by some finance prick who'd snorted too much cocaine at an office party. It had taken four staff members and a practically industrial dose of sedative to restrain him. Emma had sprained her wrist.

If Dwight had hoped that things might have settled down by Christmas Eve, he'd been sadly mistaken. Apparently the whole of Cornwall had decided to drink themselves stupid in celebration of the festive season - and he, like the genius he was, had volunteered to work the night shift.

It was far from any doctor's dream shift - even those who didn't celebrate Christmas - but somebody had to do it. Originally, Dwight's scheduled days off had fallen over the Christmas period, but then he'd felt guilty when he found out that Dr Martin, who had three children and two grandchildren, was going to be working, and had offered to swap shifts. Dwight was used to working Christmas, which wasn't much of a holiday in most of the places he'd travelled to with MSF, and used to having nobody who expected him to be anywhere else. Except now he did, namely his girlfriend of six months, Caroline, whose department, Dermatology, was on-call only between the 23rd and 27th of December. He'd been invited to Boxing Day lunch with her and her Uncle Ray, which he could still go to, so he'd been somewhat confused about Caroline's coolness towards him ever since he'd told her that he was working.

He was still pondering it when, after another couple of hours dodging vomit and patching up drunks, as well as soothing some minor burns from a small Christmas light related fire, he made his way to the doctor's break room for a much needed sit down. Inside, he found George Warleggan and Margaret Vosper watching A Vicar of Dibley Christmas special and rooting through a tin of Miniature Heroes.

"There's only eclairs left." Margaret said by way of greeting, offering him the box, but he shook his head. He knew George had scored this shift because the anaesthetists had a strict rule about taking turns to work unsociable hours, but he wondered who Margaret, a consultant radiologist, had pissed off to end up working tonight instead of the usual technicians - the beauty of radiology as a specialty is that it could be practised remotely.

With a groan, Dwight lowered himself onto the lumpy sofa. Margaret and George had already taken the mildly less uncomfortable chairs on either side. It took him a second to notice that George was waving an different box of chocolates under his nose.

"Mince pie truffles. Got them in the secret Santa bran tub."

"Lucky." Dwight had got a keyring with a picture of a bone and the slogan 'I found that humerus'. To add insult to injury, it wasn't even an accurate depiction of a humerus.

Remarkably, the sweet did actually taste like a mince pie, and Dwight savoured it, knowing it was the best tasting thing he was likely to eat tonight. The canteen wasn't open tonight, and the alternative was a selection of sandwiches which looked like they could be used to sole shoes.

George's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket, smiling softly at it as he scrolled through the message.

"Elizabeth?" Dwight asked. George's wife was an obstetrician at the hospital, but she was spending Christmas Even at home looking after their two children.

"Yeah. She's only just managed to get Valentine off to sleep. This is the most into Christmas he's been so far and he's so excited for Santa coming. He'll be up long before I get back in the morning so she's having to sneak the presents out by herself."

"And Ursula?"

"She's not quite old enough to totally understand yet. She loves the tree and the decorations, and I'm sure she'll love her presents as well, but she won't be up at 4 in the morning. Until Valentine wakes her up, that is!"

Dwight felt for his colleague, having to miss out on special moments like that with his children, but that was the lot of most NHS workers, and they all knew what they'd signed up for. Suddenly, his pager buzzed, interrupting his thoughts and signalling the end of his break.

His key missed the lock on his first two tries, and Dwight decided he was glad he'd walked home from the hospital. It was a bit of a trek, but he was far too tired to drive. Eventually managing to get inside, he practically dragged himself up the stairs to his flat, where he was about to fight with another lock when the door abruptly opened and he only just managed not to fall in. Caroline stood in the doorway, looking a lot more awake - and human - than he felt.

"You're late."

"Didn't realise I had anything scheduled." He hadn't meant to give a sarcastic answer but his exhaustion had worn down his internal filter. He was coping with the warring desires to pass out and to eat, and the confusion of finding Caroline in his flat was not helping. They hadn't made arrangements for today, had they? He'd thought about suggesting she come round and he cook her an early evening Christmas dinner, by way of a sort of apology for choosing to work - not that he really thought he needed to apologise for that - but her odd, distant behaviour had put him off.

"Come and sit down before you fall down." Her slight frown softened, and she gently nudged him into the sitting room, taking his bag out of his hand and tugging at his coat. Dwight was tired and befuddled enough that he didn't resist as she also took his scarf and gloves and directed him towards the sofa. As much as he tried to resist, as soon as he hit the cushions, his body gave into his exhaustion and his eyes began to close.

"What'y doin' 'ere." He managed to mutter when Caroline draped something soft over him.

"Well," Caroline replied, "I thought that if I was going to be grumpy about not spending Christmas with my boyfriend, I'd better do something about it. There'll be a Christmas dinner ready for you when you wake up - I hope."

Dwight managed to mutter something he hoped was close to 'thank you'. As much-needed sleep finally claimed him, he felt Caroline kiss his forehead.

"Merry Christmas, Dwight."

#poldark #dwight enys #caroline penvenen #george warleggan #margaret vosper #dwight x caroline #carolight #poldark advent calendar #pac19 #f: au #f: dc #fic #m: fic

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langdvnshepherd · 6 years ago

Text

Good For You ~ Epilogue (Duncan Shepherd x fem!reader)

PART ONE ~ PART TWO ~ PART THREE ~ PART FOUR

MASTERLIST

Summary: You’re a broke ass college student whose one night stand with the infamous Duncan Shepherd leads to the development of a rather interesting relationship between the two of you.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: sugar daddy!Duncan, fem!reader, smut, daddy kink, voyeurism (sort of? not really but), lost of fluff hehe

A/N: Surprise bitch, I bet you thought you’d seen the last of sugar daddy!Duncan and Y/N 😏. Since everyone seemed to be feelin some type of way that Part 4 was the last part, I figured I’d finish them off with a cute lil sum sum bc why the hell not lmao. This also kinda fits in line with it being finals szn, so for all my thotties still in school, enjoy!! Also I barely proofread this pls forgive me. Once again, thanks for all of the kind words about my writing, it means the world to be as always!

A set of keys rattling on the other side of Duncan’s apartment door indicated her arrival. They jangled rapidly, as if getting inside was of utmost importance. Duncan knew exactly who it was, as only two other people in the world had a key to his place. Annette, whom he’d only recently just reconciled with after the earth-shattering news that revealed she wasn’t actually his mother, had taken off to Mexico earlier that week to tend to international ties with The Shepherd Freedom Foundation, so it wasn’t her. Which led him to believe that only other person, a person he’d been thinking an awful lot about lately, could possibly be making their way into his apartment...

“I DID IT!” you yelled as you bolted through the front door of Duncan’s, well yours and Duncan’s, apartment. Probably a little too loud for his neighbor’s liking, but you were too excited to give a shit. Paying no mind to behave like a civilized human being, you dropped everything at the entryway and jumped over the back of the quilted leather sofa to plummet into Duncan’s lap; textbooks, designer bag, and the obnoxiously large keyring to your new Audi (an anniversary present from Duncan), all clanking to the floor in one large pile.

Duncan grunted in response, the weight of you crashing on top of him so suddenly knocked the breath out of him. His face quickly became consumed by a genuine, ear-to-ear smile as he remembered what you had set off to do this morning.

“I knew you would,” he stated matter-of-factly as his arms wrapped securely and comfortably around your waist, his lips reaching over to plant a quick kiss on your lips before you told him all about the day you’d just had.

In the years that the two of you actually spent together as a couple, you’d come to realize many things about the infamous Duncan Shepherd. One being that he loved physical contact. He wasn’t quick to expose that side of himself back when he was considered strictly as your sugar daddy, but that passing of time had made him soft. He loved touches. Even little touches like pressing his knee against yours under the table during boring gala dinners, or rubbing small circles on the underside of your ass while his head was between your legs. Duncan lacing his arms around you had become customary, part of your daily routine when either of you came home for the night.

“The department loved my thesis. They said my research was impeccable, and that there wasn’t a single thing I could have done to improve it. I’m set to graduate in two weeks!” you gloated, and you damn well reserved the right to.

For the past 3 years, you’d been working on your thesis for graduate school, and it just about took every ounce of sanity you had left. You couldn’t count the number of days and nights you’d spent huddled over a textbook or sobbing into your laptop because your numbers weren’t coming out right or you felt like your argument was pointless. But Duncan was there for you through it all. He saw how drained you were for months on end, and wanted to make sure he was doing everything he could. You quit your job, finally giving into Duncan’s pleads to let him cover your expenses full time. You’d even been living with him for just over a year now, not counting the many, unofficial months prior when a large collection of your bras and underwear had mysteriously taken over drawers of Duncan’s dresser. Your roommate was pissed after finding out you were abandoning her to move in with your boyfriend, but she quickly retracted her remarks upon realizing she’d be able to visit Duncan’s lavish apartment whenever she pleased.

“So I’m guessing my little stress reliever really helped take the edge off for your presentation then, hmm?” he snidely remarked, referring to last night, when his fingers worked you over the edge repeatedly. You’d been up all night worrying, sleep being the furthest thing from your mind. Duncan begged and pleaded for you to come to bed, but you refused. Too many last minute diagrams to perfect and statistics to memorize before your thesis defense the next morning. He’d somehow managed to coax you into the satin of his sheets with the promise of a good night’s sleep. There was no teasing, no holding back, just Duncan making you feel so incredibly good, knocking you into a deep slumber in no time.

“I just got my fucking master’s degree, and you want to try to make this about yourself?” you sarcastically jabbed, playfully shoving Duncan’s shoulders against the back of the couch.

He pretended to be hurt, unwinding one arm from your waist to dramatically massage the skin where you’d pushed him.

“I’m teasing, dove. You wanna go out? I’m feeling like this calls for a celebration. We can go to that new seafood restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue. You have to have a reservation, but I could probably get us in.”

“Can we just stay in? I’ve been standing in these heels for hours and I really don’t feel like talking to anyone else,” you muttered while tucking your head into the crook of his neck, the exhaustion evident in your body language.

“Of course,” he replied, resting his chin on the top of your head while brushing his fingertips absentmindedly across your forearm. “I can call in something. What are you in the mood for? Sushi? Thai?”

“Can we order pizza from that place by my old apartment?” you asked, a cheeky grin creeping its way onto your face. You knew damn well the reaction that suggestion would get out of him. You’d gotten Duncan to eat there once, but only once. After some begging on your part, Duncan agreed to give it a shot. His upbringing consisted of caviar and charcuteries, meaning greasy, $2 a slice pizza automatically made his stomach churn. He ate it, but not without complaining the entire time. Despite growing accustomed to Duncan’s ways after being with him for so long, you still yearned for that shitty, cheesy, pumped-full-of-chemicals pizza that had comforted you on many drunken nights while walking back to your old apartment.

Duncan pulled back from where he was cuddled into you to reveal the most genuine, stink face you had ever seen. His lips were pressed together firmly and turned down in disgust and his eyes were crinkled at the corners. Clearly not amused.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Serious as a heart attack, handsome,” you rattled your fingertips against his peck for emphasis, peering up at him with doe eyes you knew he couldn’t resist.

He paused for a moment longer, praying you’d suggest something, anything, else besides that stupid fucking pizza he hated so much. He honestly didn’t see how people could stomach food like that, but he wasn’t going to crush your spirits on your special day.

Realizing you weren’t budging on your wishes, he audibly groaned.

“You’re lucky I have a hard time saying no to you. You know that, right?”

“As if you ever would, Donut.”

He suppressed a chuckle at the nickname you’d recently picked given him, still trying to seem annoyed.

“Whatever, brat.” He snorted effortlessly flicked your legs off of his lap, sauntering towards the kitchen to grab his phone and place an order for what he considered the worst meal on the planet.

Somewhere along the line, the pizza had long been forgotten. Maybe it was when you’d purposely reached over Duncan to grab the tv remote, making sure he got an eyeful of your breasts as you moved. Or maybe it was when you’d kissed him to shut him up amidst his incessant bitching about how the pizza tasted like it had been left out in the hot sun for 3 days. However it went down, you’d found yourself straddled across Duncan’s lap, his hands clutched tightly at your waist, occasionally roaming down to your ass to grind you against his hardening cock.

You felt your core pulsing beneath you as Duncan ground his hips against yours, arousal pooling at your entrance. As old as Duncan was, he was always in the mood, ready to take you whenever and wherever. He had situated his body so that his legs were propped up on the cushions and his back was leaning against the stiff armrest, where he was able to hold your body as close to his as possible with ease. You were lost in the moment, not thinking of anything or anyone else except the way Duncan was making you feel. Once you were able to pry Duncan’s hands from of your ass, you withdrew your lips from his with a pop. Sliding down his body, you held eye contact with him as you reached for the buckle on his belt, eyes blown with desire. Duncan had this look on his face like he was contemplating doing something or saying something, but he certainly didn’t want you to stop either. He let you undo his belt buckle and unzip his trousers, making one less layer between you and his aching cock. You pressed your lips over the cotton of his boxers, making him groan as you mouthed at his erection that was begging to be set free. Just as you reached for the waistband of his boxers, Duncan gripped you by your wrists. “What? Are you okay?” you stopped suddenly. Duncan was never one to put things on hold, especially when your pretty, little lips were mere inches away from where he wanted you most. “Put your shoes on, I need to show you something.” “You’re joking, right?” you asked, sitting up from your place between his legs.

“Serious as a heart attack, angel,” he responded, batting his eyelashes and speaking in a sing-song voice, clearly mocking your words from earlier on in the evening.

“Come on, let’s get in the car.”

Glancing down at the bulge in boxers, you gave him one last, “Are you sure you don’t want me to take care of this first?” look. He simply smiled in return, taking your hand in his to help you up from the couch.

The car ride lasted for what felt like an eternity, largely due to the fact that Duncan had used one of the emergency ties he kept in his backseat to blindfold you, making you completely unaware of where he was taking you. You begged and pleaded for Duncan to tell you where you were going, but he wouldn’t budge. It was a surprise, he insisted.

“Is it a dog?”

“Jesus, no.”

“A cat?”

“Absolutely not, Y/N.”

“A bird?”

“Why would I blindfold you to take you to get a fucking bird?”

“I don’t know, Dunc? Why did you throw me in your Bentley and blindfold me at 11 o’clock at night anyway, hmm?

“Will you just drop it? You’ll see when we get there.” He was annoyed but the tone of voice let you know he was still entertained by your whining. You knew he was smirking despite not being able to see anything but the darkness that the blindfold allowed.

“Fine, but a dog would still be nice.”

The rest of the way consisted of silence; the whirring of the engine and the breeze of the air conditioner being the only sounds filling the confines of Duncan’s car. You tugged at the tie around your eyes, trying to stealthily catch a glimpse of a highway sign that would even slightly indicate where you were headed. He caught you every time, scolding you and sarcastically threatening to drop you off on the side of the road if you tried it again.

Suddenly, you felt Duncan applying pressure to the brakes, the car slightly jerking as he shifted the gear to park. Finally. Whatever Duncan was planning was about to be unveiled.

Your hand wrapped around the back of the tie, attempting to undo the knot and take in your surroundings. Duncan was quicker, swatting your hands away before you could slip the fabric away from your eyes.

“Not yet. I’ll tell you when you can look.”

Exhaustingly, you threw your head back into the headrest of the seat with a sigh.

“Will you stop being dramatic? We’ll be inside in like 10 seconds.” You couldn’t see him, but you knew his eyes were rolled so far back into his head they might have fallen out.

You heard the click of the door handle, and felt Duncan’s hand on your elbow, prompting you to step out of his car. Your shoes scraped against pavement, meaning he hadn’t driven you into the middle of the woods to kill you. What a relief.

He guided your steps with his fingers laced in yours, oddly soothing you as your anxiety was climbing at not having any idea where you could possibly be. The air outside was crisp, slightly chilly due to the time of night. The only noise coming from outside was the continuous chirping of crickets and other critters alike. Wherever you were, it was secluded.

“Okay, stay right there. Don’t move.” Duncan commanded, patting you once on the shoulder before leaving your side.

You heard four electronic pings and the whoosh of a door swinging open like he was hitting buttons on a keypad. Where the fuck were you?

Duncan’s hands were back on your arms in a moment’s notice, guiding you over the threshold of the door he had just opened.

“Watch your step.”

Immediately, the smell of fresh wood and chemicals filled your nostrils. Yours and Duncan’s steps echoed loudly throughout the space as he continued to lead you; the harmony of the various sounds of the outdoors no longer present.

“You ready?” Duncan asked, speaking low into your ear, the stubble of his beard just barely ghosting over the nape of your neck.

“Been ready since you blindfolded me an hour ago, Dunc.” you fired back.

Duncan was too tired to comment on any more of your whining, he just chuckled lightly in response, pressing a kiss to your temple over the thick material of the tie.

Antagonizingly slow, his fingers worked at the knot. He knew what he was doing, pissing you off even more by dragging it out. Duncan could feel the way you froze in your spot, your chest barely moved with each breath and your hands were frozen at your side; indicating your skyrocketing anxiety. He was nervous too, but you weren’t currently in the position to be able to notice the way his heart looked like it was going to beat out of his chest.

The tie fell from your eyes, ribboning to the ground and pooling around your feet. And then you saw it.

The ceilings had to have been at least twenty feet high. The walls were stark white, the one at the far end covered almost entirely with a seamless, glass window. There was a grand staircase in the middle, leading to a breezeway that overlooked the space you were currently standing in. You put it together. You were in a house, and a fucking huge one at that.

Nothing occupied the space. No furniture, no art hanging on the wall, not a single indication that anyone even lived here. It was empty.

“Duncan, where are we?” you asked, too entranced by your surroundings to turn around and look at him as you spoke.

He came around to your side, wrapping one arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him.

“Home.”

You broke away from his hold to look directly into his eyes, unconvinced that he’d just said what you thought you heard.

“What?” it came out as barely a whisper.

Duncan nudged his head forwards, prompting you to follow him. He paced himself, creeping along against the marble tile. You were further into the house now, catching new details you weren’t able to see from the front door. No words were spoken, just Duncan steering you throughout the first floor with his hands crossed behind his back. There was a kitchen, a kitchen at least three times bigger than the one in Duncan’s apartment with a double oven and appliances that looked far too advanced than anything you’d ever seen. Connected to the space was what would be a dining room, big enough for a table that could seat at least twelve. Duncan stopped just as were standing in front of the ginormous, granite island resting in the center of the kitchen.

“You made a comment a couple months back,” Duncan began, turning to face you.

“Something about how my closet was getting cramped because of how many pairs of shoes we both had. It got me thinking. I’m older now. Got a good head on my shoulders. I‘ve got you. Why am I still living in an apartment like a twenty-something bachelor? So I started looking at houses. And then I found this one. I was gonna wait until the renovations were done before I told you. There’s still a couple more things they need to do upstairs and some electrical work here and there, but other than that it’s basically finished. You looked really happy tonight, and it made me not want to wait any longer so....here we are. Happy graduation, I guess.”

You felt a warm tear roll down your cheek, too busy staring at Duncan to register the buildup in your tear ducts. He looked at you like he always did when he professed his feelings to you, with genuine, whole-hearted, adoration. With love.

“This is our house?”

“This is our house.,” Duncan confirmed, a confident smile on his face.

“I even made them put in a bigger tub ‘cause I know important bathtime is to you. And the closet is extra roomy. But if it’s not enough, you can just use one of the many spare rooms for all of your things. I know I tend to go a bit-overboard-with my gift-giving.”

A silent laugh escaped your chest, huffs of air expelling from your mouth each time.

“Duncan Shepherd, I love you.”

“And I love you, Y/N Y/LN. I can’t wait to live here with you.”

He brought you in for a kiss, cupping your cheeks in both hands as his lips melted into yours. You broke away in a smile, shifting your way out of Duncan’s grasp to look once more at what looked like the abyss that you would soon call home.

“Can you see it?” Duncan spoke up as your eyes wondered. “A giant sectional back by that room we first saw when we walked in, a dining room table over there. Black obviously. Maybe some plants over by the windows.”

And you could. You could see it. Duncan’s weird art hanging on the walls in the entryway, both of your cars parked side by side in the driveway you assumed was wide enough to back a bus into given what you were already looking at. It already felt like home, despite being an empty shell of one.

In your trance, you’d seemed to have missed when Duncan walked up behind you, pressing his chest against your back. His hands had started at your waist; rubbing soft, soothing circles against your hips bones. Inch by inch, he ever so slowly trailed his fingers up your body towards your chest, where they were now purchased just below the swell of your breasts.

“I can see you in here,” Duncan started, his hot breath fanning over your collarbones, littering your skin with goosebumps. “Standing in this very spot. Making breakfast in your underwear. Those cute, little pancakes you like to make on Saturday mornings-”

“They’re crepes, Duncan. You know that.” you snickered, burrowing further into his arms and his touch.

He kissed the sweet spot along your jawline, knowing all too well the reaction he’d get out of you. A soft gasp blooming from your lips halted you from speaking any longer. You were suddenly reminded of where you left off back at Duncan’s apartment. Already feeling the stirring in your abdomen at the thought.

Duncan leaned forward with you still in his grasp, laying his elbows flush with the granite slab of the island. He moved his kisses from your neck to your shoulders, and then to your back just at the top of your spine.

“Do we have neighbors?” you questioned, certain that anyone could see the two of you through the ginormous window. The lights were on and the house was empty, meaning your bodies stuck out like sore thumbs. It wouldn’t take a genius to catch onto what was happening. You already knew where this was going, especially since you could feel Duncan hardening against the backside of your thigh.

“Not yet. They’re building another house down the street, but even then it’s still about a quarter of a mile away,” he answered in between pressing kisses on your jugular. “Plus trees. And hedges. No one can see us, babe.”

“Good, because I need you to fuck me. Right now.”

In seconds you felt the bone-chilling cold from the stone of the kitchen island pressed against your cheek. Duncan pressed you down on your stomach to lay as flat as you could on the granite, reinforcing you with his toned arm. Your arms splayed out at your sides, fingers spaced out pushing yourself down even further.

Duncan’s other hand reached down to the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up around your waist and resting it on your back. The warmth of his fingers caressed your ass before he withdrew them briefly to unzip his own trousers. As he freed his leaking cock from his boxers, you felt the head brush just slightly against your skin, beadlets of precum spreading across your cheeks. Duncan swiftly tugged your panties to the side, desperate to feel you against his digits.

He started at your entrance, gathering the wetness seeping from your core with his fingertips. In slow, calculated patterns, he circles his way up to your clit, the contact making you shiver. A small moan fell from your lips, finally getting the action you sought out hours ago at dinner.

“I’ve barely touched you and you’re already dripping. Tell me, who is the only one that do this to you?” he asked in fake perplexion.

“You do,” you’d somehow been able to muster throughout the sea of pleasure provided to you by Duncan and his long, skillful fingers.

“It’s all for you. Every time, daddy.” you grinned against the coldness of the granite.

Duncan was content with your answer, as a low groan rumbled from his chest in response. He leaned forward once more, so his lips brushed the shell of your ear and his chest molded into your back.

“You ready for me, love?”

“Mhmm,” was all you’d managed to get out.

His fingers were replaced with the tip of his cock, swirling his member along your cunt to prepare himself for the stretch. He pressed his fingers into you once more, using the collected slick to pump himself a few times before aligning himself at your entrance.

Duncan pressed the small of your back down further against the granite, making your ass jut out instinctively to give him easier access to your dripping core. Tantalizingly slow, he pushed himself into you, savoring every inch of your walls that clenched around him with urgency. You were both breathing heavily, the melting of your bodies consuming every nerve.

Once he was fully seated inside of you, he stalled, looking down at your frame. The girl he’d managed to rope back in time after time. No matter how much he knew he didn’t deserve someone as loyal and trustworthy as you, you came back. Every time. Every night. To him. He never thought he’d find himself in this position. In his new house, with whom he was convinced was the love of his life, sprawled out on his kitchen counter at his mercy.

He leaned in once more to press a tiny, close-mouthed kiss to the back of your head before pulling himself halfway out of your drenched cunt, only to forcefully thrust himself back in again.

It felt like you had been lying there for hours. You were almost certain you’d have a dent in your cheek for a week due to how hard the side of your head was pressed into the kitchen island. Duncan ruthlessly pounded into you from behind, your cheek rutting against the granite with every slam of his hips while cries escaped from your lips. Your fingers grasped for anything, everything. He had one hand on your waist and the other wrapped almost too-tightly around the back of your neck to keep you in place, so you opted for gripping the lip of the counter as best as you could. But pearls of sweat coated your entire body, making it hard to hold onto anything for too long.

The sounds of squelching skin on skin echoed obscenely throughout the empty house. It was borderline blasphemous. Chants of, “Oh my god,” “Don’t stop,” “You feel so good,” and plenty of profanities were peppered into the mix, only adding to the indecency of the situation.

It took some time, but you finally began feeling that familiar tingle building up inside of you, causing another rush of arousal to flow effortlessly out of your cunt. It became overbearing after a while, your desperate need to milk Duncan’s cock for all that it was worth overcoming your very existence. You chased after your release by rolling your hips backward, working in sync with Duncan to fuck you deeper and harder.

“Someone’s eager. Am I not giving you enough, little girl?” Duncan mocked through heavy breaths.

“Just go faster, please,” you begged, fighting to let pleasure take over, but you weren’t quite there yet.

“Please what? Use your manners.”

“Please, daddy.”

Duncan loosened his grip at your waist, snaking his hand around and beneath you. You felt the pads of his fingers swirl lightly over the fabric of your panties that still covered your clit, all while he continued to thrust his hips into your backside. With each cycle around your bud, he increased his pressure just slightly, drawing out moan after moan from you. The sounds falling from your lips triggered moans of his own.

When he finally slipped his hand through the front of your panties, you were overtaken by a swell of euphoria, just teetering over the edge. You abandoned your other senses, focusing solely on Duncan and the way he was working you open with his cock and now his fingers. Your eyes were screwed shut, hearing going in and out, fingers grasping for purchase around the corner of the island.

“What about now? Is daddy giving you enough now?”

You couldn’t speak. Your mouth hung open, but no sound came out.

“No? Guess I’ll have to pick up the pace then.”

The feeling of Duncan vigourously massaging your swollen clit between his two fingers was enough to trigger your release. You came with a shaky scream, trembling as Duncan continued to fuck himself into you through your orgasm despite the fact that he was faltering himself. The hairs on your arms stood upright, your skin quickly becoming oversensitive to his touch.

Duncan’s hips sputtered, stilling completely as he allowed for his own release. His moans went up an octave, a sign you’d grown accustomed to recognizing as a tell-tale indicator that he was cumming. You felt his warm seed spilling deep inside of you, coating your walls as he gave your cunt a few extra pumps with his cock before slipping out of you.

He rested his chin on your shoulder, lifting you from the island and winding his arms around your waist. You could feel the dampness of Duncan’s forehead on your neck, it was cool on your fevered skin.

“Did you do that on purpose?” you asked, chuckling as you turned in his arms to face him.

Duncan smirked back at you, satisfied with your current state. You had a flat, bright red mark across your cheek from being thrown against the counter, the rest of your face flushed with an adorable, pink heat.

“Did I do what purpose?” he responded, feigning ignorance.

“Drag me all the way out here just to fuck me as loud as you wanted so no one would hear?”

His grin only grew wider, you’d caught onto his little game. He lifted you onto the island, placing you gently on the granite. Through the corner of his eye, he caught his cum dribbling down your thighs. Quickly, he caught the stream of milky, white seed on his pointer and middle fingers. He raised them to your mouth, pulling your bottom lip out just slightly with his other hand. You accepted them without hesitation, running your tongue along every centimeter of his digits. As you removed him from your mouth with a satisfied pop, he answered.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You shook your head and laughed once more at his cockiness, grabbing him tighter and lying your head against his chest.

“I did, Donut. It surely did.”

As you stood in Duncan’s arms with your head to the side, you could just barely make out a swimming pool in the backyard beyond the windows of the dining room. It was still surrounded by dirt, meaning it wasn’t quite complete. Visions danced in your head at the memories that would be made beyond those french doors.

You couldn’t wait for this place to be finished. You were ready to spend the rest of your life here with the man you’d once thought you’d never see again. The man that did exactly as he’d promised:

He’d taken care of you. And he always would.

Tagging:

@avesatanormalpeoplescareme @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @venusxxlangdon @ccodyfern @michaellangdong@michael-langdon-owns-my-soul @wroteclassicaly @omg-hellgirl@aveiangdon @belusima @readsalot73 @americanhorrorstudies@langdonsdemon @ticklish-leafy-plant @michaelfuckinglangdon@fpsjacket @mother-tequila @gold-dragon-slayer @langdonshell @coloursunlimited

#duncan shepherd x reader #duncan shepherd #duncan shepherd smut #michael langdon x reader #jim mason x reader #hoc #ahs #mine #my writing

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blackevermore · 5 years ago

Text

Keeping Count

[ Wonka x Taylor]

Summary: She says she’s not into it but secretly she doesn’t mind it. However, that doesn’t stop her from being upset with him none the less.

Genre: lol this was slight ns//fw then I slipped up

Warning(s): Spanking, Grinding, Half undressed, Language

Word count: almost 4K

A/N: I was thinking about Wonka bending me over his leg. Whoopsy doo honestly. Also sorry for the mistakes and blah I just kept writing and didn’t reread any of it I’ll do it later

Taylor and Wonka were not the types of people that could easily be told what to do. Your criticism was beath them, and your advice was nothing more than a pinch of salt on a dining table. If you had a problem with either of them, it was best to keep it to yourself, never allowing either of them to hear what you had to say. The last thing you needed was the uneasy wrath of the duo as they stood above you counting down the seconds to your misery. Unfortunately, this mindset applied to one another between them, Taylor wasn't allowed to ask too many questions, and Wonka couldn't mock her for her curiosity.

But who were they to actually follow a simple agreement like that? Taylor purposefully nagged Wonka for things that didn't make sense. Why kill the man if you actually needed him alive to sign the document? Why did shipping have to go out a day pier if you were still going to reroute the deliveries? What was the point of the hookah bar if neither of them used it? Taylor could pull out her phone and rant off the list of things she donned as 'bullshit' that her boss did or orchestrated. Half the time, her questions were genuine, her boss was a very secretive man with high power to run a whole country if he wanted to. Thank god he didn't, if he did, she would be crawling up the corner of a wall in annoyance at all the work she had to do. Wonka, on the other hand, found her curiosity both exasperating and somewhat entertaining. Her lack of knowledge was his own ego stroke of how superior he was to her. At times he didn't mind her 'stupid' questions, and he would even answer them with 'stupid' answer. But when the day was taking its toll on his wild mind, he would prefer if she shut up for once and just did as she was told. Like she was supposed to.

"Sir!"

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'? You legit can't be that childish to not allow someone to use specific colours. You can't trademark colours!" Taylor huffed as she tried to keep up with her boss's massive strides. He was trying to get away from her, but it was clear she refused to drop the topic and go away.

"I can. I will. I did." He grumbled as he tucked his cane under his arm and fished for the keyring attached at his hip. If he could find his office key before he made it to the door he could get in quick and lock her out. Taylor notices how frantic he was with metal and her two off jogging to get in front of him. She stepped over into his path and caused him to stumble backwards.

"Sir. I get that you want to keep your marking image to yourself, but that is an old lady you're willing to shut down over the colouring of her packages."

"I as always do not care. Now move or be moved." Wonka narrowed his eyes at the girl as he finally found the office key and held it close to her chest. Taylor rolled her eyes as she stood her ground and refuse to move. They stood there for a moment as they tried to stare down each other. Clearly, Wonka was cracking faster than she, his eye started to twitch which was a clear indicator that he was getting fed up. Taylor knew that it would be best to get out of his way, she knew what came after a few eye twitches and a nasty look. So many bodies left in his wake was enough insurance to never get on his bad side. But she couldn't let him win so quickly, he was petty, and she knew that she had to shut him down before he wrapped his hands around an old ladies throat and wrung her silly. Taylor tried to her eyes on his. When she noticed he grabbed the knot of his cane and pulled the cane from under his arm, her heart stopped. It became harder to lock eyes when she saw him raise it off the ground a few inches then brought it down in a vicious tap.

Warning one

Taylor automatically moved out of his way as fear crept up her back. She cursed at herself out loud for cracking but promised herself she wasn't done yet. She had a whole full of things she had to say before she reached her next limit with another tap. Wonka brushed past her quickly and down the hallway. He finally made it to his office and slid the key in to unlock the doors. When the sound of the heavy lock undoing itself met his ears, he sighed in relief of finally getting away from her. Taylor didn't understand the importance of saving face in the work world. If that old woman started using his colours to wrap her sweets than the marking pool would be slipt in two due to confusion. The world was a bunch of idiots buying things they could only associate with one person. He had already had that happen once, the reasons he closed down the factory in the first place, he didn't want a repeat of before. No matter how old his competition was, he was willing to destroy them at all coast. He was well aware that he was ruthless, a highly unfair player, and a very sore loser in a game he dominated anyway.

He took his hat off along with his long trench coat and placed them on the coat rack near the door before walking over to his desk and sitting down in his chair. He put his cane against the railing beside him and propped his elbows up in front of him with his fingers intertwined. Something told him that was the end of their disagreement. He watched the door waiting for her to bust through hot on her heels and yelling. He waited for three minutes before finally leaning back in his plush chair. He thanked whoever above for the needed silence, he needed to calm down before he did something treacherous.

The door clicked and flew open with Taylor walking over with her hands on her hips. She stood in front of his desk, tapping her foot, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Wonka told himself that if he kept his eyes close, she would go away. When he peeked from under his lashes, he cursed as she was still standing there.

"I'm not a bear, staying still won't make me lose interest. I'm upset and I'm locked in on you." Taylor hissed.

"Your interest really needs to check, you're more invested in nothing rather than something. I'm not changing my mind, and there is nothing you can do about it, little girl." Wonka's eyes shot up, full and burning holes into her face. Chills ran down her back at how creepy he could get, but that still didn't take away he was a man-child living a fantasy only a 5-year-old would want.

"Oh, now I'm a little girl?"

"You're younger than I."

"I wasn't little two days ago when I was between your legs blowing-"

"Don't finish that!" Wonka shot forward in his chair. Taylor smirked from his sudden rise and stuck out her tongue. The blush on his face gave away his embarrassment. Checkmate. Taylor always enjoyed how sheepish and bashful he got when she brought up anything sexual between them to him. He was still wrapping his head around the fact they were more than a business partner.

"Sir, you can not copyright colours." Taylor brought the conversation back around to the initial problem at hand."That old woman is going to die someday, and you are just making her life shitty by being a brat."

"You should know the definition of a brat since you are one. In hindsight Miss Snuggleknot knows better than to do anything remotely associated with me, her husband was once a great rival after all." Wonka lowered his voice when he spoke of the woman's husband. Taylor knew he killed the man long ago when word got out that there were spies in the factory. Mr Snuggleknot was one of the poor unfortunate souls that threw their hat in to get top-secrets. Wonka hunted down every last greedy handed person one by one. When he got to the old man, he took his sweet time in arranging the perfect accidental death.

"That woman still believes her husband had a heart attack while unloading his car at two in the morning. Look. She coloured her packaging like yours, but she isn't using your font which you already trademarked. Everyone knows your product from a knock off which shouldn't hold much salt over your head. You have the upper hand, and now you're trying to destroy a lady that already dealt the worse of cards from your stack. Leave her alone." Taylor slammed her hands down on his desk to emphasize her point. Wonka didn't flinch, unphased by loud bangs and aggressive actions. If he wanted to be scared or intimated, he would just go back to being a child and living with his father. His top lip scrunched up as he looked down at her hands and slowly up to her face.

"I refuse to listen to a mindless uneducated, ignorant person that knows nothing about the marketing place let alone her lefts and her rights." Wonka shot the words through his teeth like venom and Taylor gasped before knotting her brow in anger.

"And I refuse to be talked down by a man who is clouded by past trauma that he never got the chance to move on from because he refuses to let go. The world is not always out to get you, the world is not always your enemy. Stop thinking you need to kill to not be killed when it isn't necessary. Sir, I try my damnest not to make comments on your character, but you are the toxic individual that only hurts yourself. Your level of pain is the only thing you can control at this point because the child in you only allows pettiness and anger."

Wonka reached to his side quickly and gave two taps of his cane and Taylor knew she was in deep trouble. She turns around trying to take off but the hand the reached out and grabbed her wrist was already pulling her from around the desk. Taylor tried to dig her heels down into the carpet, but all that did was make her trip over her feet. Wonka pulled her to stand in front of him, his grip on her wrist was still tight, and the look on his face wasn't changing. Before Taylor could protest, saying how sorry she was, he had already being bent her over his lap. He then spun the chair around to face towards the giant window so his legs could spread out. She kicked her legs a few times trying to get him to lighten up but the more she struggled the more he pressure he applied to keep her down.

"Oh, come on! Sir, I didn't mean it!" Taylor's face started to heat up from the position she was in. This wasn't the first time he got fed up with her and bent her over. It had been a very long time since then and whenever the thought of him getting her like this pop into her head. Taylor knew that the situation could go one of two ways. Either she was going to be pissy for the rest of the day, and he was going to feel better. Or they both were going to be half-naked taken their frustrations out. From the way he had her pinned on his lap it was looking like the former was going to be victorious.

Wonka repositioned himself again to level out her body weight on his knees and lowered the hand on her back to hick up her uniform dress.

"Wonka!"

"Silence." His command was low, no room for any mercy. The girl's heart skips a beat, and she fell silence rather quickly. She would just take her punishment and hope that she could sit later without wincing. Of course, even with the delivery of this punishment. Taylor was already thinking up her revenge, whatever he does onto her she would return ten times worse. Taylor shut her eyes tightly, trying to prepare herself as best she could for his incoming hand. Wonka was heavy-handed when he was angry, he usually was the embodiment of grace and beauty, but when he had fire running in his blood, his touches felt like hell. Taylor started to flinch at the slightest touches, half them were from her hair brushing against her skin. With each flinch, Wonka tried not to break out in a smile. It was very entertaining to see her mentally preparing herself for the worse when it was yet to come. 'That is how it should be' he told himself in glee, Taylor was nuisance one moment then a cry baby the next. How could she even stand herself when she was very flippy floppy. Wonka closed his eyes and breathed for a moment before opening them and looking down at the girl. His anger was slowly slipping away, and his more logical standpoint was clearing the clouds of reasoning.

"You're pitiful, dear." He cooed mockingly.

"Says the guy who is pissy about colour packaging. Suck a dick and live."

Slap

"Fuck!" Taylor screamed out as Wonka brought his hand down in a clean sweep. The pain rocketed through her ass and down her legs. She wasn't sure what hurt more the impact or the way her skin heated up from the aftermath.

"Keep count. Straight to ten or it never ends. Plus one more if I start to bore." Wonka twisted tongue rattled off his rhyme and Taylor let out a sigh of defeat. She nodded, and Wonka smiled as she gave in to what was coming. The next slap came, and Taylor called out a broken 'two' as quickly as she could. Soon three and four with five taking a bit of time when Wonka noticed Taylor stiffen and hesitated to relax. Wonka managed to get most of his anger out in the first five hits which left his remaining five with a lighter impact. Six was still hard but this time he rubbed the area to soothe the skin under her shorts faster. Taylor didn't call out the number as she was too distracted with his gentle touch. Wonka rose a brow and quickly rose his hand and brought it down to snap her out of it.

"You fucker!" She hissed and kicked her legs, trying to get out of his grip again. That one hurt more than the others before it; she was sure it was going to leave a bruise. Taylor felt her eyes starting to water in the corners as her pain tolerance lowered notch by notch. She didn't handle pain well as it is and whenever Wonka spanked her, she couldn't help but start crying. She sniffled a bit and tried to clean her eyes before the tears fell. However, that didn't help but instead made the tears fall quicker. Wonka sighed and stuck her again but softer and even rubbed her afterwards.

Taylor gasped and pause for a moment to gather herself before saying, "S-six."

"Almost there but I won't be like the hare." He told her and Taylor took a deep breath nodding again for him to continue. At this point, Wonka was angry anymore, but he also refused to stop right in the middle. He was a man that had to finish everything he started or else it would drive him up a wall. Wonka eyed Taylor for a bit noticing how her head slumped to the side and her legs dangled lifelessly. The wet spot from where her tears fell had gotten more prominent, but he was satisfied. Well, this wasn't fun anymore if she was just going to give up and take it. Wonka's nose scrunched up at his dismay and for a second he thought about actually quitting. Ultimately pushing her off his lap and marching away with a new annoyance hanging over his head. Then an idea sparked, he knew how to get her lively again.

"God I hate when you space out, do that when I'm not bent over your lap." Taylor's comment snapped Wonka out of his trance and that was enough for him to put his plan in action. Wonka quickly pulled down her shorts along with her underwear and slipped them off her legs. Taylor reaction was immediate when she felt the tug of her clothes. She tried to get out of his lap but the hand on her lower back shot back up and pushed her down. Now she was a bit embarrassed but also turned on. This was the former outcome she wasn't expecting to happen. Wonka brought his hand up again and brought it down on the raw skin. The echo of her skin filled the room and both of them shivered. The sting still hurt but now it felt somewhat good.

"Seven." Taylor moaned and rolled her eyes at how quickly her body betrayed her. Wonka giggled which caused Taylor to shake her head at his bullshit. She waited for the next hit just hoping he would have his fun quickly and she wouldn't be put on a display of getting turned on. Instead, Wonka rudded her cheeks again then slipped his middle finger between them towards her centre. Taylor breath hitched along with her heart and she bit back a moan. He rubbed her slowly then pulled his hand away, earning him a grumble of curses and spite.

He continues to do this for the next two hits, this time keeping his fingers between her leg longer and working her up before pulling away and leaving her to perish. Taylor couldn't bring herself to care anymore and started to grind against his leg when the feeling began to fade. Wonka had to admit that the sight of her gripping his leg and rocking back and forth was exciting and made him hot under the collar. Taylor could feel his excitement beginning to rise as her stomach brushed against his middle. She smirked and moaned out his name, knowing he would lose himself. Wonka shuttered at the sound of his name on her tongue. The hand on her upper back lowered to the small of her back and back up. The hand the was being used to attack her ass repeatedly took handfuls of cheek and squeeze it.

"William." Taylor was always amazed at how easy his full name slipped off her tongue like water. She was still amazed that she never cringed at saying it either. She would cringe if she used his iconic nickname-which she had done many times and regretted it later. Through a shaky pant, Taylor lowered her head and bit down on his thigh through his dress pants. Biting was a primary 'hell yes' for the both of them no matter who was biting or getting bit. Wonka twitched and jolted forward a bit, biting down on his lip to stop his own moan from slipping out. He grabbed Taylor's right cheek and squeezed hard, digging his gloved nails into her skin. Taylor hummed in bliss then bit down harder when the final slap of her ass rocketed her forward. She unlatched quickly to moan out 'ten' which finally satisfied both of them in need of getting to the end. But all of these wasn't over just yet. Taylor threw her head back and started grinding on his leg again. Wonka eyes fluttered as she shifted towards him so when she rocked she brush against him purposefully. His hand on her ass slipped back between her legs. He drew different shapes with the tip of his finger driving the poor girl wild.

"Ahh-Sir." Taylor moaned again and gripped his pants leg for dear life. Wonka bucked his hips forward, trying to chase his high, but when it didn't measure up, he knew they had to change positions quickly or he was going to lose his mind. He pulled his hand away once more and tapped for her to stand up. Taylor, groaning the whole time, pushed back on his leg onto her toes to stand up. Once he was standing he pulled her between his legs by her waist. There was a silent agreement between them that she was overdressed and the uniform had to go. Wonka rose his fingers to start snapping off the long row of buttons that kept him away from the treasure underneath.

"I'm still mad about what you're doing," Taylor commented out loud. Wonka shot his eyes up to look at her and rolled them, of course she would bring that up again. Way to kill the mood.

"Not for long, you won't. Now being a good girl and shut your mouth for more than two minutes."

"Bit me," Taylor shot back and soon regretted as Wonka pulled her dress off and her into his lap to do just so. When he pulled away after finishing his attack, he watched as Taylor's eyes lowered and her mouth trembled.

"Careful what you ask for. I'm a man that enjoys giving the people what they want." Wonka smirked and licked his lip seductively drawing her eyes down to his mouth. Many ideas came into her mind in how to get his mouth any and everywhere on her body. It made her bit her own bottom lip and moan. Wonka smirked and pulled Taylor in for a kiss by the back of her head. They both melted into each other and moaned, both taking turns trying to dominate one another. Wonka came out as victory as Taylor gave up and threw her head back for air. His lips continued to trail down her jaw and neck and finally to her collar bone.

"Now, let's see how long you can continue to be upset with me."

#ns//fw #my wonka #willy wonka #self ship #self insert #self shipping #self shipping community

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imagineleonkennedy · 6 years ago

Text

That one where Leon is actually the protagonist to another video game

So I kinda wrote this a while back, and only recently gained the motivation to polish it up after an influx of angsty Leon Kennedy related stuff came in. It’s still kinda angsty at the start (and contains some of my own personal headcanons about Leon), but it’s also hopeful, which Stardew Valley is all about. It’s pretty short but I wanted to just hammer out what Leon’s prologue would’ve been like, and then let others decide how it’d play out, like you would in-game.

Anyways, thanks for reading this silly piece of mine. I hope you enjoy!

——

Leon can’t settle on what’s more absurdly irritating: the blood dripping into his left eye, or the difficulty he’s having deciding on how he should’ve crammed himself into this corner.

His hands might be trembling as he scans the crowd of corpses that lay twice-dead on the once pristine lab floor with his currently functioning eye. There’s no noise except for his own heavy breathing, no movement aside from his subtly quaking TMP held defensively out in front of him.

He needs to get out. Now.

A quick check through the pockets of his tactical vest let him know doesn’t have enough ammo to double tap them all, that he can’t risk using it up and losing use one of his only remaining weapons. And if he can’t get the data he’s recovered to Hunnigan for analyzation, this tiny USB drive he’d been given tucked away in his back pocket, god only knows what earth-shattering outbreak could happen next.

And so, he just runs. Runs through the maze of bodies, praying to whoever’s listening that they either won’t move for another 30 seconds or aren’t quick enough to grab his leg and get a bite in. If he falls here, he’s good as dead.

Up ahead, somewhere beyond the flickering lights of this desolate lab, something terrible shrieks, awaiting him on his path to freedom.

“Good work, Leon.”

She always says this after a successfully completed mission; he’s heard this so many times it’s lost its meaning. But he doesn’t tell her that. He just nods even though she can’t see him, more focused on staying awake long enough to just get home and drink himself to sleep.

“Thanks.” He answers, like clockwork. But instead of hanging up, like usual, Hunnigan continues on.

“By the way, your contract renewal is coming up next week, want me to get started on that for you?”

“Sure.”

“See you tomorrow for your report.”

He sets his phone in the passenger’s seat and turns down his usual exit. It’s late. Too late to hit up that bar three blocks from his apartment and get sufficiently drunk before they close up. He’s got a bottle of aged whiskey in the pantry, he thinks. Hopes.

Leon navigates the roads almost mindlessly, an action dictated by muscle memory rather than thought. There’s no other cars, just the lights above the streets and the traffic lights going through their motions. His eyes stay fixed on the asphalt stretching before him, half expecting to see bloodstains shining wet and fresh in the headlights of his vehicle.

By the time he pulls into the parking lot of the complex he dwells in, he finds his free hand has strayed to the firearm holster he’s got strapped to his thigh. He reminds himself to breath deeply as he steps out of his car, hits the half-functional auto lock button on the keyring, and slips inside before the silence of the night can get to him. The harshly lit interior and fluorescent lights above him in the entry hallway only help marginally.

Leon knows he’s been scattered to the winds. Each time he’s in a place like that, every lab, every overrun village, every alleyway crawling with zombies, some small part of him feels like it’s been left behind there. An inconsequential part, maybe, but those pieces add up. A solid chunk of soul gone away, too soaked in blood and the ash of vaporized bodies to be remotely functional.

He shuffles into his cold apartment, drops his keys on the counter with little fanfare, and makes for the kitchen. His cat’s sleeping atop the back of the couch in the adjacent living room, but stirs as he passes by and starts rummaging around the pantry. It’s where he usually leaves it, that large bottle of amber liquid that keeps the metaphorical demons at bay. Upon further inspection he finds that he’s got enough left for hopefully two glasses; enough to pull him under and maybe get a few hours worth of rest.

Lucie hops down from her perch after he sits at the table, whiskey measured out and ready. Her weight there is a balm for his nerves. One hand strokes her long, black fur as he downs the first drink. Warmth spreads through his chest in a welcome burst, and he sighs heavily as he finishes it off. He looks down, and his cat looks up, watching him idly.

There are times when Leon, absurdly, wishes he were a cat. They usually come after a few Black Russians. Leon had once confessed this to Chris in some dive bar in New York three months back; he’d never let him live it down.

Now, despite the fact that the whiskey hasn’t even begun to pump through his bloodstream, he wishes it again. To look up at someone with those curious, icy blue eyes of hers, to only have to worry about food and shelter. No churning emotions or terrible dreams that haunt his much more complicated brain.

It’s silly, but he’s lived this way for so long. No, like he’s not even living, just existing.

She’s puttering away like an engine when he polishes off the bottle and resolves to get more tomorrow after his report. Scooping up Lucie and leaving the empty glasses on the table, he heads to his bedroom. His cat curls up at the foot of the bed when he sets her there, clearly content. Leon simply strips himself of all but his undergarments and collapses onto the mattress.

His phone vibrates, but he’s too tired to answer properly. And besides, the booze is doing its job, clouding his brain sufficiently enough to keep the worst of it away and enticing him to close his eyes and-

-he’s running, legs pumping and he can only hope his memory is good enough to get him back to the elevator to the surface level. Turn left, then right, cut through the cold storage to get to the south hall by the operating room.

And they’re behind him. That slow drag of their legs and listless moaning echoing across the pristine metal halls. They won’t catch up with him at the pace he’s moving, but they have the luxury of ignoring exhaustion, all other human limitations. They’ll wear him out before he can ever hope to escape. There never was any escape, not from the hand fate has dealt him.

He reaches the elevator and jams the button, trying to catch his breath. The indicator symbol above the doors lights up, but the sounds of the dead drown out anything else aside from his pounding heart. Leon spins on his heel and sees their shadows at the other end of the corridor, sees them sway and move with their undead owners. Again, he presses the call button, knowing it won’t make it come any faster, but swiftly running out of options.

…save for the door that suddenly appears to his left. Probably not the safest option, but as the first zombies start to round the corner, he knows he doesn’t have a choice.

Leon turns and runs through, into a suffocating darkness. His legs move but he’s not getting any farther away. The moans grow in volume until he can almost taste the putrid odor of rotting bodies-

He collides with something solid, and then there’s warmth, surrounding him. Gentle arms, trim nails trailing down his scalp, that long forgotten perfume filling his senses. Everything is silent. It takes him a long, long moment to realize where he is.

“Mom…?” His voice is so small. He is small; he’s little again. He’d forgotten ever being this young.

“Leon, listen to me sweetie, this…this may be hard for you to understand, but…” she squeezes him tighter. “He’s going…somewhere else, so we need to say goodbye, okay?”

He nods against the coat his mother is wearing, soft to the touch, and she straightens up, wiping at her face. She takes his little hand in her own, and Leon follows her through the door at the end of the creaky hallway.

There are a few people in this room. His father, his aunt and uncle, standing at a bedside. They all look so sad. The air is warm with the fire that burns in the hearth across the room. And between them all, his wandering eyes fall on the wrinkled face peeking out from the pile of blankets. Upon spotting him, a smile breaks out across it.

“Leon, my dear grandson…” he hears, somehow. His mother leads him to bed, crouches beside him as if in silent support. “I want you have something…”

“Yes grandpa?” Leon likes his grandpa a lot. He would take him on walks through the forests behind his cabin, teach him the names of the plants and what kind of mushrooms he can safely eat with prep. They’d get caught in the rain sometimes and his mother would chide them for not bringing an umbrella with them. He’d showed him the basics of cooking and fishing, all throughout the many visits Leon and his parents had with him.

He’d forgotten he ever knew any of this.

A hand, weathered with age, moves towards Leon across the duvet, and in it, a thick, white envelope.

“Go on, take it.”

He grasps at the paper and pulls it from his grandfather’s hold. It’s addressed to him on the front, and on the back, a purple stamp seals it shut. As Leon’s finger starts to slide under it, he’s stopped.

“No, don’t open it just yet, Leon. Have patience.”

The window by the fireplace shudders without warning. He jolts with a squeak and realizes he can see countless rotting faces outside, mouths agape, moaning silently. They’re waiting for him; for a man living a half-life under a growing cloak of the dead. He needs to go outside and keep running, so that the rest of his family, standing frozen in their places, faces rigid with grief, may be spared a similar fate.

“Now, listen carefully.”

It’s been years since his grandfather died, but he suddenly remembers his words so well; the deep, raspy tone with a sweet laugh underneath it, the gentle but shaking palm that lands atop his head and squeezes with waning strength. The fear drains from him in an instant, and draws his attention back to his ailing relative.

“There will come a day when you feel overwhelmed by the burdens of modern life, and your bright spirit will begin to fade before a growing emptiness.”

The monsters are gone when he glances back outside, and there’s nothing but starlight, beyond the glow of the fire and the well-kept glass of the window. For how old it is, the cabin is pristine. He’s never seen the stars so clearly.

“When that happens, my dear boy, you’ll be ready for this gift.”

Even as he’s dying, the old man’s eyes twinkle with the satisfaction of a life well lived. Even as they slowly slide shut.

“Now…let Grandpa rest…”

Fingers sliding out of his hair, his mother gently tugging him away from the bedside as his father, his aunt and uncle hurry forward. He holds the envelope close, and looks out the window again.

The stars are still there, and they’ve always been there, waiting for him, too.

A headache is squeezing his brain when he wakes up before dawn, mouth dry and tongue stuck to his palette. There’s a warm weight on his chest that he instinctively recognizes as Lucie. Blearily, Leon opens his eyes and stares up at the darkened ceiling, trying to reconcile where he is to what he knows and what he remembers. And all he can come up with is the chase down the lab corridors the other day, not by zombies but by a thrice mutated Licker, the agonizingly slow elevator, and then-

The memory comes to him softly, like turning the page of a book he hadn’t read in years and suddenly realizing ‘oh, I forgot about this part’. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Leon sits up. Lucie promptly starts to slide off of his chest, and while her claws digging into his flesh sting, he barely pays her any mind.

He hasn’t thought about his childhood in a long time. Those days feel like they belonged to someone else, someone unburdened by the weight of the world, by the claws of monsters and the safety of thousands. The Leon that could look back on those memories fondly died somewhere in Raccoon City, turned to ash with its destruction.

And yet…

Leon peels his miffed cat from his chest and stumbles out of bed, fighting past the cotton in his head that indicates an oncoming hangover and making his way across the room. His closet is the one thing in the apartment that isn’t spartan like the rest of it; crammed with shit he doesn’t need and yet still couldn’t bear to let go of, for whatever sentimental reasons he possesses somehow.

When he first moved out to D.C., his aunt and uncle had shipped him the rest of his belongings, and these are what remained of his days prior to the police academy. Leon digs through old boxed editions of D&D, nigh-unplayable monster movie VHS tapes, clothes that don’t fit him anymore but he never really tossed out, a sock he’d lost the twin to…

And finally, tucked in a shoebox filled with photos of his parents, he uncovers it. The envelope is creased in one corner, wrinkled somewhat and the white just a little yellowed with age. But the purple seal remains intact. He can see the tiny rip in the flap where he’d tried to open it initially.

Now, he smoothly slides his finger under it, breaks the wax sealing, and pulls out the contents that he can read well enough in the growing light of dawn. The first is a carefully folded letter addressed to him, the handwriting within neat and unhurried.

“Dear Leon,

If you are reading this, you must be in dire need of change. The same thing happened to me, long ago. I lost sight of what mattered most in life. Real connections with other people and nature. So I dropped everything and moved to the place where I truly belonged. I’ve enclosed the deed to that place: Kennedy Farm. It’s in Stardew Valley, further to the west in Northern California. It’s the perfect place to start over.

This was my most precious gift of all. And now, it’s yours my boy. I know you’ll take good care of it.

Love, Grandpa.”

He rereads the aged letter four times before finally, almost reverently, pulling out the even older piece of paper from within. It’s an ancient, but still somehow official looking, receipt to a massive plot of land, titled to his grandfather’s name. His headache almost seems to evaporate as he glances it over, eyes straining in the waning dark. Leon suddenly feels wide awake, like he’s surfaced from the churning ocean and finally, finally, someone’s thrown him a life preserve he can cling to, pull himself out of the depths, and escape this cycle of sinking and struggling.

He’s never been able to bring himself to quit. Too much at stake, too many lives at risk, this burden he’s taken upon himself after barely escaping Raccoon City with his life.

But reading this feels like a release. Like he’d been waiting for someone to give him permission to quit. Funny how it ended up being the man who would fondly watch Leon run circles in the puddles after a rainstorm, and encourage him to bring flowers home for everyone staying in that quiet cabin on the edge of-

That farm. Of course it had been a farm. A forest, a small town, so much smaller than the town he grew up in outside of Denver. A beach with little treasures riding in on the breaking waves.

Behind him, his phone rings. He knows it to be Hunnigan, but he doesn’t want to answer it. He’ll have to. He still has a report to type, data that needs to be analyzed, a debriefing to attend to. For now, he kneels here, as dawn breaks and fills the room with morning light.

Kennedy farm. Stardew Valley.

It sounds like a promise.

Hunnigan doesn’t even blink when he tells her, but she does look the slightest bit annoyed.

“You could’ve told me this before I started on the paperwork.” She leans back in her chair, and it creaks subtly with the well-worn sound of having been used for a very long time now.

“I kind of just now found out I’ve got a plot of land on the west coast.”

“So you’re gonna be a farmer?”

“It’ll keep me busy.”

Ingrid chuckles, eyes assessing him behind her rimmed glasses, as if wondering if this is some elaborate prank. When Leon gives no indication of such, she plucks the terms and conditions paper he’s gotta read and acknowledge every other year from the surface of her desk and pushes off of it. It’s a well practiced motion that rolls her chair right next to the paper shredder by the window. She drops it in with a subtle flourish.

“God,” She half laughs, half sighs, when the machine is done noisily eating the contract. “Intelligence is gonna have a fit.”

Three weeks later, after lengthy meetings, mountains of confidentiality papers that needed signed, goodbyes to the people who he’s fought beside for years, and a last-minute phone call, Leon finds himself driving down a lesser traveled road between impossibly green hills. It’s just turning to spring, but he hadn’t thought it possible for the distant mountains to look so alive already.

Lucie hasn’t enjoyed the car ride one bit, but he thinks she’s a bit calmer since they crossed the border into California. He’s let her out to stretch her legs, wandering in circles around his items in the back of the car.

Leon cracks the window and the air coming in is fresh; a far-cry from the slightly smoggy air of the city. The midday sunlight is bright and warm. He turns the knob of his radio a little higher as they pass by a faded sign on the open road.

Stardew Valley: 5 miles.

#Submission #Leon Kennedy #Resident Evil #submission

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shirtshoping · 4 years ago

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themusesofmars · 7 years ago

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Fanfiction Preview - Final Fantasy XV (work in progress)

@ignoctweek Ignoct Week Day 3, Prompt B: (Situational) Reincarnation/Time Travel AU Title: “Time Warp” (tentative) Rating: General (thus far) Warnings: N/A NOTE: This is just an excerpt of what is quickly turning into a novel-length fanfic. Up to this point in the story, all you need to know is Noct has wound up on Earth. He awakes in a hospital where his doctor is none other than Ignis Scientia. But Ignis doesn’t recognize him. And he doesn’t believe there is any such place as Eos, or that Noctis is a prince, or that the two of each other have ever met. The excerpt you are about to read is in rough draft format. I’m too tired to edit it and there’s no point right now because the story is incomplete. Follow The Muses of Mars on Tumblr, Archive of Our Own, or Fanfiction.net for updates!

They drove down unfamiliar streets, past unfamiliar buildings, and suddenly it began to rain. Ignis turned on the windshield-wipers and adjusted his glasses, slowing down as the road began to glisten.

“You can pull over if you need to. I don’t mind taking the wheel,” Noctis offered. “I know you hate driving in the dark, and now it’s raining, too.”

“You know no such thing,” Ignis snapped quietly. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

Noct watched him for a moment. He could tell Ignis was tense, and wasn’t sure if the reason had more to do with the darkness or with the fact that he’d known Ignis didn’t like it.

One thing he did know what that a little conversation always seemed to help calm him down. Ignis didn’t like having the stereo on after the sun went down because he needed to focus on the road. But if he just sat there rigidly with his guard up the whole time, he’d have a killer neck ache in the morning.

“So, how far are we going?” he asked, to get the ball rolling.

“The rain might slow us down, but I live about fifteen minutes or so from the hospital,” Ignis answered, already sounding less grumpy.

Noct helped keep a watch on the road, though he had begun to doubt daemons were even roaming this world. “I really appreciate you letting me crash at your place,” he said.

“Temporarily,” Ignis reminded him. “I’ll help you get back on your feet while we search for someone who might know you, but then we’ll have to say goodbye.”

Noct’s hands balled into fists. Damn it, Ignis! he mentally cursed. You do know me, better than anyone! Why don’t you remember?

Ignis softly sighed. “Don’t be frustrated. I’m sure you have family or friends somewhere in the city. The police have your photograph, but we can do some searching online—Facebook or something—and see if there’s anyone you recognize.”

“You really still don’t believe we know each other, do you?” Noct murmured disappointedly.

“I’m still quite certain we never met before you became my patient,” Ignis said sternly, “and I will ask you just once more to please stop pretending otherwise.” He suddenly put on the turn signal and a moment later pulled into a parking lot.

“Wh-what gives?” Noct demanded, sitting up straighter. Worriedly, he asked, “You’re not kicking me out, are you?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Ignis parked the car in an empty spot and cut the engine, then pulled his keys from the ignition. “You can’t just keep wearing my things; they don’t fit you at all. Plus you’re going to need your own toothbrush, a razor… And I’ve no idea what you like to eat, so I suppose we’ll need to stock up on groceries, as well.” He unfastened his seatbelt, opened the driver’s side door, and climbed out of the car. “Well? Are you coming?”

“R-right.” Noct hurriedly scrambled out of the car and Ignis locked it from a remote on his keyring. The vehicle made a beeping sound and then Ignis walked up to the front doors of a large building whose sign read: “Walmart.”

Noct looked around in confusion as Ignis procured a large shopping cart. “What is this place?” he asked as they walked past racks of clothing, an unexpected jewelry counter, and then a pharmacy. “It’s like they’ve got everything here.”

“Essentially,” Ignis agreed. He pushed the cart down an aisle in the health and beauty department and then stopped, perusing the selection of personal care wares. “Do you have any brand preferences, or are you still playing the ‘foreign royalty’ card?” Noct looked at him blankly. “All right, then. Leave it to me.” He sounded only mildly annoyed this time. “It’s probably faster if I do this myself, anyway.”

Noctis followed the other man blindly as Ignis selected a stick of deodorant; a shaving kit with a razor, blades, and shaving cream; and a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. He left Noct to choose his own shampoo while he did his physician’s duty and went to find the boy an age-appropriate multivitamin.

Next they returned to the clothing department. “I got this, Specs,” the prince said nonchalantly. Ignis shrugged and had a seat on a bench outside the changing booths while the boy chose a few outfits and tried them on. He seemed drawn to graphic T-shirts, and while they were blessedly inexpensive, Ignis also dragged him toward a rack of flannel shirts and sweaters for something more suitable for winter. Noct found some jeans he liked and grabbed several pairs, then they found him a comfortable pair of tennis shoes and some nicer boots. Finally came socks and underwear. “Briefs?” Ignis sounded surprised. “I’m a boxer man, myself.” At last they were finished.

“Satisfied with these?” Ignis confirmed. “Then let’s pick up some food. I don’t mind cooking, but you’ll have to tell me what you like.”

“I like your cooking,” Noct commented. When Ignis glared at him suspiciously, he corrected himself to say, “I’m really not big on veggies, so…anything else is fine.”

Ignis muttered to himself about kids today and their unhealthy diets, and though such comments had warranted an eyeroll or two in the past, right now it made Noct smile to hear the other man complain about his eating habits like the good old days.

Eventually they headed for the registers to check out with their puchases. As Ignis plucked his wallet out of an inside pocket on his coat, Noct suddenly seemed awkward.

“Um, so, Ignis…” the boy began, then he had to stop and start again. “Uh, you know I don’t have any gil, right?”

“Any…what?” Ignis was giving him that look again, like he’d said something crazy.

“Don’t tell me you guys don’t have to worry about money here!”

“Oh. We use dollars and cents in America,” Ignis said, but his tone was more sarcastic than explanatory. “And I know perfectly well you haven’t got any money—gills, or whatever you called it. That’s my entire reason for taking you in for a time. I just couldn’t very well turn you out on the streets of Manhattan, could I?”

Noct still felt guilty. “I’ll find a way to pay you back,” he promised.

“Think nothing of it,” Ignis said dismissively, opening his wallet and selecting a credit card. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a doctor; here, at least, physicians are rather well-paid.”

“Oh. Cool.” Noct still wasn’t sure, but after the items had been tallied up and bagged, the man didn’t even bulk at the price tag, so he must have been telling the truth.

Outside it was raining heavily. They raced to the car and Ignis unlocked the doors. They had to toss wet bags into the trunk, and then Ignis jogged back to the store with their shopping cart. When he returned, Noctis was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“We don’t have time to argue about this,” Noct said insistently. “Get in before you drown!”

With a frown, Ignis did as he was told. He finally handed Noct the keys and then strapped in. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” he mumbled to himself. “I know you haven’t a license. You don’t have any ID!”

“I have a license,” Noct corrected. “It’s just…lost. With everything else.”

The prince started the car, then began backing out of the parking space. “Just try not to get pulled over,” Ignis warned. “If the police insist on arresting you, I’ll leave you in their care.”

“Don’t worry, Specs,” Noct said with a grin as he adjusted the mirrors. “You always let me drive at night.”

Ignis watched Noct as the boy expertly pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main highway again. It really did seem as though Noct knew him, somehow. But it made no sense, because things the boy knew…he’d never told anyone. He’d never thought about them, really. So how did he have such intimate knowledge?

He almost wondered if the boy knew where he lived, but he seemed so unfamiliar with even the most mundane things. And he certainly did know how to handle a vehicle during a nighttime storm. But it soon became apparently he had no idea where they were going, and Ignis had to direct him sharply before they missed his turn.

They passed by a low stone wall engraved with the name Honeysuckle Terrace and entered an affluent suburb where the houses were huge and their well-kept lawns were sprawling.

“That’s my house,” Ignis said, pointing. “Third one on the right.”

Noctis whistled. “Very nice, Iggy,” he said in awe. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

Ignis seemed a bit flustered by the compliment. “Well…it’s comfortable enough,” he said dismissively. “Just pull into the drive and I’ll open the garage.”

Noct slowed to a stop in front of the garage doors. Ignis leaned in close and reached toward the steering column. Noct gasped softly in surprise, turning to look at Ignis. The other man’s face was nearly touching his. “Pardon,” the blond muttered, fidgeting with the keys until he found the garage button on the keyring and pressed it. Noct’s eyes didn’t leave Ignis’s face until the other man had settled back in his seat and ordered him, “Eyes forward. Then pull on through—carefully.”

“…Right.” Noct did as he was told, surprised when he pulled the compact car in next to a black SUV. He shifted the gear to “park,” then cut the engine and turned off the lights. He slipped the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Ignis, their fingers touching for just an instant during the transfer. “Are you sure if it’s okay that I stay here for a while?” Noct asked, quietly folding his hands in his lap.

“Of course,” Ignis replied, taken aback. “Why ask, now that we’re here?”

Noct gave a slight nod in the direction of the other car. “Well, I didn’t think about it before, but…I’d hate to intrude on your family.”

“My what?” Now the man was genuinely startled. He turned his head to see what Noct was looking at. “Oh, you mean the other car?” He chuckled softly and unfastened his seatbelt. “They’re both mine.”

“Oh.” Noct was equally surprised, and not only a little relieved. “Oh! Well, okay, then.”

They climbed out of the car and gathered their shopping bags, then Noctis followed Ignis back out of the garage and along the sidewalk toward the front door. The walkway was lit up with garden lamps, and faux candles shone all the windows. The house was a single story but looked enormous from the outside. Noct was surprised that Ignis would live alone in such a big place, but it was a relief. He still thought this was the same Ignis he’d always known, and that something crazy had happened to them, but if he’d found a wife and children in the house…well, not only would it have been a hundred times more awkward staying here, but that would also have shattered his already thin hope that Igis would regain his memories of their life on Eos.

Noct shivered on the concrete porch while Ignis put his key into the lock on the front door. “Just a moment,” he said, and then he was turning the knob and pushing the door open, gesturing for Noct to enter the house first.

Nervously, Noct crossed over the threshold. Ignis followed to shut and lock the door behind them, then turned on the light.

Noct looked around curiously. They were standing on a stone tile entryway, beyond which lay a cozy, carpeted den with a large fireplace along the far wall. The kitchen was located straight ahead and hallways stretched to the left and right. Everything looked clean and polished—just as he would expect any space of Ignis’s to be.

“A hot bath would do you some good,” Ignis said, momentarily setting his armload of shopping bags down on the floor. He peeled his jacket back over his shoulders before hanging it up on a coatrack next to the door. “I’ll take that coat,” he offered, reaching out for the white lab coat he’d lent the boy from his office, “then if you’ll step out of those oversized shoes, I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

Noct set down his bags and shrugged off the white coat, then gave it to Ignis, but didn’t even have to untie the shoes he was wearing to step out of them. He followed the other man down the hallway to the left. “Laundry room,” Ignis pointed out on the left, “and bathroom,” pushing wide a door to the right.

“What’s down there?” Noct asked, nodding his head to the last door at the end of the hallway.

“My bedroom.”

“Ah.” The answer gave rise to another question. “Where am I sleeping, anyway?”

“The guestroom.” Ignis reached around the wall and flipped on the bathroom light, revealing a large room done in chocolate and mocha with bronze and ivory accents. He handed Noct his bag of personal items. “I’ll prepare supper while you wash up. Take your time,” he added over his shoulder on his way back down the hall. “The towels are under the sink.”

“‘Kay.” Noct stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The tiles were cool under his bare feet but the glow of the lamps on either side of the large over-the-counter mirror gave off a warm feeling, and suddenly nothing sounded better than immersing himself in a hot tub. How long had it been since he’d had a proper bath? He’d been in the hospital for, what, three weeks? This was going to feel amazing.

He found a large towel and a washcloth in a well-organized cabinet under the sink counter and carried them over to the bathtub, setting them down on the rim. Noct plugged the drain and turned the hot water tap on, then he stripped out of Ignis’s oversized clothing and unpacked his shopping bag.

The tub was large and heart-shaped, but the water was gushing with such force that it was more than halfway full when Noctis climbed inside. The heat of the water felt fantastic after being out in the cool night air in such loose clothing. He sank into it like he was melting, leaning back against the reclining wall and closing his eyes. He felt cleaner already, and the steam was doing marvels to clear his head of confusion and distress.

He was on Earth, not Eos. Conventions were much the same, yet there were no daemons here. People went driving and even shopping at night, fearlessly. The world seemed safer, yet he took no comfort in that assumption; having been born and raised in an era where day-to-day living became more perilous with each passing hour, he could not help but feel suspicious of this world. What darkness was it hiding?

The water was beginning to lap at the rim of the tub. Noct felt it rising above his shoulders and forced himself to sit up and turn the tap off. He was still bruised from his accident and his ribs ached to lean forward, but he reclined again a moment later and let the water soothe his aches. With his arms stretched out to the sides and his whole body relaxed, he felt almost comfortable enough to fall asleep. His head hadn’t ached in days, so that was a good sign. It might take a while longer, but the rest of him would heal, too.

But what then? What had brought him here, and how? When could he go home? What if he couldn’t?

Those were mysteries he would have to solve in time. For now he was only certain that in spite of the blow to his head, he had not dreamed his life up to this point, and he wasn’t crazy. He was Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, born and raised in the Crown City of Insomnia on the planet Eos. But who was the man in the kitchen?

#ignoctweek #ignoct week #ignoct #wip #ffxv fanfiction

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longforgottenunofficial · 7 years ago

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The Decapitated Knight

As we slowly wend our way through the graveyard, we continue to stop and to dig here and there, looking for the cultural roots or original inspirations buried beneath the various specters presented to us. We've just finished looking at the band and the hearse tea party, and earlier we looked at the mummy and the operatic pair. So what's say we wander over and take a look at the decapitated knight? Let's see, in our last post we were standing in front of the tea party, so if we cut across, the knight should be easy to find. See him? A head, over on the right hand.

Some might think that the idea of a ghost carrying his head around is an original idea, or if not absolutely original, then an adaptation of the Headless Horseman from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a character thoroughly disney-fied in the 1949 film, The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad. But actually, these kinds of ghosts are quite traditional. There's a little lane in Wortley, England (near Leeds), where the ghost of a Yorkshire nobleman executed during the English Civil War is reportedly seen once or twice a year, carrying his head beneath his arm. In 1760, it was reported that a headless priest was busily haunting a small village outside of Paris. The Christian martyr St. Denis reportedly scared the hell out of his persecutors by appearing as a ghost with his head in his hands and giving it the old boogity boogity boogity. Here's an 18th c. illustration.

Wow. He looks ready to join the lineup at the Haunted Mansion (except that he's a clergyman, but we'll talk about that in a future post). There is actually a lively tradition of beheaded martyrs behaving in this way (they're called Cephalophores; a big hat tip to ttintagel for drawing my attention to these). Between these firmly attested traditions of headless ghosts and the Sleepy Hollow connection, it's no surprise that both Ken Anderson and Marc Davis created a number of some-assembly-required spirits for inclusion in what became the Haunted Mansion. In fact, Anderson was going to make the Headless Horseman himself the star of the show in one version of his Ghost House.

That looks like it could be concept art for the 1949 film, but in fact it's Anderson's sketch of the Ghost House version. The old pumpkin chucker wasn't going to have a monopoly on the gag, however. Anderson also wanted ghosts based on historical characters, and in one script he had Anne Boleyn running around screaming and falling down at the top of the stairs as her wailing head rolled on down toward us. Bumpity bump. (How cool is that.) In other scripts it was a bride character who had a hard time keeping her noggin in place. He also sketched what looks like a decapitated pirate.

When Marc Davis took charge of things, he apparently liked the Boleyn character and dreamed up a changing portrait in which her husband Henry VIII is haunted by an understandably crabby Anne.

In time it was decided not to populate the Mansion with historical or literary ghosts. There were still plenty of decapitated spooks left in the suggestion box, however. Why not? They're creepy enough even without a famous name attached to them. For his part, Davis thought it would be fun if the afterlife featured topless women:

Then there's the Hat Box Ghost, and maybe Madame Leota. After all this, you might conclude that the decapitated knight was just another twist on the same gag. If Anderson could have a pirate; Davis could have a knight, right? No significance to the figure itself, right? I wouldn't be too sure about that. If you start probing for the origins of the "decapitated knight" figure, you strike paydirt right away. He goes back to Celtic mythology and shows up in medieval literature, most famously Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which was written about 1350. When I was an English major in college (which was also in the middle ages), everyone was expected to read Gawain at some point. It was like Beowulf; like it or not, you couldn't avoid it. Nowadays I don't know if Gawain is still a regular on the college reading lists. Here's an illustration of the beheaded Green Knight found on the original manuscript of Gawain, probably the most direct ancestor of our DL version. Note that he's holding it on his outstretched hand.

What's weird about the decapitated knight is that he isn't a ghostly figure by any stretch. He's part of a literary motif called the "Beheading Game." Basically, it goes like this: A stranger shows up at the court and challenges them to behead him, on the condition that he be allowed to do the same at some future point in his own court. The hero of the tale accepts the challenge and beheads the stranger, who does not die but returns home. Later, the hero keeps his promise and goes to the foreign court, encountering numerous tests and trials in the process, opportunities for him to prove his chivalry, loyalty, honesty, etc. The stranger either lets him off the hook or goes ahead and beheads him, after which he cheerfully returns home, none the worse for wear. The most bizarre thing about this bizarre motif is how popular it was. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is the most famous example, but the same motif is used in other medieval poems and romances going back to the 8th century—which is basically the same thing as saying that no one knows how old it is, since we start running out of literary sources about that point. Since the beheadings don't kill anybody in these stories, the presence of the beheading game immediately signals that the literature you're reading is fantasy or myth. Like I said, a popular interpretation is that it goes back to pagan Celtic mythology, probably something about the turning of the year, as the new year slays the old year, only to be slain himself after the passing of a year. Naturally, Freud has his own ideas what this head chopping is all about, and there is no lack of other interpretations. Sir Gawain is amenable to a Christian reading, for example. Point is, the decapitated knight as a fixture in Western consciousness is not rooted in ghost tales at all but in myth and fantasy. In his origins, he was not a frightening figure. Marc Davis and the Decapitated Knight Maybe it's the fact that the knight is not just another random candidate for the "decapitated ghost" gag but the tip of a much bigger and older cultural iceberg that explains Marc Davis's unusual attachment to the character. One might even say stubborn attachment, for when you see the knight in his current graveyard setting you are seeing Marc's fourth attempt to get him into the Mansion. I'm not sure of the order of the other three attempts, so the following account is a little arbitrary as far as sequence is concerned, although there are a few flimsy clues. In what may be the original concept, Marc presented the knight as a very fierce, stand-alone character. Notice the dead guy in the background. Don't be that guy.

Tender is the knight—NOT. After it was decided that the graveyard scene should be a jumpin' jamboree and not a horror show (in no small measure due to Davis's own influence), it must have been plain that this scary dude was not going to be invited. They put this artwork on a postcard eventually, and the caption writer practically admits that this portrait is out of step:

(If I were you I wouldn't put too much weight on that "1964" date. Postcard captions are not too reliable.) Steeerike One!

Like I say, Davis evidently liked the character and re-submitted him as a possible hitchhiking ghost.

But the HHG gag that they ended up using plays off of the many urban legends about hitchhiking ghosts, who are never terribly distant in time from the unlucky folk who pick them up. You never hear about ghostly hitchhikers who are Roman soldiers or medieval monks, do you? For one thing, you wouldn't understand their language. The three HHG's in the HM are ambiguous: they are certainly a little old-fashioned looking, but not figures from remote antiquity. The decapitated knight wouldn't work as a HHG. Steeerike Two! Well, goshdang it, how about the decapitated knight as an opera singer? Yeah, that's it, an opera singer.

This 1968 drawing is labeled as an opera scene. Get it? "a knight at the opera." Oh, that Marc! This one may be his third attempt since it seems like it got a little further in the process: there's a maquette figure of the knight.

The problem, of course, is that a much funnier opera pair also emerged from Marc's pencil, and there was no doubt who would get the gig.

Steeerike Three! But Marc was not going to give up on the DK. Come on, think. There must be some way to get him in there. What to do, what to do.... *lightbulb* Hey, wait a sec. Somewhere in that thick pile of HM ideas there's this concept of a pair of ghosts, the Jailer and the Prisoner...

The jailer is already implicitly an executioner as well, what with that mask and all. Well, why not make him specifically a headsman? He could hold a keyring in one hand, and an axe in the other. That's it: make the duo a trio, with the central character relating to the one character as his jailer and to the other character as his executioner. And so it was.

By the way, can someone explain to me why he's always called the "headless knight"? What's that thing he's got in his hand?

Originally Posted: Wednesday, July 7, 2010 Original Link: [x]

#long forgotten #haunted mansion #decapitated knight

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raeloganthesonic06fangirl · 4 years ago

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It gets funnier when you realize that he's had a LOT of video game cameos/appearances/mentions for a guy who hinges his entire backstory on "Video Games ruined my life". Heck, I'd even count the Minecraft skin as a technical playable appearance.

(("Disney Heroes Battle Mode", which I believe is canon to "Wreck-it Ralph" in a way, has quite a few QuackerJack antics written via side mission encounters, such as him wanting to steal Hiro's rocket skates or him mailing himself in a crate to the middle of Zootopia's bank, or trying to kidnap Woody and the gang because he's just so enamored with the idea of actual living toys that he HAS to have them to himself, basically just normal QuackerJack tomfoolery, absolutely on brand for him. So, QuackerJack is also technically canon to "Wreck-it Ralph", effectively existing in the expanded multiverse of a franchise centered around video games, he just can't escape being sucked in a game, can he? Lol))

Amazing, really.

In fact, he's even on a I Heart Gaming pin (oh, the sick irony) from Disney that I REALLY want to find for a reasonable price:

Now, the only thing I've been able to find remotely resembling a toy with QuackerJack included would be this mysterious Play-doh Playset that would be near impossible to find complete nowadays and far outside the range of time where I would have been old enough to know what it was and why I would have wanted it when it was hot off the shelves

This photo I've found has jest enough detail to imply that a QuackerJack Play-doh mold was mass produced and I want that so badly

Also, apparently, he was one of the shapes chosen for the obligatory 90s cartoons fruit snacks

It's like they wanted to make merchandise of him for everything BUT his actual gimmick. XD

But you'd think if he's popular enough to be made into a fuit gumy, that they'd at least make a vinyl or a plush toy or something. Gosh, even a little light up keyring or windup toy from a Happy Meal would have been nice.

Okay, so...

Official QuackerJack, the toy maker, item made of paper, a byproduct of plant

Official Bushroot, the plant guy, toy item

...

In a parallel universe, I assume it's the other way around. 😅

Please, Disney, make QuackerJack collectible toys already, I'll pay money for it

#Long post

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immuskaan · 6 years ago

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YubiKey: Protect your Facebook, Google, and other online accounts with this hardware authentication key

YubiKey offers a faster and more convenient alternative to text-messages or authenticator app two-factor authentication.

This USB thumb drive is one serious and secure business tool

Looking for a quick, easy, and affordable way to protect your Google account, Facebook, GitHub, Dropbox, Salesforce admin account (and much more)? Or maybe you're looking for a way to harden your Mac or Windows login credentials. Take a look at the YubiKey.

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YubiKey is a small authentication key manufactured by Yubico that can be used to secure access to a wide range of applications, including remote access and VPN, password managers, computer login, FIDO U2F login (Gmail, GitHub, Dropbox, etc.) content management systems, popular online services, and much more. YubiKey gives you a way to activate two-factor authentication on your accounts, but without having to mess about with text messages or third-party authenticator apps. You just plug the YubiKey into a USB port, tap the metal button, and you're authenticated. You still need the correct username and password, but the key gives you the second-step authentication and added security. The wide range of support makes YubiKey a great choice for personal use, business, enterprise, or even developers. Physically, the YubiKey looks like a small USB flash drive (with different versions for USB-A and USB-C), and there is a version that also incorporates NFC. The keys range in price from $20 for the basic FIDO U2F key (which will work with online services that support FIDO U2F, including Facebook and Google), to $50 for keys that also feature strong crypto, touch-to-sign, plus one-time-password, NFC, and smart card capability. The keys are robust, and seem to live up to the promise of being waterproof and crushproof -- I've had one on my keys and another on a chain around my neck for more than a year now, and while both look well worn, they both work fine. The one I wear around my neck (the one in the center in the image below, flanked by a new YubiKey Security Key on the left, and a new NFC-enabled YubiKey NEO on the right) has had a very hard life -- prolonged exposure to sunlight, sweat, seawater, mud, oil, and chemicals such as sunblock -- and yet still cleans up well and works perfectly.

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A chart detailing the available keys along with their specific functionality can be found here. Now, rather than outlining how you protect your accounts with YubiKey (the instructions on the Yubico website are detailed and will guide you through the myriad different services you can secure with your YubiKey more efficiently than I can) I'm going to look at the pros and cons of that I've come across over the past months. Pros:

Cheap (with prices starting at $20)

Far less hassle than using text messages or a third-party authenticator app, and speeds up logging into accounts on new devices

The keys don't require recharging or battery changes

Without your username and password, even if it is stolen, it's useless to a third-party

Easy to use (if you can figure out two-factor authentication, you can figure out how to use YubiKeys, and if you get stuck, there are some good instructions available to guide you)

Keys are incredibly robust and totally waterproof (one of mine lives on my keyring and gets bashed about a lot, the other I wear around my neck on a chain most of the time)

Pretty indistinguishable from USB flash drives so the keys don't attract unwanted attention

Scalable (customization tools and custom programming options available for business)

Support for Open PGP encryption and code signing

Offers an easy way to secure Windows, Mac, or Linux systems

Cons:

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Ideally, you need two keys in case one gets lost, stolen, or damaged in some way.

Not all browsers support U2F so you must be running Google Chrome version 38 or later, or Opera version 40 or later (this is not a YubiKey limitation, but rather a FIDO U2F limitation)

There are big gaps in services that support FIDO U2F (for example, no support for Yahoo!, PayPal, banks, and so on -- come on folks, get your act together!)

Some of the documentation can be a little intimidating at first.

from Blogger http://bit.ly/2TvzO0R via

YubiKey offers a faster and more convenient alternative to text-messages or authenticator app two-factor authentication.

This USB thumb drive is one serious and secure business tool

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

Cheap (with prices starting at $20)

Far less hassle than using text messages or a third-party authenticator app, and speeds up logging into accounts on new devices

The keys don't require recharging or battery changes

Without your username and password, even if it is stolen, it's useless to a third-party

Easy to use (if you can figure out two-factor authentication, you can figure out how to use YubiKeys, and if you get stuck, there are some good instructions available to guide you)

Keys are incredibly robust and totally waterproof (one of mine lives on my keyring and gets bashed about a lot, the other I wear around my neck on a chain most of the time)

Pretty indistinguishable from USB flash drives so the keys don't attract unwanted attention

Scalable (customization tools and custom programming options available for business)

Support for Open PGP encryption and code signing

Offers an easy way to secure Windows, Mac, or Linux systems

Cons:

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

Ideally, you need two keys in case one gets lost, stolen, or damaged in some way.

Not all browsers support U2F so you must be running Google Chrome version 38 or later, or Opera version 40 or later (this is not a YubiKey limitation, but rather a FIDO U2F limitation)

There are big gaps in services that support FIDO U2F (for example, no support for Yahoo!, PayPal, banks, and so on -- come on folks, get your act together!)

Some of the documentation can be a little intimidating at first.

#Latest Movie News #Bollywood News #Tollywood News #political news #actors news

0 notes

blessed-but-distressed · 8 years ago

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#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU.

also on ff.net

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon and whoever else asks me.

Thanks always to the cool-as-fuck @lenfaz, for her tireless efforts in keeping me motivated.

Killian

He could feel it, the regret, welling up in his chest, his vision blurring as he scrolled through page after page of poorly punctuated text.

14,202 responses.

14,202 people who were up for being Emma Swan's friend, and for some reason Killian Jones had appointed himself their gatekeeper.

14,202 reasons to wish he'd never even heard the name Emma Swan.

The task itself was burdensome enough, a time suck if ever there was one. But it was the sexually aggressive come ons he encountered that really propelled it towards torture. There was no other way of saying it: Men were pigs.

Barely three hundred messages in, and he was already half prepared to hand back his testicles and start writing long-winded notes of apology to every woman he'd ever met. Yes, Emma Swan was gorgeous. Yes, the #FindEmmaSwanAFriend campaign had made it clear there was an existing vacancy in her social life. But why hundreds of men had taken that to mean she would suddenly welcome obscene pick up lines and unsolicited dick pics was beyond him.

At least he wasn't entirely alone in this second circle of hell. It hadn't taken much inducement to get the boy to forego his cartoons in favour of helping out. The vague promise of a zoo excursion at some unspecified point in the near future, and the lad was putty in his hands. Which was how Killian found himself scouring through responses at the dining room table, with his eldest nephew, Callum, sitting opposite.

Even at eight years old, Callum was already the more steady influence of the two Jones boys, quiet and bookish, and far less prone to the feats of daring which tended to land Lachie in A&E every other month. His enthusiasm for penguins notwithstanding, history had a way of repeating itself in the most interesting of ways.

Killian had originally set the boy up to go through the pre-approved responses he'd already printed out, and asking him to choose people he felt good about. Children, Killian had found, were a bit like dogs; they were often better judges of character than most fully fledged adults. But the task must have grown wearisome at some point, because there came a small voice from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

"Uncle Killian, what's an orgasm?"

Killian snapped the lid of the laptop shut in a hurry, turning to the boy with a painted on smile. He hadn't even seen him move. "You know what, lad? Perhaps you'd be better off helping your father with dinner. You know how he likes to burn things."

As if his words had summoned him, Liam suddenly appeared in the doorway, surveying the scene with cool suspicion. "What fresh hell have you dragged my eldest into now?"

"Research," Killian replied, affecting a casual shrug. "I thought you'd be pleased. I'm 'making an effort'."

"Hmmm," his brother replied, still unconvinced. "And yet, one has to wonder if the reason for this sudden work ethic has anything to do with the fact that Emma Swan looks like that," he said, pointing to a stray copy of the original #FindEmmaSwanAFriend advertisement laying open on the counter, Emma's unrestrained smile spilling out from the page in a way that Killian had yet to see from her in real life.

Killian opened his mouth to protest, but it was his nephew who spoke first. "Dad," Callum interrupted, tugging at his father's sleeve. "What does orgasm mean?"

Liam's eyes widened comically, caught unawares, but it took only a moment before his gaze shifted back to his brother, his expression darkening as realisation took hold. Killian held arms aloft in an unconvincing display of innocence, but if looks could kill, he'd already be as charred as yesterday's Beef Wellington.

"Ahm, that's a question for your Mum, I think," Liam said, grabbing the boy about the shoulders and steering him out into the hallway. "In about five years or so," he added wryly, giving the boy a little push back towards the living room, and the distractions of the television.

"I can-" Killian began, as his brother turned back to glare at him.

"I really don't want to know," Liam sighed, cutting him off with a weary shake of his head. "Just clean this mess up before Elsa gets home, alright?"

He looked stressed, Killian realised, and not just about Callum's naive question. Though Liam had adopted his usual post-work uniform of loosened tie and rolled up shirtsleeves, there was little else in his posture to suggested he was at leisure. If that wasn't damning enough, his hair seemed to be sticking up more than normal, as if he'd been running his hands through it for the better part of the day. Killian was willing to bet if he got a little closer he'd even be able to see the purple vein on his brother's forehead visibly throbbing.

"Everything alright?" Killian asked, unable to mask his growing concern. "Your meeting with Ingrid?"

But if he had been expecting a confidential chat, as equals, perhaps Killian had been reading from the wrong script.

"Everything's fine," Liam snapped, with the kind of brusqueness that highly suggested otherwise. "Just get this cleared away, and stop corrupting my children. Elsa will be home any minute."

Killian was tempted to press the point, but they were both of them interrupted by the intrusive blaring of the smoke detector in the next room. Followed immediately by the tell-tale whiff of burnt rice.

"Bloody hell," Liam swore, tearing from the room. "Not again."

Killian moved instead towards the windows, welcoming the icy blast of fresh air with a shiver. It looked like takeaway was on the menu. Again.

How do you feel about athletic types? KJ

…

You mean in general, or is this about your list? ES

I mean, do you have a particular aversion to people whose Instagram feed consists entirely of gym selfies using the hashtag #demgains and pictures of salads? KJ

I think exercise is the devil, CrossFit is a cult, and bagels are life. ES

So that's a hard pass, then. Good to know. KJ

It was Friday night, and the streets of the Old Town appeared as they always did come the weekend, rife with roving gangs of stag parties and hen dos straight out of Chester or Newcastle, resplendent in their matching commemorative T-shirts and sashes. Killian watched them as they struggled down Victoria Street in impractical shoes, and took turns throwing up into the West Bow Well.

"Five points to kiss a man in a kilt!" one of the women slurred as he passed, having grown bold under the influence of what seemed to be one too many margaritas, by the stain down her dress. Killian settled for turning his collar up against the wind, and searching out a quiet corner from where he could check his phone.

Why she had agreed to meet him in the Grassmarket of all places, in the midst of all this calculated debauchery, puzzled him. Aye, it was populated. Aye, it was well-lit, all the better to see the tourist hordes slowly sinking into extreme inebriation. But it was hardly the right venue for getting one's measure, he thought.

But Killian wasn't one to turn down a drinks invitation from a pretty lass. Not least from the pretty lass he'd somehow roped into being a willing participant in his little sociological experiment.

So he waited. And he waited some more.

It was a quarter past the hour when he finally spotted her, long red curls billowing behind her as she hurried up from Candlemaker Row wrapped in a fluffy green coat, three young men following in her wake.

"Killian Jones?" she asked, approaching him warily.

"Aye," he said, stepping forward to shake her hand. "Glad you could make it."

Merida, as he planned to name her in his article, was what Killian might call Proper Scottish. She had the red hair. The clan name. The distinctive burr that seemed to come right out of some remote Highland glen. She was the living, breathing stereotype of a milk-fed country lassie, and he could think of no more qualified candidate to introduce Emma to the wonders of Scottish hospitality. If for no other reason than she was the only one on his shortlist who'd actually responded to his email.

The trio that trailed after her were her brothers, as it transpired, rather than her bodyguards. Though it would be easy enough to make that mistake, what with each giving Killian a bruising handshake and some whispered threat or other over the course of one too many drinks at the Beehive Inn. Drinks Killian was apparently expected to pay for.

"You shouldn't encourage 'em," she chided over her barely touched pint of Guinness. "They'll take advantage."

Too late for that.

"So what brought you to Edinburgh, lass?" Killian ventured, figuring they'd wasted enough time making idle chitchat.

"A job," she shrugged. "There's no' exactly a lo' of work goin' back in Dun Broch."

A familiar enough tale. As pretty as the Highlands were, there wasn't much in the way of industry these days unless you were willing to waste your life away behind a counter, selling keyrings and commemorative shot glasses to passing tourists. Young people tended to get out early, and stay gone.

"And your brothers followed you?" he asked. "Must be nice, having family close by."

The lass snorted, her Guinness threatening to spill out of her nose. "Sorry," she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Do you have any brothers?"

"Two."

"The' you ken. You love 'em, but the' can also be…"

"A lot to manage," Killian finished for her.

"Exactly," Merida smiled. "So wha's she like, then? Emma?" Merida asked, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Killian leaned back in his chair, considering the question properly. Aye, he'd already described her to his readers, but even then he'd felt his descriptions had been lacking, a poorly drawn caricature of who Emma Swan really was.

"She's complicated," Killian admitted. "Quick-witted. Stubborn. Strong. A rather developed sense of irony for an American."

"Nice?" Merida ventured, her uncertainty showing.

"Perhaps. With time. She's funny. Even without meaning to be. But I'm not going to lie to you, lass, she isn't the easiest person to get to know. At first she's a little brisk. Prickly, even. I get the impression she's been let down before, because she tends to automatically assume the worst of people, rather than wait around to be disappointed."

He knew he'd said too much when Merida leaned back in her chair, gaze subtly shifting over to the bar where her brothers stood, unsuccessfully trying to chat up a cohort of young women in matching pink tiaras and feather boas.

"I'm not doing a very good job at selling this, am I?" Killian said with a groan.

"You coul' be doin' better," she offered.

And yet, in that moment, he saw it. The flash of familiarity. Perhaps he wasn't entirely crazy for thinking these two might hit it off.

"Look, Emma doesn't make friends easily. That much is blatantly clear. But the ones she has made? It's clear they mean the world to her. And she to them. After all, they were the ones to instigate all of this, simply because they couldn't stand the thought of her being lonely out here."

"If my friends did tha' to me…" Merida shuddered.

"Agreed. But I'd like to think it takes a special kind of person to inspire that level of stupidity in others."

"Like decidin' to write abou' an American lassie finding friends for a whole year?"

"Like that," Killian conceded, with a smile.

"So you mus' think she's worth the effort, then?"

That pulled him up short. "I think…" he said, best trying to arrange his thoughts. " I think Emma deserves a real chance at happiness here. As much as anyone. And if my column can help with that, then all the better. So tell me, what made you respond to Emma's ad in the first place?"

I think I found a promising candidate for you. KJ

Oh? ES

Aye. I think you have plenty in common. Are you free tonight to discuss? KJ

It's Valentine's Day. ES

…

You have alternate plans? KJ

Of course not. But don't you? ES

After a fashion. But you're more than welcome to join. KJ

If that is a poncy British way of initiating a ménage à trois… ES

I'm babysitting. My brother is the one with the Valentine's plans. With his wife. I, on the other hand, am on nephew-wrangling duty, because apparently children can be a real mood killer. But as I said, you are welcome to come by. We're making tacos. KJ

Yeah, I'm not good with kids. ES.

Me neither. And yet, somehow, the little cretins haven't died on my watch yet. KJ

I don't know… ES

Aren't you curious who your new best friend is going to be? KJ

Not the gym bunny? ES

Perish the thought. KJ

And there will be tacos? ES

There will indeed be tacos. KJ

Hard shell or soft? ES

Both. KJ

Well played, Jones. ES

See you at 7 then, Swan? KJ

For only the twentieth time that day, Killian Jones wondered where exactly he got all of his bright ideas from.

Aye, he needed to convince Emma to give a meeting with Merida a shot. And he needed to extract some sliver of personal information out of her. He couldn't hope to sustain his column with his witticisms forever. At some point, Emma had to step forward and become a character in her own right, if he had any hope of appealing to his subscription base. And to do that, he had to get to know her.

So he did need to see her. And he was going out of town for a few days, so there wasn't a lot of flexibility in his schedule. But inviting her to help babysit his nephews? What had he been thinking?

It was a disaster waiting to happen. Not least because it required the permission of at least one of their parents. Neither of which was looking like an attractive option, considering the amount of grief he was likely to get over it.

He still hadn't made his mind up which one to approach when his decision was made for him, his sister-in-law calling his name from down the hall.

"Killian?"

Well, at least she was the more sympathetic of the two.

"You beckoned?" he asked, popping his head around the door frame.

Elsa stood in front of a full length mirror, fretting with the sleeve of her pale blue dress. As per usual, she looked ethereally lovely, a state which was at odds with the frown she wore in her reflection.

Killian whistled in appreciation. "You do realise it's not too late? You could always ditch Liam and run off with the younger, more dashing brother?" he offered sardonically.

She turned to him, her eye roll still managing to be affectionate somehow. "Thank you, I think. Can you zip me up?" She asked, gesturing to the back of her dress.

"As the lady insists," he said with an exaggerated bow, stepping closer to assess the task at hand. When he went out he tended to wear his prosthetic, but at home he often went without, switching it over for the more versatile, but slightly more discomfiting hook. The last thing Elsa needed was for him to tear a hole right through her shiny new dress.

"I appreciate this, you know," Elsa said suddenly, startling Killian as he reached out to take the zipper. "You taking care of the boys. I know there are probably other things you'd rather be doing. It's just, I know Liam's been stressing himself out with Ingrid in town. I want him to have fun tonight. Let it go for a few hours."

"I'm happy to help," Killian replied, pulling the zip up the rest of the way. And then sensing he wasn't going to get any better opening than that, he ripped off that plaster. "Having said that, perhaps there is something you can do for me?"

"Oh?" she asked, turning around to face him with an amused smile curving her lips.

"Do you remember Emma?"

"Emma?" she repeated, her eyebrows furrowing together. "You mean #FindEmmaSwanAFriend, Emma?"

"Aye," Killian said, reaching up to scratch behind one ear. "I've been meaning to touch base with her, but I'm off to Glasgow tomorrow for the film festival. I was sort of hoping I could invite her here."

She looked puzzled by his request. "This is your house too, Killian. You know you don't need my permission to invite someone over."

Killian took a deep breath. "Only, I might have mentioned I was babysitting tonight, and invited her to eat with me and the boys?"

"You invited her to babysit with you?" Elsa clarified, in such a way he couldn't be sure of her feelings on the matter.

"If you're not comfortable with that-" Killian began.

"Just to be clear," Elsa interrupted him. "You invited Emma Swan, the woman you agreed to write about all this year, home to eat tacos and watch Pixar movies with you and my sons. On Valentine's Day?"

This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "Bloody hell, Elsa. It's not a date."

"But it's not exactly work either, is it?"

"It's a… it's a friendly gesture," Killian admitted. "But you don't understand. Emma is... she's guarded, alright? If I want people to really connect with her, if I want her story to truly resonate, then I need to know a little more about her. And there's no way she'll ever be comfortable enough to give me that, unless I'm prepared to do the same."

"So this is a case of 'I show you mine, you show me yours'?" Elsa asked, her tone still far too amused for Killian's liking.

"You make it sound crass, love."

"No, I think I understand. I do," she emphasised, when Killian shot her a look. "It shows you've really thought about it. About how you're going to sustain that relationship over the year. It's kind of impressive, actually."

"So you're okay with her coming by?" Killian clarified.

"Of course. I trust you to do the right thing."

"Thank you, love," he said, releasing a long held breath and leaning forward to brush a brotherly kiss to her temple. "I appreciate that."

"But Killian?" she said, stopping him dead in the doorway before he could make himself scarce. "It's okay if you just want to get to know her for the sake of it, you know?"

He paused for a moment, biting back a retort. "Have fun tonight, Elsa. And keep my brother out of trouble," he said, before leaving to her to get ready alone.

Emma

Okay, so Killian Jones was rich.

When Google Maps had led her directly in front of a two-storey Victorian in Merchiston, with honest-to-god ivy growing on the walls, Emma figured she had the wrong address. But after double-checking Killian's text, she couldn't see how she could've screwed up.

And as she walked down the paved drive, the impressive facade of the house looming over her, she wondered if she really had Killian Jones quite as figured out as she thought she did.

The entranceway was ridiculous. A church's worth of stained glass framing an imposing black door, a solid brass knocker in the center. Feeling a little bit foolish, she lifted the handle, bringing it down three times.

Why couldn't they just have a doorbell?

She heard a shuffle of movement from inside, and then Killian Jones appeared in front of her. He was minus the leather jacket she had come to expect from him. A waistcoat, it turned out, was what lay underneath, and he managed to make it work. His prosthetic, she noticed, had been replaced with some kind of metal attachment. But not wishing for him to catch her staring, she instead drew her eyes to her immediate surroundings.

"You neglected to mention you were loaded," Emma said, by way of greeting, stepping past him into the front hall and out of the cold. "This house is…" she trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Opulent?" Killian suggested, closing the door after her. "And I'm not loaded." Killian added with a smirk, taking her jacket from her. "My sister-in-law however… Let's just say, if anyone is the reacher in that relationship, it's my brother."

"Your brother, the editor?"

"That's the one. So," he said, rubbing his hands together, so much as he could. "Ready to meet the gremlins?"

"When you put it like that…" She grimaced, but allowed herself to be led down the hallway anyway, emboldened by the promise of tacos.

The living room itself was like something right out of a furniture catalogue, and not one from IKEA, either. The furniture all matched, the art on the walls was tasteful and there was a real marble fireplace, with an actual fire burning in the grate. The whole tableau wouldn't have looked out of place in a Burt Reynolds photoshoot, if it weren't for the two small boys clad in superhero pajamas sat around a small coffee table, fit to bursting with taco fixings.

They looked up as they entered, tiny faces lit with excitement and smeared with excess salsa.

"Lachie, Callum," Killian said, pointing to each boy in turn. "This is Emma. She's a friend from work. I've invited her to eat with us. And you're going to be on your very best behaviour for our guest, aye?"

Both boys nodded solemnly, before the oldest emitted a sudden and overloud burp, the two of them bursting into peals of laughter.

Ah, children.

"Hi," Emma said, her opening gambit as pathetic as her wave. "Thanks for letting me join you."

"They won't bite, Swan," Killian whispered from her side, suddenly much closer than she remembered. "Well, Lachie might. But you've had all your jabs, correct?"

And then before she could figure out if he was kidding or not, he pushed her into the open space beside the youngest, the aforementioned Lachie. Who may or may not bite.

"Hi," she said again, settling down on a cushion beside him. "Would you be able to pass me a plate?"

"You talk funny," the boy said, reaching over the extract a plastic plate from the stack piled high on the table.

Killian shot the boy a sharp look, but Emma waved him off. "Yeah, that's because I'm from America. Do you know where that is?"

"That's where Aunty Anna lives," came the voice of the eldest, Callum, from the other side of the table. "She lives in New York City with Uncle Kristoff. And they have a dog. His name is Sven and he's a Norwegian Elkhound. Uncle Kristoff says he can talk, but only to him. Aunty Anna thinks Uncle Kristoff is very silly."

The kid was clearly precocious, but not such a big fan of pausing between his sentences, making the entire spiel seem like one long run-on sentence.

"Oh," said Emma, not expecting this wealth of new information. "And have you ever gone to visit Aunty Anna?"

"We were in her wedding," Callum continued. "It was my job to carry the flowers. And I started sneezing all the time. Mummy said it was hayfever. And I remember the penguins at the zoo. And the big buildings. And the park. I remember, but Lachie was just a baby, so he doesn't remember it at all."

"I do so!" came the vehement reply of his younger brother, unhappy with being left out of the narrative.

"Do not!"

"Do so!"

"Boys!" Killian cried, causing both of them to abandon their mounting argument. "Remember what I said about best behaviour?"

The two boys fell into a sullen silence, but Killian on the other hand, merely looked amused. "Cheer up, lass," he said, as he leaned forward to snag a bowl of chopped tomatoes out from under her nose. "What would you rather be doing with your evening? Watching Netflix?"

Okay, so the tacos were pretty good. And when they weren't getting into arguments over inane details, the two Jones boys were kind of cute. Sort of. Emma wasn't really a kids person. Even when she was a kid, she hadn't been a big fan.

Fortunately, bedtime came around soon enough, Killian disappearing upstairs to tuck them in while Emma did a great job of pretending she wasn't snooping. It wasn't snooping if they had the pictures on display in the common areas, right?

Emma didn't recognize the couple in the wedding photo that took pride of place on the mantelpiece, but she recognized the best man easily enough. Killian Jones. He'd been younger then, his hair longer and shaggier, but it was undeniably him. Mugging for the camera with his arm around his brother's shoulders. One hand clutching a beer bottle, the other holding a bunch of flowers. Two hands. Not a prosthetic, back then.

So the missing hand hadn't always been missing, then. And it was a fairly recent development. She heard footsteps on the stairs and she turned away from the photograph, pretending to admire the Jones' not inconsiderable record collection. John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters seemed to come up a lot. She idly wondered if they belonged to the brother, or his wife. Or if it was an interest they both shared.

"Warm beverage?" came a voice near her elbow, startling her out of her thoughts.

"I think we should get you a collar with a bell on it," Emma said, clutching her chest, turning around to find Killian already holding out a mug, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You didn't think two hot chocolates were enough already?" Emma asked, taking the cup from his hand.

"Third time's the charm," he shrugged. "Also I spiked this one."

Emma, who already had her mug halfway to her lips took an experimental sip, causing her to cough out loud. "Wow," she said with a little laugh, lowering the mug. "Yeah, you did. Do I look that terrified?" She asked, moving to take a seat on the designer looking couch. She was almost afraid to bring her mug with her, in case she spilled something on it.

"Only a little," Killian said, taking a seat on the opposite end, clutching a beverage of his own. How exactly he'd managed to carry both in from the kitchen in one trip, Emma couldn't say. "You put up a good front. Kids can smell fear, but I think you had them fooled."

"But not you, huh?" Emma said, curling her feet underneath her.

"Well, I'm quite perceptive lass," he said, with a smirk.

"And modest, too," Emma remarked, earning a chuckle in response.

"You're good with them," she said suddenly. "Your nephews, I mean. You seem really close. Do you babysit a lot?"

"Well…" This smile faltered a little, and Emma wondered if she'd made an accidental faux pas. Had she misread the situation? "Actually," he began again, looking visibly uncomfortable. "The truth is that I live here. In the guest room. It was supposed to be a temporary situation, but I suppose we're now entering the stage where it's hard to kid myself on that score any longer. So at this point I think they just consider me part of the furniture."

He seemed almost ashamed somehow. As if there was something wrong with wanting to live in a beautiful house, surrounded by your own flesh and blood.

"Neighborhood too bourgeois for you?" Emma asked, before she could stop herself.

She was rewarded with another laugh, the furrow between his brows disappearing. "Well, there is that," he smiled. "I don't know. Don't get me wrong, I realise this is a palace. Compared to the places my brother and I grew up?" He shook his head. "I suppose I just miss the independence. Miss having my brother's disapproving looks at more than an arm's length."

"It must be hard," Emma mused. "Your boss being your brother. Your brother being your boss."

"I think bossing me around comes quite naturally to him, actually. Only, I'm not quite as good at taking orders as I used to be. Sometimes for so large a house it can be suffocatingly small."

It wasn't really a confession you could build on. Emma didn't have any sibling stories to share, and she doubted he wanted to hear about her crappy childhood anyway. She settled for taking another sip from her mug, letting the amaretto warm her from the inside out.

"You're not really one for sharing, are you?" Killian noted, regarding her with more scrutiny than she was really comfortable with.

"Don't have much to share," Emma shrugged.

"I doubt that very much. You seem like many things, Emma Swan. But boring? I doubt it. Take this, for instance. How does a lass like you end up on the wrong side of the Atlantic anyhow, teaching American history to a bunch of kids who couldn't quite scrape into Cambridge?"

"I applied?"

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "No one leaves all their friends and family behind and starts a new life three thousand miles away without a reason. So what was it? Bad break-up?"

"No." Walsh's face flashed in her mind for an instant. "Well, yes. But no, I mean, that's not why I came here."

He looked unconvinced. "No?"

"No."

"Then might I inquire…?"

"So you can write it all down in your little article? I don't think so, Buddy."

"Off the record, then," he said, pushing his phone across the table towards her in a show of good faith. "Why Scotland? Why now? And I swear, if you say anything about Outlander, we're done here."

She poked her tongue out at him for that. Sure, Jamie Fraser was one fine slice of Highland prime beef, but he hadn't really figured much into her decision. Her own decision hadn’t been half so simple. But hell, he’d asked for it, right?

"The break-up wasn't the reason, exactly. But it made it easier. Less to leave, I guess. And then I lost my job. Voluntary redundancy, or whatever. But at least I got a payout. And my friends, well they've all got their own stuff going on. Mary Margaret's trying for a baby. Ruby and Victor are moving in together. August has his book. And I had this money, burning a hole in my pocket. I guess I figured I had nothing to lose."

"You do realise this is the most you've ever spoken about yourself since I met you?" Killian pointed out, setting his mug down on the coffee table.

"And you say you do this for a living?" Emma asked in disbelief.

"Well, I think I also implied I'm a bit of a problem employee. So I'm guessing you were the dumper, rather than the dumpee?"

"What, with Walsh? Why would you assume that?" Emma asked, feeling her hackles raise.

"Well, you're something of an open book, lass. For one thing, you don't seem all that cut up about it. And for another, I think if you were properly distraught you would have sought out the company of your friends, rather than choosing to isolate yourself in some far off place."

He was right, damn him. Why did he have to be right?

"Fine. I'm the one who broke it off, happy? He proposed, and instead of saying yes, like a normal person, I decided I'd rather break his heart into little itty bitty pieces."

"You were in love with him?"

What was with the men in her life, and their fixation with Emma's feelings about Walsh?

"Sure, I guess. He's a good guy. We just weren't… endgame."

"Hmmm," said Killian thoughtfully.

"What?" Emma asked, wondering if she was really ready for another one of his theories.

"He didn't really get it, did he? The orphan thing?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "How the fuck did you know that?"

"Well I didn't, for sure. But I suspected. I've been around my share of orphans. There's a certain look, when you've been left on your own too long. And you, Swan, have the look."

Emma knew the look he meant. One part neglect to two parts chip on one's shoulder. It never entirely left you, no matter how many birthdays you had, or paychecks you cashed. An orphan was always an orphan.

"You're one to talk. Your brother raised you, didn't he?" Emma hadn't needed to meet Liam Jones to realize why he loomed so large in his brother's imagination. Not a case of sibling rivalry at all, but a lingering fear of not living up to his brother's expectations.

"He did," Killian confirmed. "But our father isn't dead. He just left, not too long after our mother passed. He turned up about ten years ago, out of the blue with a whole new family. A brother we never even knew existed."

"Ouch."

"Liam didn't take it very well. Not that I can blame him. They're still not on speaking terms."

"And you?"

"It's not our brother's fault his father is a coward. He's in his first year of university now, down in Exeter. We email sometimes. I can't quite bring myself to write to my father. I doubt anything I wanted to say could be expressed via email anyway."

For a man who might have been just about one of the most articulate people Emma had ever met, that might've been hard to swallow. But she thought she understood what he meant. Sometimes it wasn't about words. But sometimes they were all you had.

"I'm from Maine, originally," Emma blurted out. "You asked me once. That's where I was found on the side of the road, as a baby." She didn't want to play this game. This 'whose childhood was worse' game. But she felt compelled to give him something. "So, you were right about me. I grew up bouncing from foster home to foster home until I aged out of the system. Had a near-miss with the law and decided I didn't want to be a statistic. So I got my GED, applied to a bunch of colleges and took out a mountain of student loans. Somehow I ended up back in a small town in Maine about fifty miles from where I started, studying history, and I liked it there, so I stayed for a while. And now I'm here?"

"Here you are," Killian said, raising his mug to clink against her own. "Nice to meet you at last, Emma Swan," he said, piercing blue eyes meeting hers.

It would have been easy to lower her gaze, but she didn't, even as she drained the last of her cup. "Likewise, Killian Jones."

"So," Emma said, fingers tracing the rim of her empty mug. "You mentioned you found me a new best friend?"

Her name was Merida.

Or at least, that was what Killian was going to call her in his column. Anonymity apparently only an option for people who hadn't already had their real name splashed all over the internet.

"I can't decide if you're going to get along like a house on fire, or try to kill each other," he'd said, as if that was in any way a solid recommendation.

And then he'd suggested archery, of all activities. Because this Merida was apparently something of an expert. At archery.

"You really think it's wise sending me out into the hinterland with a complete stranger, armed with deadly weapons?" Emma had asked.

"You'll have deadly weapons too, Swan," he reminded her, in an overly cheerful way. As if that made it any better. It's wasn't like she knew how to use them.

The archery range was a long cab ride out of the city, set among farmland dotted with harassed looking cows and unsightly power lines. And just as Killian had promised, there was a young woman waiting by the front gate, immediately recognizable by her tangle of red curls.

"You're Emma?" the girl asked with a sideways smile, stepping forward to shake Emma's hand.

"I am," she said, grasping her hand in a firm handshake. "And I guess you're the person who was crazy enough to answer Killian's email?"

"Aye. Seems like. You ever shoot an arrow before, Emma?" Her accent was astronomical. Emma liked to think she had grown accustomed to the soft burr of the natives, but this was something else altogether.

"Uh, no. A friend of mine, um... back home. She went through an archery phase in college. I was much more into the spectating side of things."

"Well, there's no time like th' present," the girl said, leading the way to what seemed to be a storage shed.

"You're not worried it might rain?" Emma called out, pointing out the gunmetal grey of the clouds that were fast gathering on the horizon.

The girl shrugged, not even bothering to turn around. "It'll pass. Weather changes fast here."

With that apparently cleared up, Emma had no choice but to follow after her.

The weather did change fast. One minute Emma was being lectured to about her terrible stance in relative sunshine, the next the rain was coming in sideways.

Merida, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned, still focused intently on her target.

"This doesn't bother you?" Emma called, having to shout to make herself heard over the roar of the tempest beating down on them.

"It's Scotland!" the girl shouted back in answer, not moving a millimeter.

"It's freezing!"

Apparently having realized the shine had rather worn off for Emma, the girl gave a huff of annoyance, and let her bow drop back to her side. It was only when she turned around and saw Emma huddled there, shivering, that her face softened a little.

"Alrigh' fine," she said, holding her hands up in defeat. "We'll getcha warmed up."

They ended up taking refuge in Merida's car, a battered green Ford probably about as old as Merida herself. Emma felt a momentary pang of longing for her own ancient Volkswagen, probably still sitting under a dusty tarp in Mary Margaret's garage.

Emma wouldn't have minded a bit of heating to help with the whole drying process, but Merida never moved to switch on the ignition, and she felt she should be grateful she'd even gotten this far. Instead they sat in awkward silence, watching the first flurries of snow begin to fall.

"It'll pass?" Emma repeated. She couldn't help it.

Merida didn't say a fucking word.

So? KJ

How'd it go? KJ

...

Swan? KJ

Emma? Are you alright? KJ

Emma, answer your bloody phone! KJ

I have a class. I'll call you later. ES

Are you alright, lass? KJ

I'll tell you later. ES

There was that sliver of a moment, right after someone picked up the phone. That tiny breath of silence, when your heart leapt into your throat, and your nerve endings were shot. Where anticipation and fear started duking it out in your lower belly.

Emma wanted to live in that moment forever. Anything to delay the inevitable. But that was the thing about time. It didn't care what you wanted.

"Emma?" She sounded breathless, like she'd been running to grab the phone.

"Mary Margaret?" Emma said, not quite managing to keep the wobble out of her voice.

"Sweetie?"

That was all it took. One word. The confirmation that someone, somewhere, out there, gave a shit. She felt the tears gathering even before she spoke.

"You were right. I'm not okay."

#cs ff #cs au #cs au ff #FindEmmaSwanAFriend

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