#grief is stored in tea

[onceandfuturewarlqck]

just sliding here my andrew minyard-centric fic dealing with grief and healing i wrote the other day because i recently read all for the game and he has stolen a huge piece of my heart.

there is no more now, no more light, gold and low by starrylance

Summary:

An almost-life was as useless as any what-if, but with its drops still lingering on his lips he pictured a boy with light hair swinging his legs sitting at a table, stomach full, a woman's soft smile directed at him.

not a merlin centric post (sorry folks) but feel free to check it out and reach out to tell me what you think (+ if you have any prompts im willing to write a fic for you)

[purifiedclitoris69]

silent comfort

Wanda maximoff x supersoldier!reader

warnings: violence/dark thoughts?

summary: you and wanda have a silent love for each other. you’re generally gentle and kind always watching over, but when someone over steps and offends the person you love for most, another you peaks thru.

You are a supersoldier unlike any other, quiet and reserved, always choosing to observe rather than command attention. After your time in hydra and the reputation you built, attention was the last thing you wanted. You joined the Avengers a few months before Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, blending into the background with an unassuming grace. Despite your strength and skill, there's a softness to you that surprises your teammates—your silence is not cold or distant, but warm and thoughtful, like a silent protector.

From the moment you met the twins, you felt a deep connection with them, particularly Wanda. You could sense the weight she carried—the uncertainty, the grief, the fear, the guilt—and you were drawn to her. While others might have approached her with caution or even wariness, you offered something different: quiet kindness. Even despite her side with Ultron, you still showed her brother and her a kindness that they had almost forgot.

You have a way of making Wanda feel at ease, often with just a look or a simple gesture. She feels safe around you in a way she rarely does with others. You never push her to talk, but you're always there when she needs to, whether it's a late-night conversation or a shared moment of silence. You listen without judgment, always knowing exactly what she needs, whether it's words of encouragement or just the quiet comfort of your presence.

With Pietro, you're more playful, indulging his teasing with a rare smile, bailing him out of trouble with his pranks, playing along with them, but with Wanda, you're especially gentle, treating her with a kind of care that makes her feel understood. She trusts you implicitly, and you protect her fiercely, but you never treat her like she's fragile. You see her strength, her potential, and you nurture it with a steady, unwavering support.

You show Wanda your love in the quietest, most thoughtful ways. It’s in the extra cup of tea you make for her in the mornings, placing it beside her with a soft smile before she even has the chance to ask. You remember exactly how she likes it—just a little sweet, with a touch of milk—and she always notices the way you prepare it with care, as if it’s something special.

When you’re out on a mission or even just taking a quick trip to the store, you find yourself picking up little things for her. A book that you know she’d love because it touches on themes she’s interested in, or maybe just something with a beautiful cover that made you think of her. You’ll leave it on her bed or in her favorite chair without saying anything, and when she finds it later, there’s always a gentle warmth in her eyes because she knows it came from you.

Sometimes, it’s as simple as leaving a cozy blanket folded neatly on the couch when you notice her sitting there late at night, lost in thought. Or it’s the way you quietly slip a note under her door, just a few words reminding her she’s not alone, that you’re there for her.

You never make a big deal out of these gestures, never call attention to them. For you, it’s enough to see the small, peaceful smile on her face when she realizes that you’ve been thinking of her. You’ve woven these acts of love into your daily routine, and Wanda, in her own quiet way, cherishes each one. They are little reminders that she matters to you—that even when the world feels overwhelming, there’s someone looking out for her in the gentlest of ways.

She repaid you just the same, leaving you meals in the fridge labeled with your name and a "do not eat," leaving you cookies on your nightstand, comforting you when your thoughts became too dark, reading aloud to you when you can't sleep.

The feelings between you and Wanda develop slowly, quietly, like the way dawn creeps in without fanfare. It starts with the little things—the shared glances that linger just a second too long, the way your hand brushes hers when you pass her something, both of you too startled to say anything but too unwilling to pull away too quickly. There's a growing awareness between you, an unspoken connection that neither of you quite knows how to address.

You feel it every time you’re together, especially in those moments of silence where words aren’t necessary. Sitting next to each other on the couch, you can feel the warmth of her shoulder just inches from yours, both of you keenly aware of the space between, yet too shy to close it. Sometimes, you catch her looking at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention, and there’s a softness in her eyes, like she’s trying to work up the courage to say something—but she never does.

Wanda feels the same, though she doesn’t say it. She leaves a book she knows you’ll love on your bedside table, writes you a note about how a certain passage reminded her of you, and in those moments, she’s saying so much without ever saying the words. But like you, she’s afraid—afraid that if she speaks it aloud, it’ll shatter something between you.

So, you continue like this, your feelings blooming quietly in the spaces between the acts of care you show each other. Neither of you dares to say it first, but it’s there, ever-present, in every cup of tea you make her, in every baked treat she provides, in every soft smile shared when the world isn’t watching. There’s a beautiful tension in the not-knowing, a longing that’s almost enough—almost—but not quite. Still, you wait, both too scared and too shy to take that step, unsure of when or how, but certain that the feelings are real.

After a particularly hard mission with the team, emotions seemingly boil over.

As the Quinjet hummed through the sky, the tension was palpable. Everyone was on edge after the mission—too many close calls, too much going wrong. You were sitting across from Wanda and Pietro, trying to keep your own thoughts in check, but the weight of the day was bearing down on you. You could see Wanda, lost in thought, her fingers anxiously twisting the fabric of her jacket, and Pietro, sitting close to her, watching the team in silence, particularly his sister with concern.

Then Tony's voice broke through, sharp and careless, "Well, can't say it's surprising things went south," he said sarcastically somewhat joking, "You let people with a track record of working for HYDRA, what do you expect, just surprised our minds stayed intact."

His gaze landed briefly on Wanda, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as if it was some joke. But it wasn’t funny—not to her, not to Pietro, not to Bucky and definitely not to you.

You didn’t even think. One second, you were sitting there, the next, you were on your feet, grabbing Tony by the collar and slamming him against the wall of the Quinjet with a force that shocked everyone. “Watch yourself,” you growled, your voice low and threatening, the darkness in you rising to the surface. “You have no right to talk about us like that,” you spat through gritted teeth, “about her,” your grip tightened.

The moment you slammed Tony against the wall, the room seemed to freeze in place. Tony, wide-eyed and caught off guard, raised his hands slightly, not out of fear but sheer surprise at the swiftness of your reaction. His cocky façade shattered in an instant, replaced with a stunned silence as he realized the seriousness of the situation.

The rest of the team reacted in a chaotic mix of emotions. Steve stood up immediately, his hands half-raised as if ready to intervene, his instincts as a leader kicking in. His eyes narrowed, muscles tensed as he took a cautious step forward, though not fully committing to stopping you just yet. He knew you well enough to understand there was more to this than a sudden outburst.

Natasha remained seated, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned back slightly, arms crossed over her chest, her green eyes glinting with amusement. Tony had this coming, and she wasn’t about to step in just yet. She’d seen Tony push buttons before, and to her, this was just another day dealing with his sharp tongue.

Bucky sat stiffly at the edge of his chair, his metal arm twitching almost imperceptibly. His jaw clenched, eyes glued to the scene in front of him. He wasn’t exactly ready to leap to Tony’s defense, but he knew the damage you could do if you were truly pushed. Sam, sitting in the corner, slowly stood up, hands on his hips. He wasn’t rushing to intervene but kept a watchful eye on the situation. He had a deep sense of loyalty to the team, but even he could see Tony had crossed a line.

The air felt thick with a palpable tension. Every second that ticked by stretched out into what felt like minutes, the entire team holding their breath, waiting to see what you would do next.

Wanda, sat up holding her breath. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of care and concern. She had never seen you snap like this before, but a part of her couldn’t help but feel a rush of gratitude that you had stepped in so fiercely on her behalf. Still, the tension in the air left her feeling conflicted—she didn’t want you to lose control, especially not for her.

They had heard stories of your past, of the ruthless, brainwashed assassin Hydra had turned you into, but they’d never seen such an aggressive side of you. Until now.

Tony, eyes wide, raised his hands slightly in surrender. "easy soldier,” he muttered, clearly surprised by the force of your reaction. But your grip on his collar remained firm.

“Apologize,” you demanded, your voice cold. You weren’t letting him off that easy.

Before Tony could respond, Pietro was suddenly at your side. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was a reminder that this wasn’t about to escalate further—not for Wanda’s sake. “That's enough,” Pietro said sharply, his voice tight. You felt him stop just shy of pulling you off Tony, his hand hovering near your arm, unsure if he needed to intervene or not. He wasn’t angry at you, but his protective instincts for his sister were obvious. “She doesn’t need this.”

You met Pietro’s eyes, the unspoken understanding passing between you. He wasn’t accusing you—he just didn’t want things to spiral out of control. With a deep breath, you glanced back at Tony, who was still pinned against the wall.

“I said apologize,” you repeated, your voice hard.

Tony sighed, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, your pulse still racing with the leftover adrenaline, before you finally let go. Tony brushed off his shirt, glancing toward Wanda. “Sorry, Wanda,” he added, his tone more sincere now. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She gave a small nod, acknowledging the apology, but her silence spoke volumes. Tony’s words had hurt her.

You stepped back, returning to a seat further back in the jet away from the team. you noticed Pietro’s eyes still on you. He gave you a small nod—part thanks, part approval. He hadn’t expected you to stand up for them like that, but now he knew just how far you’d go for his sister.

As the Quinjet landed and the tension from the mission—and your confrontation with Tony—finally began to ease, the team started gathering their gear to head out. The air was still a little thick with unspoken tension, but leave it to Nat to break the silence with her sharp humor.

As she passed by, throwing her bag over her shoulder, she gave you a sly, sideways glance. "Well, i didn’t think a teddy bear like you would be such a protective girlfriend," she quipped, a smirk tugging at her lips.

The comment caught you off guard, and you shot her a look, part amused and part flustered. Wanda’s eyes widened a little, her cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly embarrassed but unable to hide a small smile.

“whatever,” you replied, trying to play it cool, though a hint of blush crept onto your face.

Nat just shrugged, walking ahead with that signature swagger. "Hey, I'm not complaining. Just saying, if anyone's got a problem with Wanda, they’ll have to go through you first. And judging by what just happened, I’d pay to see that." She winked, giving a knowing glance to the rest of the team, who had started to loosen up, the mood lifting as everyone filed off the jet.

Even Tony, still rubbing his neck, muttered something about getting off easy, while Steve shook his head, his usual disapproving-but-amused expression in place.

As Wanda and Pietro made their way back through the quiet halls of the compound, the tension from the mission had mostly faded, replaced by the familiar comfort of being with her brother. Pietro, always the one to fill the silence with banter, was unusually quiet at first, glancing at his sister with a knowing look. Wanda walked beside him, her thoughts scattered, mostly focused on you—the way you had defended her so fiercely, the intensity in your eyes as you stood up to Tony, and then how you had softened again, like a storm that passed as quickly as it came.

So…” Pietro finally broke the silence, his tone teasing, a grin spreading across his face. “That was something.”

Wanda shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

He laughed, throwing his arm around her shoulders in that casual way only brothers could get away with. “Oh, come on, Wanda. Don’t act like you don’t know.” He nudged her playfully, his grin widening. “You and our little supersoldier over there. It’s kind of hard to miss.”

Wanda felt her cheeks flush at the mention of you. “Pietro, it’s not—”

“It’s not what?” he interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Not like you’ve been sneaking glances at them ever since we got here? Not like they just threw Tony Stark against a wall for you?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Please, Wanda, you don’t have to be a mind reader to see what’s going on.”

Wanda huffed, trying to keep her composure, but Pietro was relentless.

“You need to make a move,” he continued, grinning as he waved his hand as if it was obvious. “I mean, how much more do you need? They’ve been giving you little gifts, making you tea, standing up to Tony— they’re genuinely kind Wanda, but after that I don’t think theyd hesitate to burn down the world for you; you deserve someone like that.”

Wanda bit her lip, turning her face away to hide the smile tugging at her lips. She couldn’t deny it—she did feel something for you. But it wasn’t just the little things, the quiet moments you shared. It was the way you made her feel safe, how you always seemed to be there when she needed someone, without her even having to ask.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly, her voice soft. “What if I ruin things? What if they don’t feel the same?”

Pietro stopped walking, turning to face her with a look of exaggerated disbelief. “Wanda,” he said, his voice teasing but affectionate, “they literally went all Hydra-mode on Tony for you today. If that’s not ‘feeling the same,’ then I don’t know what is.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile creeping onto her face. Pietro always knew how to get her out of her own head, even if his teasing was relentless.

“You’re overthinking it,” Pietro added, more seriously this time. “You like them, they like you. Just go find them, talk to them. Trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Wanda hesitated, glancing toward the window where she could see the dark sky outside. She didn’t want to admit how much she cared about you, how much your presence in her life had already changed things. But Pietro was right—if she didn’t make a move, she might regret it.

With a sigh, she gave her brother a small shove. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

Pietro grinned, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Blame away, but it won’t. You’ll thank me later.”

The night sky was clear, stars scattered like fragments of a forgotten dream as you sat on the roof of the compound, legs drawn up, arms resting loosely on your knees. The breeze was cool, carrying the scent of the trees nearby, but it didn’t do much to ease the weight in your chest.

You had come up here to think—about the mission, about the way you lost control on the Quinjet, and about Wanda. You could still feel the echo of that dark part of you, the part you’ve spent years trying to bury, the part that Hydra had forged into a weapon. For so long, you’d worked to move past it, to be better than what they made you. But when Tony had said those words, it was like flipping a switch you didn’t even know was still there. And now, despite your best intentions, the guilt lingered.

You exhaled slowly, staring up at the stars, trying to ground yourself in the quiet, the peace of the night. But your thoughts kept circling back to Wanda—how overwhelming your feelings for her had become, how they consumed you in ways you didn’t expect. Loving her wasn’t something you planned for; it just happened. But with that love came the fear, the fear of slipping into that darkness again if it meant protecting her.

The sound of soft footsteps behind you made you tense, but only for a moment, because you knew who it was before she even said anything.

Wanda sat down beside you, close enough that her arm brushed against yours. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it never was. She just sat with you, offering her presence in that quiet, gentle way she always did.

“Thank you,” she finally said, her voice soft. You turned to look at her, confusion crossing your face. She smiled faintly, her eyes warm even in the dim light. “For what you did today. For… everything you’ve done for me, really.”

You blinked, unsure what to say. You’d done it without thinking, out of instinct, but you didn’t want to admit how ashamed you felt for slipping back into that dark, aggressive part of yourself. “I didn’t mean to… be like that,” you murmured, looking down at your hands. “I’ve tried so hard to leave that side of me behind.”

Wanda reached over, gently resting her hand on top of yours. “You were defending me,” she said softly. “You’ve always defended me, protected me, even when I didn’t ask. And today… I needed it. I needed to know someone has my back like that.”

Her words hung in the air, and in that moment, you let your walls drop. The connection you felt was electric, and it terrified you. Taking a deep breath, you moved a little closer, feeling the warmth radiating from her.

"Yeah i’m pretty sure defending you is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done" you mutter look down to your lap, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them

Her touch was soft, grounding. You looked up at her, and the way she was looking at you—full of trust, gratitude, and something deeper—made your heart race. For a moment, everything else fell away. All the guilt, the fear, the darkness—it faded, leaving only her and the quiet between you.

he silence between you both felt heavy, but not with tension—more like an unspoken understanding passing through the air. When you looked back up at her, you caught the way her soft gaze was on you, full of emotion that you’d only dared to hope she felt too.

The world around you seemed to blur as you focused entirely on Wanda, on the warmth of her hand, the closeness of her body, and the quiet intensity of her eyes. There was something so vulnerable in the way she looked at you, something so open that it made your heart stutter.

“I mean it,” you added, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d defend you forever if you’d let me.”

A small, tender smile curved on Wanda’s lips. Her thumb brushed across the back of your hand in a slow, gentle motion, sending a shiver up your spine. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your cool, but the weight of your feelings for her, the depth of it all, was almost overwhelming.

Without even realizing it, you leaned in slightly, your breath catching in your throat. Wanda mirrored your movement, her face just inches away from yours now, her lips parted ever so slightly as she hesitated. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you couldn’t look away from her, the pull between you both undeniable.

You could feel the warmth of her breath, the closeness of her body. Time seemed to slow down as the space between you disappeared, and then—gently, tentatively—her lips brushed against yours. It was soft, almost uncertain, but the moment your lips touched, a flood of warmth spread through your entire body, like a gentle wave of emotion that you had been holding back for so long.

You kissed her back just as softly, afraid to break the moment, but also craving more. The kiss was innocent, filled with a kind of tenderness that made your heart swell. It was shy, slow, and so full of meaning that it made your chest ache. Wanda’s lips lingered on yours for a moment longer, neither of you rushing, just savoring the closeness, the intimacy of the moment.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested lightly against hers, both of you breathing a little heavier. Your heart was racing, and you could feel Wanda’s was too. For a second, neither of you spoke, letting the quiet settle between you.

Then, in a small voice, you whispered, “Would you… would you maybe want to go on a date? Like… a picnic or something?”

Wanda pulled back slightly, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and happiness, a soft smile blooming on her lips again. “Are you asking me on a date?” she teased, her voice barely above a whisper, the hint of a blush rising on her cheeks.

You nodded, biting your lip nervously. “Yeah… if you’d like that.”

She smiled fully now, her eyes sparkling as she leaned in to kiss you again, just a brief press of her lips to yours. “I’d love that,” she whispered back, her voice soft and filled with affection.

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | iii.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

After a few weeks, you’re forced to acknowledge you were wrong about Coriolanus.

His mere presence assuages your hurt, and none of his actions bear a hint of impropriety.

He’s simply being a friend, comforting you and supporting you in a time of need.

His visits grow more frequent. 

You’re amazed he even finds time between the University and his apprenticeship with Dr. Gaul. Still, Coryo never misses tea time with you, sometimes even bringing books and sweets. You’re thankful for the time he spends doting on you, even if you hate keeping him from his studies. You know how eager to succeed he’s always been. 

But you can’t deny you missed the feeling of having a brother, of having this person who cares for you, looks out for you and protects you unconditionally. 

And while you’re aware Coriolanus isn’t your actual brother, having him besides you helps alleviate the weight of grief and loneliness. Being with him makes you feel closer to Janus. You’re also solaced by the knowledge it’s what your departed brother would have wanted.

There is one person however who isn’t too keen on the rekindled bond between you and Coriolanus Snow.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” William notes, tracing the lines in your palm.

You’re both lying on the couch in the sunroom, your back against William’s chest, fingers interlaced with his. Sunlight spills from the stained glass in the ceiling, painting your fiancé’s brown curls in bronze hues. 

This is a moment of tranquility you’ve longed for, a sliver of calm amidst the storm and chaos wedding planning has turned out to be. You reckoned it’d be easier than it has been. Instead, it seems nothing ever goes right. Between incidents with the cake, your wedding dress somehow being lost by the store, and the venue perpetually being booked…you’ve grown disheartened and exhausted by the entire process.

It’s almost like some higher force is trying to prevent you marrying William. It’s ludicrous, of course. But the ceaseless string of bad luck is beginning to drain your hope that your wedding will happen before the year ends. 

You and William even had to push back the date. There was no choice as hurdles kept emerging.

So you bask in your fiancé’s presence, soaking his warmth and familiar smell, reminding yourself why you’re going through so much trouble. Marrying William is worth it.

“Yeah. He’s my friend,” you state casually. 

“Your friend. Baby…” There’s a brief pause during which William appears deep in thought. When he speaks again, it’s with a softer tone. “At the risk of sounding jealous, the way he’s looking at you…are you sure that he knows that?”

His words make you sit up straight. 

“William,” you admonish, taken aback by his preposterous insinuation. 

Coriolanus’ a gentleman. He hasn’t made any moves towards you and he wouldn’t. Sejanus trusted him and you trust him too.

Scratching the back of his neck, he sighs.

“I’m just saying. We’re getting married soon, and everything’s been so…tumultuous. I just want to make sure that you won’t…”

You search his forest gaze. Shock fills you at the doubts you find lurking there.

“That I won’t what?” You give a light punch to his chest. “Get cold feet? William, are you mad?”

His shoulders slump. “I know your parents wish I was from a great house like him.”

William looks away and you put your hands on his face, drawing his focus back to you.

“It doesn’t matter what my parents think. I love you.”

He smiles, that beautiful sunny smile that blows a warm breeze through your chest every time.

He grabs your hands and kisses them.

“I love you too, sweet girl.”

“William, you’re good and kind and caring. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” You hold his eyes. “He’s just a friend, I promise you. You…You’re my future.”

William studies you, love and devotion illuminating his features. His lips then collide with yours. He nudges you down on the plush beige upholstery, humming low in his throat.

When his hands find their way below your skirt, you push against his chest.

He immediately stops.

Your hot, rapid exhales mingle as you steady your breath. 

“You know I’d rather we wait for our wedding night,” you mutter apologetically. It’s not the first time things got hot and heavy between you and William and you slowed them down. You know how frustrating it has to be for him and you commend his patience. “ I know it’s old-fashioned but I…”

He quiets you with a tender kiss on the forehead.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, holding hands with you. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I got carried away.” Pink dusts his cheeks as he adds, “You just smell so good and you’re so beautiful.”

A smile breaks across your face. “You’re not too bad yourself, pretty boy.”

He tilts his head and laughs. 

“How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself when you talk to me like that?” He bites his lip, his lids dipping to half-mast. “Can I at least get another kiss?” he whispers suavely.

“Hm, we’ll see about that…” you mumble, closing your own eyes.

“Apologies, hope I’m not  interrupting anything?”

Coriolanus’ sharp inflection shatters the spell, making you leap away from William.

Heat nestles in your cheeks as you rise to your feet, hastily smoothing the wrinkles in your dress. Your fiancé clears his throat and runs a hand through his tousled locks.

“No, we’re…William was leaving,” you stammer, struggling to meet Coriolanus’ stark blue gaze.

William’s brows squeeze together at that. But you shoot him a glare that pulls a deep sigh from him. He nods and pulls you to him one more time. 

He kisses you but you note it lasts much longer than usual, his fingers curling around your waist possessively.

Embarrassment flares inside you that this is happening right in front of your friend.

When he releases you, you’re breathless.

“Coriolanus,” William greets stiffly as he brushes past the blond.

“William,”Coriolanus replies, his tone somehow icier.

Once your fiancé has left, a weary exhale floats from your mouth.

“I don’t understand why you two can’t just get along. You both matter to me.”

Coriolanus smirks. “Oh, princess. You wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand?” you inquire, blinking up at him curiously.

His tight-lipped smile expands as he gauges you. 

“Nothing.”

You scrunch your nose, displeased by his answer. He’s always so cryptic. A chuckle peels from his lips at your sour expression. His knuckles sweep over your cheek.

“There should never be a frown on such a pretty face.” He digs inside his satchel before retrieving a slim, leather-bound book. He places it in your hands as you gape at him, puzzled.

“Here, I brought you this. This will cheer you up.”

You examine the book. Surprise mingles with elation when you notice the words on the cover. The engraved letters spell out a familiar title. It’s one of your favorite books from when you were younger. It bewilders you that he even remembers. As if no time has passed.

“Oh my god! How did you…” An excited squeal leaves you. Then your voice lulls to a whisper. “It’s a first edition, Coryo.”

“It was printed and bound before the war,” he explains. “It wasn’t easy to dig up.”

Your brows rise. “An antique. You shouldn’t have.” You cradle the book against your chest. “You’re too good to me.”

His mouth quirks lopsidedly.

“Anything for you, princess.”

You both sit down for tea, cakes and macaroons. Time flies as you chat about everything and nothing with your friend. As always, you do most of the talking as he dutifully listens, only interjecting to ask you to elaborate on a particular point. 

No matter what you jabber on about, his interest never appears to wane.

You eventually land on the matter of your wedding planning. You share all the troubles you and William have had and Coriolanus hums in response.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He sips from his cup of Earl Grey. “How…unfortunate.” 

He then pauses, seeming to ponder something. “I have a proposition.”

Your brow arches in question.

“Clemmie is throwing a party tonight. Let me take you, get your mind off of all this.”

Your lips part. Clemensia? A party? None of it sounds enticing to you.

“I’m not sure…” you trail off, your eyes finding the floor.

“What better way to cheer you up than a party, princess?” Coriolanus’ voice mellows as he adds, “You can’t stay cooped up here forever.”

Words falter on your tongue as your eyes swell with unshed tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern oozing from his gentle tone.

You shake your head.

“You’re crying,” he insists, reaching over the table to lift your chin.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says sternly. “Talk to me.”

His unwavering  inflection nudges you to admit, “I’m just scared.”

“What are you scared of, princess?”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Every part of this house, every nook and cranny carries a memory I have with Janus.” You glance about the sunroom. Here alone you can count so many hiding spots from games you and your brother played when you were kids. “It’s easy, keeping him close here. It’s just that…”

“You’re scared to move on,” Coriolanus finishes for you. His thumb glides over your cheek, collecting a tear you didn’t realize had spilled over. “But you have to.”

“Sejanus wouldn’t want you to wilt away in this house like one of your roses.”

You mull over his words. You suppose he’s right but you’re still not convinced. Parties like the kind Clemensia is fond of hosting aren’t exactly your scene. 

A lame excuse flows from your lips.

“I don’t even know what to wear.”

“Then I’ll choose for you,” he replies without hesitation.

“What?”

“Let’s go to your room.”

Before you can protest, he seizes your hand and drags you upstairs.

“Wait, Coryo…”

He ignores you, making his way to your room with brisk strides you can barely maintain pace with. Once he’s there, he rummages through your closet. You let him do it, half-skeptical, half-jaded. Most of these garments weren’t picked by you anyway, but by your mother based on whatever fashion trend raged in the Capitol at the time. And those trends change every other season. You since long gave up on trying to keep abreast of them.

“Hm, this one is perfect,” he announces, drawing a red number from the closet.

You gape at the dress he chose. It’s a slip satin dress the color of blood. The waist is cinched with a thin belt and the lace sleeves, adorned with embroidered flowers, flow elegantly.

It’s beautiful, radiating a timeless elegance…but the neckline is low, displaying more cleavage than you’re used to. 

Your cheeks warm. “Are you sure?”

“Just trust me. Try it.”

Your eyes bulge but you relent, something about his tone curbing your impulse to argue. “Okay,” you quaver.

Trying not to squirm beneath his intense stare, you grab the dress from him and slip behind the wooden divider screen.

Chewing on your lip, you peek above the folding screen.

“Maybe you could…get out while I change?” you suggest while fumbling with the lace strings of your day dress.

Coriolanus casually sits on your bed, his crimson coat pooling around him. He leans back and spreads his large hands over your bed sheets. A small smile dances along his pink lips.

“I won’t look, I promise. Don’t you trust me, princess?”

“I do but…”

“But what?” he challenges, cocking his head in question.

Stumped, you come up short of a decent answer. “Nothing,” you mumble.

You shed your clothes quickly to try on the red dress. The whole time, you can feel the weight of Coriolanus’ unnerving scrutiny on the other side of the wooden screen.

He gives you a sluggish onceover when you step out from behind the screen. Your skin prickles as you shake.

“Hm nice, twirl for me.”

His blue eyes sparkle when you do as he says. He gets to his feet. He slowly strolls towards you.

Once he’s in front of you, he also arranges a few wisps of your hair in a way that he likes.

“Gorgeous,” he lauds when he’s done. 

He tilts your chin up, his gaze corralling yours.

“See? All you have to do is to trust me, princess.” His deep voice dips to dulcet tones. “Just trust me and, I promise you, everything will work out exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

“You came,” Coriolanus points out, that signature smirk of his adorning his lips.

“I promised I would,” you defend.

He snorts. “I’m glad. Saves me the trouble of having to drag you here myself, princess.”

Nervous laughter peals from your lips at his strange joke and the intent way his eyes rest on you. For a while, he doesn’t say anything, drinking in the sight of you in the crimson dress. The very same one he picked himself.

He then loops your arm around his, bending near your ear to whisper,

“Let's re-introduce you to everyone.”

You look around yourself, curious as you’ve never been to Clemensia’s house. The atmosphere is more intimate than you expected. The only source of dim light in the Dovecote’s sumptuous living room emanates from candelabras scattered all about, the wobbly candlelight casting twisting shadows over the damask walls. The crackle of the logs burning in the gigantic fireplace mingles with the soft piano tune filling the living room. 

“Coriolanus, did you bring a ghost to my party?” Clemensia jests when she sees you. Her expression then turns serious as she studies you. To your utter surprise, she wraps her arms around you and hugs you. You freeze, too stunned to return the gesture. The two of you were never close, the opposite in fact. It all stemmed from the way she and her friends ostracized you and your brother in school. Maybe it’s all water under the bridge now that you’re older. “Oh, you poor thing,” she laments. “I’m here for whatever you need, okay?”

You nod stiffly. “O-Okay.”

Coriolanus hardly conceals his amusement at the interaction, mirth swaying in his cobalt orbs. 

He and Clemensia keep introducing you to people. Some you recognize; some you don’t. 

It makes you realize how much you missed. 

After a while, faces blend into each other. You end up nodding and smiling to most of the small talk, your attention span dwindling by the minute.

Eventually, you decide to retreat to the bar to take a break. The barkeep nudges a drink your way and you thank him quietly. You swirl it in your hand, your thoughts drifting. Maybe this is what a return to normalcy must feel like. Slightly strange and overwhelming.

You gasp as Coriolanus appears at your side. “Are you alright, princess? Too much?”

Your startled reaction draws a chuckle from him.

A slow exhale drops from your chest. 

“A little,” you confess. “But…I’m glad you took me. A change of scenery is nice.”

It occurs to you that you haven’t had time to wallow in your sadness, too caught in conversation with other people. However frivolous the topics, it did keep your mind off of things. No thoughts of dead brothers have crossed your mind tonight.

It might not be much but it’s a start, you suppose.

Coriolanus’ brow curves teasingly. “See? This is why you should trust me.”

“Don’t push it, Snow. You’re on thin ice.”

A laugh bursts from his chest but, as he peers down at your drink, all humor vanishes from his face. He swipes it from you and sniffs it. 

“Hm, what’s wrong?”

A frown puckers his forehead. 

“Who served you this drink?” he rumbles.

You shrug. “I don’t know. It was just…brought to me.”

“There’s something in it.”

“What?” Ice spills in your veins. “Oh my god.”

Your mind whirls as you peek at your surroundings, paranoia creeping in. You wonder who could have done this and why. Just to mess with you? Or maybe even worse…

Your gut sinks. Thank god Coryo put a stop to whatever awful thing could have happened to you.

He puts his hand on your arm reassuringly. “I’ll bring you a clean one.”

“T-Thanks,” you stutter. “Just nothing with alcohol in it, please.”

“Of course.”

He returns with a brand new drink in a jiffy. 

“Thanks for looking out for me,” you beam before taking a sip. You were starting to get a little parched.

“Always, princess.” He grins at you while you take another sip.

A wave of queasiness suddenly hits you. 

The room starts to spin around you, blurring into crooked shapes and colors. You try to stand but your knees buckle instantly.

If it weren’t for Coriolanus swiftly catching you you’d be a heap on the floor.

“Coryo…I’m not feeling so good,” you slur, struggling to speak. Cotton seems to fill your mouth, the mere act of forming words demanding great effort.

“It’s okay, lean on me,” he says, slipping his arm around your waist.

“Head…heavy.”

“You’re alright. Just hold on to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good girl.”

In a daze, you stagger along as he escorts you through a series of hallways and up a flight of stairs. You grow so weak that you slump against him. With ease, Coriolanus hoists you in his arms, carrying you bridal style the rest of the way.

You fall onto something heavenly soft that sinks under your weight. Like fluffy clouds. 

Your thoughts collapse, muddy and haphazard as you blink up at the ceiling. An antique chandelier hangs from it.

“You just need a little bit of rest.”

Coriolanus’s voice is warped, disembodied almost.

“Rest…” you echo.

But as soon as your eyes begin to close, the feeling of your dress hiking upwards tugs you back to consciousness. 

Befuddled, you look down. You’re welcomed by the sight of Coriolanus wedged between your parted legs, hands clasped around your thighs. His waistcoat and white blouse are gone, exposing his pale, broad chest. 

“Coryo, what is happening-”

His soft lips cover yours, stifling your protests. His tall frame pins yours to the bed. He purrs against your lips, framing your jaw when you feebly pivot your head to the side. 

When his lips free yours, your mouth still tingles with the forcefulness of his bruising kiss. 

He returns to the space between your thighs. 

You lie back, your bones like jelly, as you feel the delicate material of your panties sliding down your legs. 

Your brows twitch. “Coryo…”

His blue eyes glow strangely in the darkness. A chill slithers through your core. 

“Shh, don’t worry about it, princess, just sleep.”

You want to move. You feel you have to. But you can’t. 

“I…”

The syllable dies in a sharp gasp as Coriolanus’ cool tongue drags down your slit. Long fingers spreading you open, he traces wet circles around your bundle of nerves. He rasps against your center and the vibrations rock through your core. Your breath hitches. Your chest tightens. Heat builds in your stomach as he makes you dangle off the cliff of pleasure. He soon adds a finger and you cry out.

Coriolanus pumps in and out of you, gauging your expression as he grazes a particular spot that has your toes flexing. You writhe over the sheets, eyes blindly rising to the ceiling. 

You clench around his finger, your cunt clinging to him reflexively.

He sinks a second digit inside you and you whine, back arching at the abrupt stretch.

Short, chaotic breaths rush through your lungs as he works you open. His slow, meticulous drags have your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Your legs quake as the coils in your belly grow unbearably tight and hot.

He stops as you’re on the cusp of your undoing. Your boneless frame sags onto the sheets.

He leans back and you hear the rustle of his pants coming undone. You get a faint sense of wrong trying to pierce through the haziness, but you can’t grasp at it.

Still, your fingers stretch towards the edge of the bed, your body rolling to the side. The meek attempt is interrupted as Coriolanus yanks you back onto the sheets, snatching your wrists and pinning them above your head. His frame drapes over yours. The scent of roses coats your senses.

“We’re not done, princess,” he murmurs, his warm breath caressing your face.

A painful pressure starts prodding your entrance. He grunts, hovering above you as he pushes past your tight ring of muscles. 

You feel as if you’ll tear as more of him buries inside you. Every second is agony, your core burning at the blunt intrusion.

A sigh of pleasure floats from his mouth when he reaches the hilt of you. He stays there a while, seeming to bask in the feeling of you around him. 

When he starts to move, your eyes flutter open. He sets a steady pace right away, thrusting inside you as if his life depended on it. Wordless screams rip from your throat. He releases your wrists, his long fingers latching onto your waist instead. 

Each of his slow, deep thrusts sparks warm tingles through your body.

Sweat collects between his brows as he grunts in pleasure.

“I knew you’d feel just perfect around me,” he rasps, delighted. 

His cadence quickens, his hand digging bruising grooves over your hip. Choked moans spill from your throat. His other hand crawls beneath the thin satin of your dress, fondling your breast and flicking your pebbled nipple. His hands feel everywhere at once and that sense of wrong rolls over you again.

“Ever since I saw you in this dress, I’ve been dying to fuck you in it,” he confesses, lust bleeding in his fevered tone. 

The mattress squeaks as he relentlessly rams into you.

A uniquely sharp thrust has your slick walls tighten around him. His cock stirs, a throaty moan pouring from his chest.

The repeated friction against your soft spots has you seeing stars.

A feral glint bounces in his blue eyes as he admires your panting form, lost in the throes of pleasure. Strangled shouts escape you as another wave of pleasure crashes over your frame.

His pace slows, sloppier than before as his cock twitches between your walls. His eyes roll back as he sighs, tension draining from his muscular frame. Hot ropes spill inside you, overflowing until you feel the warmth dripping along your thighs.

Your mouth wobbles, silent tears streaming down your face.

Coriolanus cradles your face, kissing away each of your tears with tender brushes of his lips.

“Shh, don’t cry,’ he mumbles. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.” His cock stiffens inside you once more. He lifts you and snaps his hips viciously into yours, drawing a broken whimper as he bottoms out. A lopsided smile blooms on his lips when he begins to move inside you. Helplessly, you lie back as he takes you again.

“I’ve got you, and I’m not letting you go.”

[ew-selfish-art]

DP x DC AU: Letters and Paper goods are easy to store, and therefore, easy to hide. Danny has drama to monger though.

Tim Drake becomes a ward of Bruce Wayne at the same time the Drake Corporation is crumbling, and his father's health is declining. Dana, his father's physical therapist turned new wife, isn't optimistic these days, and Tim can read the writing on the wall.

Times have changed and Bruce and Dick are treating him with kid gloves. Jason Todd is alive again, been there suffered that. Young Just-Us has proven yet again to be his true family... But Bruce 'welcomes' him home the second the fake uncle is sniffed out.

So, Tim rationalizes, If Drake Corp is going down, then so shall the reason he spent his childhood abandoned. The many, many archeology digs his parents left him for over the years and their many, many stolen historical pieces. Tim is ready and able to get rid of them all.

He first returns the artifacts that have obvious origins to the people with whom they belong. Then it starts to get a little hazy as to where each item stolen is from. The paper goods are the hardest to place.

Years later, Tim has almost completely emptied his parent's old home of their stolen goods. By now, he runs a fortune 500 company and is working as Red Robin. Going through the last of the archives means going through the very last objects his parents ever preferred over his company, and he can't wait to be rid of them.

A glowing green envelope however... this one he feels compelled to keep. He hadn't known it back when he started this project- but somehow his Parents had found objects drenched in the essence of the Lazarus Pits. And it wasn't just one letter, it was dozens and dozens.

Tim Drake knew it would be risky to move them, but he needed to get these letters to an ex-league member to understand what the language of the dead was trying to proclaim.

_____

Danny hates a fetch quest but apparently Ghost Writer is having a bad day. It starts with Danny running by the guys library to have a chat when all of a sudden, the question of certain... ghost relations... came up. Danny is always more than thrilled to hear about how the various ancient-as-in-old ghosts interacted with the Ancients-as-in-yikes ghosts.

Ghost Writer finally admitted to the monarch in training that if he wanted to know so badly, that he could track down Clockworks old letters. They'd been scattered well before Ghost Writer could properly work on the ghost archives (read: was still alive), and it wasn't until he'd long worked on the library that such affairs were noted as missing.

The potential for gossip was just too good! A call home to Sam, Tuck and Jazz to let them know he was on an adventure, and then Danny flew off with little more than some hints by GW and an annoyed nod of cryptic agreement by CW.

Danny goes about wondering Gotham as himself, not yet seeing the need to be Phantom, when he runs into the very guy he was looking for.

"Hey- you don't happen to have a shit ton of letters written in the language of the dead do you?" Danny smiles as innocently as possible as he watches all seven stages of grief play out on the guy's face. Then something changes and Danny can tell that this guy is like, scary competent.

"I do, however, I was double crossed and a shit ton of assassins are on their way to try and take them."

"Uh... Bummer for them I guess? I'll just take them and go- I don't even really need to keep them if you want em back-"

"Assassins. They won't exactly leave empty handed."

"Huh. Well... Wanna come with? These are supposed to have some pretty juicy drama in them." Danny awkwardly places a hand on the back of his neck.

A knife being thrown in their direction was enough to get this guy to make a decision.

"Let's go spill some tea then."

Danny grins as he pulls the guy through a rapidly drawn portal, ignoring the wide eyes he makes. Turns out his name is Tim, and walking him through afterlife drama is the best- how does he know so many dead assassins??? One of these letters is about a guy who took Tim's spleen??

[b1rds3ye]

I have to HC Simon is hella expressive under his mask because he really never has to worry about schooling his expressions; the mask does it for him. So picture it - he sees his work crush in the grocery store and immediately hides. Face, neck, ears bright red. (I also HC that he's got the mask off if he's off duty for extended periods of time.) All of a sudden, you're right behind him super excited to learn you live near each other and he just CANT get a grip. Can you picture it? Cause I can picture it, and I'm as soft a fucking pillow about it lol

AYO I CAN TOTALLY SEE THAT. Even with the mask, we’ve seen Simon be super expressive, he throws a nasty side-eye, has a death stare that would make anyone cry but have you seen the zoom up on his eyes?? They’re actually the sweetest puppy eyes sometimes oh my gOD-

Personally, I feel off-duty Simon still wears a mask for anonymity and also not to worry about pulling a funny face in public (man's being covid safe what a legend) but then there will be one day he forgets. And that will be the one day he runs into you and he knows fate is playing some stupid trick on him. He's so conflicted, he wants to hang around the vicinity (he usually just lets himself be found by you so he can get the small ego boost of you approaching him), but conversely there's nothing flattering about his face looking like a cooked lobster with how red it is. The rush of embarrassment overrides his want to see you and he's ducking behind aisles, hoping you'll get distracted by the rack of lollies that's fifty percent off. But of course you don't, you're far too stubborn, and you track him down throughout the grocery store.

"You alright Simon?" He hears your voice directly behind him in no time. Do you bloody teleport now? Seeing your face contorted in such concern has him reeling, wanting to snap out in denial that no, his face is not that red because he's found you.

"Sunburn," Simon grumbled and he's mentally slapping himself because Manchester hasn't seen a ray of sun for the last damn month. And you must've known that too because you're cocking an eyebrow at him, trying not to laugh and for once in his life Simon feels like an absolute muppet.

"Yeah, alright. It's nice to see you too," you snicker. You eye the items in his shopping cart, undoubtedly questioning the lack of diversity in his diet and Simon is genuinely hoping at this point that the earth will swallow him up whole.

"Hey," you clear your throat, eyes trained on his trolley cart, but no longer for scrutinising. If he hadn't trained for literal years to keep his composure, he'd likely be cupping your cheeks and cooing over your bashful expression as you struggled to get your next words out. But no, instead his composure is fully invested into desperately pummeling down the blood in his cheeks.

"I live pretty near here. If you want, you're more than welcome to come for dinner or a cup of tea? You like that, right?"

Good grief, his blush wasn't going to go down anytime soon.

[sturniolosass]

Sick - a Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Summery - Nick and Matt are sick with Covid and you offer to come and help take care of them.

*fluff, like…pure fluff*

It’s Tuesday Night and you get a call from your boyfriend Matt letting you know he tested positive for covid, Your first reaction was to ask if he need anything medicine, soup, water. He had stated that he and the boys were fine without it and that you should stay home and rest but you insisted. So ending the call you decided to head over to him and his brothers home to help take care of all three of them.

Before heading to the house you decided to run to your local grocery store and grab a few things for the soup you’d be making and also a box of tea.

Once you checked out you started making your way to the house.

Once you arrived you knocked on the door urgently and saw Chris, you urgently pulled a mask over your face

“Yo! I’m good, i don’t have Covid…” he said

“ohhh oh my god, i thought all of yall were sick as fuck” you stated with a sigh of relief

“where are Matt and Nick?” you asked with a sense of panic

“they are both locked away in their rooms..i wouldn’t let them contaminate you” he laughed

“I don’t think it would matter hence i put myself in this situation. Wanna help me cook?” you ask Chris hoping he’d say no remembering his cooking history

“uhhhh im not sure you want that..” Chris replied

“you know what! you’re right” you replied rushing over to the stove

You put everything down on the counters before rushing around the corner hall to Matt’s room. Knocking on the door you say “Matt, are you hungry? How’re you feeling?” then listening in for a response you hear counting..

“1..2..3..4..5” Matt counts..

You call again “Matt?!”

Matthew then hurriedly opens the door wearing a mask he then says “what’re you doing here..? you’re gonna get sick! go home!” he rushing griefs to shut the door.. but your foot’s in between the hinges “i wanted to come and take care of you guys i know you guys don’t really know how to do that yourself.., have you even had any medicine..?” you ask worriedly “yea..” Matt looks around suspiciously “well no..but still i don’t want you getting sick, you should go home, coming here was sweet though i really appreciate you thinking of us honestly” he replies expecting you to leave which you do.. but not the house

Time to cook..

You grab all your ingredients and start making the soup. Onion, Celery, Garlic, Carrots, Noodles, etc.. once everything is cooking you decide to throw on a movie within the same time in which Chris decides to come up stairs from the ground floor… “sooo like, I know i’m not sick but that smells oh so yummy” he says in a weird yet entertaining voice “can i please have some too?” he begs. You look at him funny and reply “I mean.. i guess i’m trying to make enough so that there’s at least enough for two days..” he then notices the TV and asks “what is this? saltburn or some shit?” you look at him in disgust “No. it’s The Turning” you say matter of factly. “what is it about” he asks, “i don’t know for real, just some indie horror film” you tell, “oh alright well please let me know first when the food is done” he pleads. “whatever.” you say.

One the food is done you call up the guys one by one to grab a bowl. First Chris cause he asked so kindly, then Nick.. Once Nick comes down he seems fine, Then he starts coughing a lot, causing you to worry and offer him tea. He politely declines claiming to not enjoy tea that much. He then heads back upstairs and Matt comes out of his room after 5 minutes..

“Hey, I really appreciate you coming here and treating me and my brothers so sweet.. i was on the phone with my mom and she really thanks you because she can’t be here to do these things for us” he says lovingly smiling up at you with his cute little red nose from blowing it all day. “no problem, i love you guys a lot. you especially, so i have no problem with probably leaving here sick just to make sure you guys are ok” you reply. Matt them comes behind you whilst you’re stirring the soup on the low heat and gives your back a nice firm hug. “I love you” he says. At first you’re very caught off guard because that’s the first time he’s spoken those three words to you.. but coming to your senses you immediately respond “i love you too, Matt” in to which he smiles in the crook of your neck and kisses it. You turn and hug him back.

“Want some soup or tea?” you ask politely. “Sure, i’ll have some tea” he responds thankfully. “i already had food like a few hours ago. thank you though.” he adds. You pop a Peppermint tea in the keurig and he sits at the table. “i’m glad you’re here, i feel like i’ve been going crazy locked in my room all day.” he speaks. “I was counting my steps as i paced my room earlier because my apple watch felt i was being ‘lazy’ even though i’m quite frankly sick as all hell” he adds.. “hahaha yea i heard that, i was so confused” you reply coming in for a kiss in which he hesitates “i don’t wanna risk your chance of getting more sick” he states in to which you reply “the sickness is airborne, love. if im gonna get sick it’s gonna happen regardless. i’ve already stepped in the house.” leaning in you kiss his lips. The keurig finishes and you mix a little bit of honey in his mug and hand him the cup.

Nearing the end of the night you and Matt head into his room to relax, figuring you’d already be sick Matt invites you to stay the night knowing it shouldn’t get any worse from here unless you go home where your family lives. You both decide to watch a movie, Matt begging you to help him finish saltburn stating he was bored with it in the first 20 minutes. You oblige only to regret it seeing he’s only watched a small portion of the ‘weird’ movie, however you continue watching just to keep him company and watch him fall asleep comfortably in your arms...

The End :)

a/n: idk how i feel about the end of this.. but you know what, its my first and i’ll only get better as i keep going.. :)) THANKS FOR READING!

[humansofnewyork]

(49/54) “We still take long walks together, even today. There’s a path through the forest near our house. Mitra still can’t stand the silence. She’ll walk off the path so she can hear the dry crunch of the leaves. She still talks the entire time, but these days our conversations don’t reach back as far as they used to. We mainly talk about the things we see. She’ll count her steps, count the houses, count the trees. Mitra’s memory is no longer her friend; it no longer supports her. But she still says ‘hello’ to everyone that she sees. And she’s still a queen, I am always at her service. These days we have become inseparable. If I do not see her for two minutes, I will find what room she’s in. I button her jacket. I tie her shoes. I handle all her medications. I do not grieve the situation. I feel gratitude that I am able to do these things for her, despite nature. My only grief is for her. Her memory was her greatest gift. It’s where I stored my treasures. I could tell her any verse, even once. And she could remember it forever. Now it will escape her after only a minute. Every day her world gets smaller and smaller. Tighter and tighter. It’s the oldest memories that she remembers most now. Recently she has been fixated on her hand. She keeps holding up her crippled hand, and asking: ‘Why did you ever marry me?’ When we were young in Tehran, her father had a tradition. Every morning he would insist on having the first cup of tea. He said it was the one that tasted best. He called it ‘the flower of the tea.’ So now when I brew our tea every morning, I will wait. Until Mitra is up. Until she’s ready. So that I can serve her the flower of the tea. Then as soon as we’ve finished the kettle, she’ll make me go outside. And pour the remains on the roots of our trees.”

 ما همچنان با هم به پیاده‌روی‌های درازآهنگ می‌رویم. راهی جنگلی در نزدیکی خانه‌مان هست. میترا همچنان خاموشی را برنمی‌تابد. هنوز به راه رفتن روی برگ‌های خُشک و شنیدن خِش‌خِش آنها ‌دلبسته است. هنوز همه‌ی راه را سخن می‌گوید، اما گفت‌وگوهای ما به گذشته‌های دور بازنمی‌گردند. این روزها بیشتر درباره‌ی آنچه می‌بینیم، سخن می‌گوییم. او گام‌هایش را می‌شمارد، خانه‌ها را می‌شمارد و درخت‌ها را. حافظه‌ی میترا دیگر یاری‌اش نمی‌دهد، دوستش نیست، از او کناره گرفته است. ولی هنوز با هر رهگذری که از کنارمان می‌گذرد، خوش‌آمد می‌گوید. او هنوز شهبانوی خانه است و خواهد ماند و تا هستم او را پرستار و خدمتگزار خواهم بود. این روزها ما جدایی‌ناپذیریم. اگر برای دو دقیقه او را نبینم، در اتاق‌ها به دنبالش می‌گردم. دکمه‌های ژاکت و بند کفش‌هایش را می‌بندم. داروهایش را به هنگام به او می‌رسانم. هرگز برای خودم دل نمی‌سوزانم. سپاسگزار بختم که می‌توانم اين کارها را برای او انجام دهم. برای او اندوهناکم. برجسته‌ترین توانایی او حافظه‌اش بود. یاد او گنجینه‌ی یادهای من هم بود. می‌دانستم هر بیتی را یک بار برای او بخوانم، برای همیشه به یاد می‌سپارد. این روزها پس از دقیقه‌ای از ذهن او می‌گریزند. دنیایش هر روز کوچک‌ و کوچک‌تر، تنگ‌ و تنگ‌تر می‌شود. خاطره‌های دوردست را بهتر به یاد دارد. تازگی‌ها به دست چپش می‌اندیشد. پیوسته دست کم‌کار خود را بالا نگه می‌دارد و می‌پرسد: "به راستی تو چرا با من ازدواج کردی؟" روزگار جوانی که در تهران بودیم، پدرش دوست داشت هر بامداد، نخستین استکان چای را بنوشد، می‌گفت بهترین است. آن را «گُلِ چای» می‌نامی��. هنگامی که هر بامداد چای‌مان را آماده می‌کنم، چشم‌به‌راهش می‌مانم تا بتوانم با گُلِ چای از او پذیرایی کنم. شب‌ها دست مرا می‌گیرد تا با هم تَه‌مانده‌ی چای را پای گل‌ها ودرختان بریزیم

[startanewdream]

Halloween

Written for the @greenhouse-seven's No-Tricks-Only-Treats event, and my prompt was Trick or Treat. Harry and Ginny, angst with the promise of better days, around 900 words.

*****

There’s a radiant smile on Ginny’s face when she comes home holding two bags filled with candies and chocolate bars.

“Wow,” says Harry, watching her pour the candies into a giant cauldron. “Did you get swapped with Ron?”

In answer, Ginny winks at him before pulling him closer and proceeding to kiss him in a way that leaves no room for identity questions.

“Wow,” he repeats again, breathless.

She laughs. “I got excited on the store. We need to be ready for trick-or-treat! After lunch, I’m leaving again to get the decoration.”

“Decoration?”

“Yes! We cannot be the only house on the street that isn’t decorated for Halloween.” She frows suddenly. “You do remember it’s Halloween in a couple days?”

Harry nods. He isn’t indifferent to Halloween — he’s seen the houses decorated every time he walked down the street this past week, especially at night, when they are lit with candles or buzzing with electricity. He didn’t know that Godric’s Hollow made such an event of Halloween, but he guesses it was to be expected, with the village famous amongst wizarding folk.

Only he didn’t know how it would make him feel.

Harry had been glad to move to Godric’s Hollow; he and Ginny had found the perfect cottage, a place that promised home the moment they had visited the first time, and it had been so for the last six months. He’d never had second thoughts, but this week…

“I’ve never celebrated Halloween,” he says, aware that’s only half the problem. “I mean, there were feasts at Hogwarts, but at home… this is new.”

“But before—”

“The Dursleys wouldn’t even acknowledge Halloween.”

“I wasn’t thinking about them.” Ginny huffles, lips pursued as always happens when the Dursleys are mentioned. “I meant before.” Her expressions softs. “Your parents celebrated with you.”

“I guess.”

She caresses his arm. “I’m sure they did. I’m thinking about a small chubby baby dressed as a pumpkin.”

Harry smiles for a moment. Ginny’s expression doesn’t shift; she still looks concerned.

“What else is troubling you?”

If it were anyone else, Harry would just shrug off. But since it’s Ginny, he allows himself to sink in the nearest chair.

“It’s Halloween. My parents died on Halloween, and… I don’t know why it’s bothering me…”

She sighs. “Well, they were your parents.”

“I mean, Halloween was never a problem before, I didn’t even know the date of their deaths exactly until Hagrid told me when I was eleven, and yet—it’s weighing on me.”

Ginny bites her lip. There’s no pity in her eyes, for which Harry feels grateful. With her right hand, she twirls her wand; behind him, in the kitchen, the oven is lit, and Harry knows she’s preparing tea for them. With her free hand, she runs her hand through his hair, very smooth.

“I am no expert,” she mumbles, “but it seems to be as if what you are feeling is grief.”

“They died over twenty years ago.”

“And you were too young to understand. Then you were at Hogwarts without a break—your Halloweens were always eventful—and now you have no other trouble, and we are here, twenty years later, where everything happened. It’s okay to have feels.”

“Not when it’s troubling us. You looked so excited.”

Ginny twirls her wand again and a cup of tea materializes in front of Harry. “Your troubles are my troubles, remember? We are together.”

He sips the tea. “Exactly. I… I want to do this with you. Decorate the house—Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day if you want—”

“Singing dwarfs and pink-shaped hearts? No, please.”

Harry chuckles for a moment. “Every holiday.” He holds her hands, places a soft kiss on her wrists. “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything.”

“And I wish you had told me sooner.” She offers him a smile. “We can lay low on Halloween. No parties or anything, just a quiet night. Visit their graves, leave some flowers.”

“This would be nice.” He closes his eyes for a moment, but instead of picturing the cemetery, he thinks about the happy family in the monument in the square; imagines them going out together every Halloween, sees that little boy growing up in a loving family with whom he would share Halloween costumes. The life that could have been. The life his parents wanted him to have. “But let’s open the house for any kid playing trick-or-treats.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, but also… I think this is what my parents would want. And I want to celebrate my second first Halloween with you.”

She kisses him softly. “It will be also my first Halloween. There were no trick-or-treats on the Burrow.”

“That’s why you went over-the-top.”

“Guilty.”

He chuckles again. He enjoys the idea of sharing all firsts with Ginny, every little milestone in their relationship. There will be a moment for missing his parents this Halloween, and also a moment of hope for better days. Maybe even daydream about a small chubby baby with Ginny’s red hair and his green eyes, though this thought he will keep to himself for a while.

His smile is serene now.

“You know, Muggles dress up for Halloween. I could go with you and get a costume.”

“Oh.” Ginny giggles. “I already got mine. I’m going as a witch. Broomstick, wand and hat, the full set.”

“Well.” He touches her face, leans closer. “You’ve already bewitched me, Ginny.”

[himimosa]

when they are sick

taking care of bsd men when they are sick...

fyodor, kunikida, dazai

Fyodor Dostoevsky

He is the person who walks around sick for almost half of a year, with a lot of sniffs and sneezes. Somehow he can manage to catch a cold even in summer. You say it is because he has an awful immune system

He already has anemia that makes his body weak. And if a bad cold is added too, he becomes almost pathetic...

If you ask him, he says he is used to being sick most of the time, but that is not true. He tried to take pills a few times for his anemia but they were useless (no, i am not self-projecting here, nope)

Most of the time, he can pull to do his work even if that means carrying tissues with him everywhere.

He hates the times when he got extra bad cold, it causes delays in his work. He is not someone who will accept to see a doctor even though his fever runs high. So if you're going to accompany him, you have to use more conventional ways...

You know hot soup, warm shower, herbal teas... He will act like you are being too "histrionic" and he is doing fine, but he will appreciate it secretly...

You put a mix of mint and linden leaves into the french press, added a tiny piece of ginger, and then poured hot water. After you waited for a while you poured out the liquid through a strainer. You had chosen your fav “I like mugs because they’re very comfortable in your hand” mug for it.

You entered the room where Fyodor was laying, he was trying to read a book but he was coughing constantly. You pulled the book from his hands: "Please drink this and rest a little. I am sure your book can wait for you." you scolded him lightly. He didn't argue with you, which was a sign that he was really feeling bad.

He took the mug, and looked at the writing on it "I don't understand why this is written on a mug" You chuckled "Because either you don't have a sense of humor or you have never heard Demi Lovato before dear.."

"Is it really an inadequacy of me that I don't get the references from the pop culture that was brought to people by no one but-"

"Darling darling..." you interrupted him "You can talk for hours about fatuity of popularism later, but I am begging you, drink this tea. now..."

He was annoyed by your interruption but he complied with your request. He sniffed before taking a sip. Then his face turned into a disgusted expression.

"Did you put ginger in this tea?.."

Kunikida Doppo

This poor man will go through the 5 stages of grief in order...

Denial: "I am not sick, I just got shivers for a second! This doesn't mean anything!" "No, I don't look awful or tired, I am fine!"

Anger: "This is because of that Dazai asshole! That nasty bastard sneezed right into my face and contaminated me with his viruses!"

Bargaining: "...Okay some inconveniences might happen but it's not that bad", "I will drink this tea and get better in an instant. No, I don't need a break, I will be fine"

Depression: "... What will happen to the agency if I use two days off?" "...my program... I will be left behind on it.."

Acceptance: "..President, may I use two days off to recover?"

He knew it is natural to get sick for people... But it wasn't written in his ideals book... He must add some notes about this too...

All he wants is quickly recover and get back to his responsibilities. So he will see a doctor, he will take his medicines, will drink all the herbal tea he needs to drink...You don't have to do much indeed, he is someone who takes care of himself well. But this doesn't mean he won't appreciate it if you do some thoughtful things for him...

"I'm home" you called to him when you entered the house with your keys. You dropped the bags that you got from the grocery store to the kitchen. You could organize them later, you went right ahead to the room where Kunikida was resting. He tried to get up to greet you but you acted quicker and hugged him while he was still sitting. He froze for only one second, then slowly wrapped his arms around you

"Y/N... You shouldn't be this close to me, you will get sick too..." He murmured but didn't push you away too. You shrugged your shoulders while still hugging him "Then I will use a day off with my sick boyfriend, that doesn't seem so bad to me" Kunikida chuckled lightly "If we both use a day off at the same time, I can't imagine what sort of chaos would the agency have..." Then he slowly pulled himself back to see you eye-to-eye and started to ask you questions... How is the agency going? Were budget calculations accurate? Have you taken new cases? What kind of ruckus did Dazai cause when he wasn't around to lecture him? How many calls did you get for his suicide attempts this time?

You told him about how you took care of everything on his behalf with everyone's help (well mostly with the help of Atsushi, Kyoka, Kenji, and Tanizaki siblings... basically with minors of Ada...) But even Dazai wasn't acting so "wild". He was whining about how the agency became too quiet and no-fun without Kunikida and all the joy he got from work vanished without Kunikida...

"Everyone can't wait to get you better love they are planning to visit you tomorrow night," you told with a smile. Kunikida coughed and covered his mouth, then mumbled: "I see..." You knew he did it to hide the light blush and embarrassed smile on his face, but you didn't tease him for it. After all, he was deserving it all...

Dazai Osamu

Here comes the drama king...

First, let's be honest here... He is treating his own body like shit... We saw him in his flat, this man doesn't even cook for himself. He literally feeds with sake and canned crabs only... Despite that, he doesn't get sick easily. He has the durability of a cockroach (i swear i love him, these insults are with affection)

He is the kind of person who doesn't get sick even there is a cold season and everyone around him got ill. He catches the sickness not more once than a year, but when he gets ill, it is always the most unexpected time.

Once, while he was still in the port mafia he got a very bad cold right before an important mission. When Mori saw his situation, he had to cancel the mission.

Because this man acts like he is on the deathbed when he is sick...

"So I made some research on the internet... With all these symptoms on me; either I have some kind of chronic illness, or brain tumor.. which leads us to the conclusion that I have only 2 weeks to live..." "Or, you have a cold, you shithead.." "Do not act like you are a doctor now Chuuya, or I will throw up to your precious hat..."

He didn't change much... The only difference is now he is being your boyfriend, you have to take care of this man like you are taking care of a child. He will act like he is much worse than he is to get all your affection and care... You will need a lot of patience, to be honest...

"Ew, there is no way I would drink that crap!" You thought for a millisecond to throw the bowl of soup to his face but you didn't have the heart for it. Even though he was acting like a spoiled brat, he was miserable right now. You knew he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning, you had to convince him to put something in his stomach no matter what...

"Why don't you want to drink this babe?" you asked with your sweetest tone. Dazai shrugged his shoulders "It smells bad, makes me want to puke..." You tried again "What if you push yourself? Just a little? I know it doesn't look appetizing but this soup is too good for cold, you will feel better after your drink I promise..."

Dazai looked at you with defeated eyes, he couldn't resist any longer "..fine then"

With excitement, you took one spoon from the bowl and carefully held it towards his mouth, you were cupping the other hand under the spoon to keep it from spilling. Dazai slowly opened his mouth, only to make a sour face "It is too hot!"

"Sorry baby, my bad" you apologized and started to cool it down by stirring it with the spoon. You took another spoon from the bowl, this time you blew a little air before giving it to Dazai. When he started to make some teasing comments on you would be a great nanny, you decided he was already getting better. You tried to get up after he finished his soup, but Dazai held you weakly by his wrist. "You won't leave me alone on my deathbed, right?" You rolled your eyes: "You're an idiot, you know that right?" He smirked lightly "But I am your idiot, and you still love me..." You couldn't control your smile this time. You gently removed the hair on his forehead and gave him a little peck "Yeap... Only mine to love..."

well, i couldn't still get over from this week's episode and couldnt't write anything new. this was on the drafts and not proof readed, but i will still share it. fyodor stans can use it as a denial of ep 11 :')

[sashaisready]

This Must Be The Place: Chapter 1 - Home is where I want to be

Biker!Bucky x Femme Reader

Back at your beloved late grandmother's home to pack up her house, you have a run-in with the town's biker gang 'The Howling Commandos' and find yourself entangled with the metal armed President.

Series Masterlist

Warnings for: death of a loved one, grief, angst (it gonna be angsty!), Bucky not always being a good guy.

You sighed heavily as you pulled up to the house in your beaten-up Mustang. Hard to believe you were back, but life certainly has a sense of humour.

You parked up and leaned against the driver’s door, looking up at your new home.

Well, old home.

Granny’s place.

Once the centre of your world – a place of home baked cookies and tyre swings, of blanket forts and climbed trees. Of carefully tended to scraped knees and long hugs on the couch in front of Granny’s favourite shows. Sitcom reruns and Murder She Wrote, more lemonade than you could ever feasibly drink.

You came to visit every summer and they were the best summers of your life. But of course, you got older. As you grew, you wanted to spend your summers with friends, to kiss boys and go to the diner with Stacey and Monique. Granny’s place would always hold a large piece of your heart, but you grew up. You looked back now with a sense of sadness, wishing you’d gone for one more summer. Maybe two.

Granny understood. She was always telling you to spread your wings and live. ‘Don’t tread water, Cub’, she’d tell you. ‘Go out there and enjoy yourself’.

And you did. Maybe a little too hard.

You stayed close with Granny despite the physical distance between you as you moved across the state for school. Plenty of phone calls and letters were shared, and she’d send you novelty postcards she found at gas stations and thought you’d find funny. You still had a pile stored in a shoebox, now shoved into your car’s trunk with all your other worldly possessions.

You still visited occasionally, always telling yourself you needed to come more – she needed someone to clear out the attic, to sort out her paperwork, fix the old fence. You should sort that. The town was nice enough, but the biker gang that owned the local dive bar and auto shop gave you a bad feeling. You’d hear the roar of their motorcycles late at night, feeling grateful that was Granny was safe on the outskirts of town.

A few months ago, just as you were looking at your calendar to arrange your next visit, she suffered a sudden, huge heart attack. The hospital staff told you on the phone that it was quick, mercifully. She was in front of the TV, sipping a cup of tea. It would’ve been exactly how she wanted to go, quick and comfortable in her castle. No long, drawn-out illness. No forgetting her own name or wasting away in a bed. She often told you her worst nightmare was to become a burden and forget the life she’d lived.

But you couldn’t shed the guilt that she died alone. If you’d been there…

Your parents meant well but weren’t particularly distraught. You and Granny were closer than anyone else in the family. Still, ever the pragmatists, they arranged the funeral and filed the paperwork while you pulled yourself together. Granny was organised enough to have a will, and even had a document in her bureau with details of her finances and who to contact for every possible loose end that might need tying up in the event of her death.

Despite your closeness, it was still a huge shock when you found out she’d left the house solely to you, and nobody else in the family. Her few savings were divided between her children and other grandchildren. But you got the house.

‘Cub’, read the note in the will. ‘You loved this place, so it’s yours. I don’t care what you do with it. You can sell up and use the proceeds to take a vacation for all I care. Buy a fancy car or a designer bag or even invest in something dumb. You can stay here and lay down roots. Whatever you want. It’s all yours. Just fix that damn fence before you do anything’.

Nobody in the family quibbled it. The property wasn’t worth much, and nobody wanted to sort through Granny’s things, so here you were. Still mourning, but trying to move forward.

You didn’t really have a plan. You weren’t exactly set up in life, even flailing, some might say. Flitting between bullshit jobs and bullshittier boyfriends. No real roots or ambitions. You decided to move in for a while and sort the house out. Maybe get a temp part time job in town to keep you afloat. At least you didn’t have to pay rent. Then you’d sort Granny’s things, give the place a lick of paint, fix the aforementioned damn fence, then you’d decide. But you’d probably sell up. I mean, what would keep you here?

*

You spent a few hours getting your own stuff moved in and sizing up the task ahead. Granny’s place was clean, spotless in fact, but she was a bit of a hoarder. There were endless Rubbermaid tubs of clothes and blankets, spices in the pantry older than you were, and cardboard boxes of seemingly every birthday and Christmas card she’d ever received.

You also weren’t prepared for the emotional impact. Every corner held a childhood memory, you could practically hear the radio she used to play as she cooked, smell whatever mouthwatering dish she’d be whipping up that day.

You channelled your energy into the work and made some calls. There was a Goodwill store in town and a women’s refuge a few miles away, and they were very keen to take some of Granny’s things off your hands. You made plans to do some drop-offs over the coming weeks. You arranged to have wifi installed and took some time getting utility bills moved into your name.

You sat at the dining room table with a glass of water, exhausted, when your phone buzzed with a text notification.

“Hey! Are you here? How about we catch up with drinks tonight?”

Wanda. The one person you knew in this town apart from Granny. You’d played together as kids and hung out every summer. As you got older, you stayed in touch on social media and would go for coffee when you visited Granny. You liked her a lot. She had reached out to you when Granny died (as apparently everyone knows everyone here) and you’d thanked her. You kept her updated with your plans with the move. She’d always stayed here in this town, getting serious with her boyfriend Vis and settling down.

Part of you wanted to keep your head down, but you knew you’d benefit from some company, especially Wanda’s. You didn’t want to be the weird recluse living in her dead grandmother’s house who only ventured outside to buy groceries. Besides, it would be nice to reconnect with her.

“Hey!”, you replied. “Sure am. Just getting comfortable. Okay, sure. I could use a drink. Where we going?”

She responded seconds later. “The Snake Pit. Yeah, I know it sounds scary but it’s okay, really! The Howling Commandos own it, but they’re cool when you get to know them. Vis and I will pick you up at 8?”

You sighed. Great. Drinking in some biker gang’s sleazy dive bar. This was your life now. Well, you’d had worse Saturday nights.

“Alright. See you then” you fired back before you could talk yourself out of it.

*

Wanda was right. The Snake Pit was okay. A little dark and dingy inside, but a more varied clientele than you’d expected. There was everyone from excitable college girls to the old geezers nursing a single bottle of Bud for over an hour. You had worked in bars; you knew the types well. It wasn’t the rowdy biker gang hangout you expected, but you guessed options are limited for drinkers when there’s only one drinking hole in town.

The bartender was a little all over the place, messing up a few orders and rushing to get everything done. He seemed to be serving people haphazardly with little regard for who was there first. Fine. Whatever.

Splayed across barstools and were the Howling Commandos themselves. All clad in heavy leather and denim, they joked and drank beer with each other while keeping a close eye on the customers. You got the impression they weren’t necessarily looking for trouble but wouldn’t hesitate to deal with it should some occur. A broad blonde with a thick beard seemed to be in charge, you could see in the way the others hovered around him that he held some sort of authority. They were quite intimidating in their matching kuttes and big boots, but you supposed that was the point.

The blonde man locked eyes with you and watched you, a mix of curiosity and wariness on his face. His eyes were blue and strong, the intensity of his glare causing you to turn away as you went back to nodding at the story Wanda was telling. You had a strange feeling of dread in your stomach, but maybe that was just the anxiety of being somewhere new.

“You wanna play pool?” she asked, nodding towards the corner.

There were a couple of pool tables and the back of the room, with a dartboard nailed to the wall not far from them.

“Sure,” you smiled as you stood up and grabbed your drink, “I’m a little rusty…it’s been a while”.

“Modesty I’m sure,” Vis grinned as they followed you over. “I bet you’re secretly a dark horse”.

You winked jokingly as the three of you laughed and moved towards the table. It was nice to catch up with them, you settled in so comfortably together that it was as if you did this every week.

As you set up the balls and chalked your cue, you felt the presence of a group moving behind you. The Commandos group had moved from the bar and headed to the dart board, jeering and laughing as they lined up to take their turn. A striking redhead, the sole woman in the group, was busting their balls about their darts ability (or lack thereof).

“Hey” you heard Wanda say softly as you moved around the table, and a few of them murmured greetings back at her.

They were being loud and obnoxious as they ragged on each other for their poor aim, and you suppressed an eyeroll as you leaned over the table to take your shot.

The laughter got louder as you pulled your cue back and aimed, they were practically shouting, you pushed your cue forward through your fingers and moved to the ball and-

Pain.

PAIN.

You flinched and your legs buckled as the cue clipped the ball and sent it flying in the wrong direction. You felt a pressure and a sting as your brain tried to catch up with what had happened. You could hear Wanda gasping and Vis talking to you calmly as another voice interrupted.

“Ohmygod…Ohmygodsorry…I didn’t…oh my god, FUCK” they said, the panic evident.

You turned and looked, to your horror, to discover one of the darts embedded in one of your ass cheeks. This surely couldn’t be happening??

As you turned back towards the panicking voice in front of you, it became immediately evident who was the perpetrator.

He was young, chocolate brown hair slicked back to reveal a baby face. Wide, horrified chestnut eyes stared at you. Despite the kutte and motorcycle boots, he looked like a scared little boy. Behind him stood members of the gang, some smirking, some rolling their eyes and nudging each other. They didn’t intervene, just enjoyed the show. You felt your face flush with mortification.

“What…what the fuck is wrong with you?” you spat, furious as well as in pain. You noticed the entire bar had stopped to watch. You gripped the dart but couldn’t quite build up the courage to pull it out.

“Are you stupid...?” you continued as he just stared at you, his mouth flapping like a fish as he tried and failed to explain himself.

Wanda said your name in a wary tone and Vis told you it was okay. Even through your angry haze you could tell they were nervous about where this was going.

“Hey…come on now,” said someone else. “You all shut up”.

The group quickly parted and quietened as the blonde man from earlier appeared in front of you. “Parker…” he sighed under his breath.

“Look…it was an accident, okay?” he told you sternly. “I’m sorry…look, I’m Steve, I’m the co-owner and-”

“I don’t care!” you hissed. “What the fuck kinda place are you running here?”

You knew you sounded shrill, but you were upset and embarrassed. And it hurt! You were half aware of the group suddenly tensing up, the atmosphere in the air shifting to something a bit darker.

The man raised a brow in annoyance and went to speak again when you suddenly yelped, feeling a hard sting in your bottom half and then an immediate loss of pressure.

Someone had yanked the dart out.

You turned, aghast, to a man who had suddenly appeared behind you.

“What the fu-,” you exclaimed as you looked at him.

Your words died on your tongue as you were greeted by the face of the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. Long, coffee-coloured waves of hair sat at his well-chiselled jawline. Big, broad shoulders stretched out a clinging white t-shirt beneath his kutte. He had a metal arm that moved robotically, but mostly you were caught in the depths of the cerulean pools of his eyes. The others all seemed to straighten up and go quiet in a way they hadn’t even done with Steve. This must be the other owner, then.

He smirked and waved the dart in front of you. “Fixed it”.

You furrowed your brows. “Ow…” you said monotonously.

“You want some ice for that or…?” he smiled a wide bright smile, and you did your best to ignore something igniting deep within you.

“It’s funny, is it?” you scowled. “I could sue for this…”

Could you? You didn’t know if you could. But you were too mad to stop.

The man sighed.

“Look…we’re sorry. Parker’s sorry. Steve’s sorry, and I, Bucky, am sorry,” he told you, his voice softening. “Parker can’t play darts for shit but he’s never been a safety hazard until now. It was bad luck. He sure as hell won’t be playing again. Now, how about we get you and your friends a round of drinks on the house to apologise? And if you still wanna stay after that, you can get as much beer and pool as you want – no charge.”

You looked at Parker who was still visibly panicking but not quite as much, then Steve who watched you curiously. Wanda and Vis were nodding effusively as if encouraging you to accept his offer. You were still angry but didn’t really want to piss off the local motorcycle gang on your first night here. You were grateful for this de-escalation, even if you were still mad. You could practically see the room start to relax again.

“Fine” you sighed with defeat, rubbing the sore spot on your backside. “But a warning you were about to do that would’ve been nice”.

He laughed, “Yeah…but I didn’t want you to freak out”.

Ugh. His laugh. His perfect laugh.

You rolled your eyes, annoyed that he was right, you would’ve freaked out if you’d known. You felt yourself mellowing, then became irritated at yourself for folding so easily for a handsome man. Habit of a lifetime, huh?

“Maybe you should still ask before getting that close to someone” you muttered.

“Point taken”.

He smiled with amusement and gestured you towards the bar and you followed, nodding to Wanda and Vis that you’d be right back. The rest of the bar’s patrons went back to their drinks and conversations as if nothing had happened. The darts game continued, with Parker noticeably sitting down away from anything sharp and pointy.

“He means well…he’s new at all this,” Bucky explained as he watched your eyes follow Parker. “He gets ahead of himself when they rile him up”.

“Well, your friends thought it was hilarious”.

“Trust me, they were laughing at him. Not at you. But yeah, it was kinda funny”.

You huffed and leaned on the bar, giving him a side eye and only replying with your drink order. Bucky signalled to the bartender who nodded and looked flustered as tried to speed up serving his customer.

“Your bartender sucks” you muttered.

“I mean he’s a little slow but-,”

“No. He sucks. Why is he doing a Guinness now? You pour a Guinness first and let it settle, do the rest of the drinks, then come back and top it off,” you explained as you pointed to the sloppily poured lager he’d put on the bar. “And does your customer want any beer with that foam?”

Bucky laughed again. “Well, okay. Point taken, Sugar. Are you saying you could do better?”

“Sure. A monkey could do better…”

He laughed again, turning to look at you as he smiled and watched you with curious eyes. “What did you say your name was again…?”

*

[plutoswritingplanet]

Ring Of Fire (Lucifer x Female!Reader)

a/n: again, no one asked for this, but i've been rewatching supernatural and there is something about season 5 Lucifer that just hits the spot for me. this one will be multiple chapters (i swear), a bit on the darker side. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (nothing too scandalous), Soulmates (but not really), follows season 5 storyline, Kinda Depressing, Strongly Inspired by "Preacher's Daughter" by Ethel Cain

Summary: Knowing God has an actual plan for you would be comforting for most people. You, however, seem to be always down on your luck.

PT.2

The foliage is damp with the night's air, water seeping into the fabric of your jeans, as you sit in the low bushes, watching. Smoke still fills your lungs, and grief still fills your heart, Jo and Ellen's faces etched just beneath your eyelids. Tears stain your cheeks, drying slowly on your skin, forming an uncomfortable crust. It's been such a long time since you've experienced loss such as this. One that rips something out of you and refuses to give it back. You must've grown too comfortable since Dean has been brought back, life needed to bring you back down. Your hands hurt from the tight grip you hold on a branch of a nearby tree, nerves locking you in place, as you watch Dean approach the Devil. Except, you're not there anymore. 

It's warm inside Bobby's home, and you've changed out of your past outfit, scattering it on the floor, never to be used again. Still, you can feel phantom moisture on your knees, elbows, on the palms of your hands. Coldness, like nothing you've ever experienced, seeps deep into your bones, taking root within you. No candle, no prayer, no ancient exorcism can cleanse you of the revelations you've seen tonight. Your head feels heavy, when you drop it onto the pillow, as if some weight is pressing you further down, through the comforter, through the bed and the wooden floor. Through all the layers of Earth, until you're right where you're supposed to be. 

It's unfortunate, you thought back then, compelled to reveal yourself from your hideout by one command you couldn't ignore, he looks just like any human. Tall and lean, with a little softness to his body. His clothes were unassuming as well, casual. As if he just took a stroll through the woods from a supermarket. No one told you the name of his vessel, who he was before he said yes, why did he do it. His eyes were ordinary as well. Blue and gray, aged, tired. Human.

It would've been so easy to pass him on the streets, not knowing. He could've been one of the patrons in the countless bars you've visited while on the hunt. Handsome, yes, with an aura of a beaten dog around him, that, in any other circumstances would've made him irresistable to you. You could never refuse a hopeless case, now you supposed you knew why. 

Sam made you tea. It sits untouched on your night stand, steam flowing in dancing ribbons into the ceiling. Somehow, you can't seem to force yourself to drink it, even if you know the intention behind it has been kind. You couldn't eat as well, the smell of cooking coming from Bobby's kitchen reminded you too much of the smell of smoke coming from the exploding hardware store. And his smell. 

Burning coals, cedar wood, jasmine, all of them were pleasant once. Now, you know they will always be stuck in your head with only one association. Lucifer. 

Even thinking of his name brings a wave of shivers running down your back, as you curl into yourself on the bed. Your fingers scratch at skin of your jaw, trying to regain some sense of autonomy. Still, you can feel a phantom of his icy touch, where he grabbed your face like his hands were meant for it. And in a way they were. At least, that's what he told you. 

The demons gathered around the mass grave didn't even react, as you ran out of your cover, pushed to reveal yourself by the sight of Dean's flying body. Because how else would he coax you out, if not through the hurt of your boys? In hindsight, you were glad Dean was unconscious for the most part of this ordeal. After the night's events, it was hard to look him in the eye, you didn't need him witnessing your downfall over your head as well. Sam tried to make his way over to you, feet sliding cautiously through the grass, but suddenly Lucifer's eyes were on you, and you could feel your fate get sealed then and there. 

He clasped his hands in front of him, pursing his lips as he took you in, cowering on the ground, trying hard to find Dean's pulse. 

- You boys brought me a gift - he mused, eyes crinkling with some strange emotion - You shouldn't have. 

One gesture later, you're up on your feet, limbs trembling as he abandoned his shovel in favor of making his way towards you. You're frozen, fear seizing you in a tight grip, and you can't seem to think straight, as you watch him approach. Last day on Earth, you muse, life flashing before your eyes, when he raises both his hands. And then he grips your face, gentle yet confident, and the world around you spins. He's cold, so cold it's unnatural. Your lips fall apart in a silent gasp. 

- Do you know who you are? - he asks in a quiet voice that suddenly makes you understand why he's temptation incarnate - Do you know why you were put on this Earth?

All you can do is stare, confusion creasing your eyebrows. His breath reaches your collarbones, as he lowers his head slightly. You can hear him chuckle to himself. The sound makes you shudder, fear and anticipation mix within your gut. 

- All those years of hunting, struggling... - your life seems so trivial, coming from his lips - It all lead you here, to me. Doesn't that sound lovely?

It doesn't. It most definitely doesn't. Tears of confusion prick at the corners of your eyes, your breathing quickens. Panic settles into your nerves like a paralyzing blanket. Because here stands a threat of magnitude you couldn't even dream of. The Satan, the Devil, Bible's biggest villain. And he knows something about you, that you cannot comprehend. 

- It's really quite pathetic, when you think about it - he muses, hands leaving your face in a flash, as he starts to pace in thought.

Swaying in your place, you risk looking at Sam, his confusion mirroring your own. Dean is still unconscious beside him. There's a thin smudge of blood running down his forehead, and you want to move so badly. You've spent years caring for these boys, being there for them, whenever they needed you. Yet, at this crucial moment all you can do, is stare in horror.  

- My Father's last ditched attempt - Lucifer turns to you with a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes - To give me my own special little bag of worms. To own, to care for, to change my mind. 

- What?

Your own voice sounds foreign to your ears. Lies. Those had to be lies. He's Satan after all, manipulation was his forte. Yes, that had to be it. Just another, messed up way at getting an upper hand over Sam. 

This time, you nearly scream when he advances towards you, his cold hands immediately finding purchase on your face, covering your jaw and your cheeks. He presses against your face so hard, you have to take a step back as he comes closer still. Sam's figure flashes out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly you feel the rough surface of a tree bark digging into your back. 

- You - for the first time you can hear some tension in his voice, something more than cold indifference - You were made for me, Honey. Just like Sam is destined to be my vessel, you're destined to be by my side. To own, to care. - he repeats those words like a mantra, and you want to throw up at how genuine he sounds.

He smiles at your terror. Tears start to flow freely from your eyes, falling on his cold fingers, skipping down his arms in smudges. His hands start to move, a perversion of a caress, as he ruffles your hair. Your head bounces off the tree, and you try with all your might to free yourself out of his grip. Your limbs flail at your sides, and you crane your neck so far back, your muscles start to strain. He doesn't let go, pressing himself closer, one of his hands coming up to grip your hair. Your nails dig into his cotton shirt, as you push against his chest to no avail. 

- No - you whisper, your rejection falling flat against his unaffected stare - I'd never...

- See, but that's the best part - his sudden enthusiasm scares you deeper, than any passive stare ever could. - Unlike Sam...

You backpedal into the tree again, as he leans closer still. His cold breath mixes with your short, panicked ones, and your stomach churns, when he tilts his head in curiosity, as if he's experiencing this intimacy for the first time. And in a way, you suppose he is. Then, his eyes meet yours, gray captivates you, and you hold your breath on instinct.

- You don't have to say yes to me. 

You're not even allowed the decency of taking a gasp of air, when his lips press into yours. It feels beyond weird. He's unnaturally cold, and there is a sort of unpracticed sloppiness in the way he fights for your mouth to fit against each other. Reminding you of your first, inexperienced romances, he smashes your faces together until you feel both sets of your teeth through the flesh. Then, he pulls back just a smidgen, taking in your terrified face. Something flashes through his expression, and he sighs, leaning back towards you, stopping just short of your left ear. 

- Kiss me like you mean it, or I'll make Dean eat his intestines. 

He looks at you, just once, letting you know this is not a game. Your heart stops. 

Dean's unconscious body starts to move by the tree, and never in your life have you felt so helpless. So, when Lucifer unavoidably leans back down, you give him all you've got. Your body arches, hands come up to his hair, and you will yourself not to feel grossed out by the feeling of his cold tongue slipping past your teeth. It's a fight for survival, you remind yourself, as his hands move to your back, rubbing your skin like a horny teenager in a bathroom stall. The short supply of air you've been granted runs out quickly, and as pressure builds in your lungs, you start to push against the Archangel's chest. He doesn't register what you're doing, not at first, confusing your sudden unwillingness as some sort of late attempt at rebellion. That is, until you bang your fist against his shoulder, letting out a muffled scream. 

Finally, he detaches himself, hair even more disheveled than before. You take a heaving gasp of air, as you brace yourself against the tree, your vision swimming ever so slightly. Lucifer watches you, his body hunched over, as if he's observing some middle schooler's science project. There are new tears in your eyes, just waiting to fall. Your hair is disheveled and your lips are puffy from his unpracticed assaults. His right hand comes up to his face, and he bites on his index finger in thought. 

- You really are human - he muses to himself, and with every fiber of your being, you try to explode his head with your brain - That's no fun, you'll break so easily...

- Fuck you - your words make his eyebrows raise, and he straightens out with a flourish.

- Fuck you - he repeats, mocking your tone - Yeah, I probably will - you watch, disgusted, as he sends a wink towards Sam.

Then, he's back to his shovel, back to his mass grave, where he completes the ritual. 

You can't move, not really, even when Sam tugs on your shoulder. Your head runs empty, realization of your current predicament far from registered in your brain. You stay frozen in your spot, when Castiel arrives, taking the three of you back to Bobby's house. Only, when the Angel's hand pushes against your rib cage, only when you feel Enochian symbols burn into your bones, do you lift your gaze. Apologetic doesn't really cover the way Castiel looks at you, and the pity painted on his face drags you down more than any Devil could.  

Sam is the only one to truly understand, when you fall to the floor, shock, anger and dread spilling out of you like a broken faucet. He's the only one that truly knows how it feels to have your bodily autonomy stripped away by the literal Devil. How it feels to have a threat of such magnitude hanging over you, every day. Which is why, he's the one to lift you in his arms, and get you to the guest room, lead away by the concerned glances of the rest of the men. He's the one to make you tea, bring you fresh clothes. He opens the window when the smell of dinner makes you retch. And finally, he's the one to explain, what really happened back on that hill to the rest of the group.

From your fetal position on the bed you can hear Dean curse, throw something somewhere. All the ways he knows, how to show he cares. Despite everything, it makes you smile, face pressed to the pillow that smells like cigarette smoke and beer. You're doomed. There's nothing you can do against God's plan, and you can feel that thought take root in you like an invasive species ready to destroy every crop in it's path. Still, despite it all, a sense of security falls upon you like a decieving blanket. 

- What sort of a messed up game is this? - Dean screams somewhere in the house, you assume it's at Cass, the only one even remotely aware of your destiny. 

The idea, that God made you specifically to be Satan's personal therapist sounds far fetched at best, but given how the last couple of months have been going, you're more inclined to believe in the absolutely worst scenarios. You don't even need to hear Castiel's response. The sound of glass breaking is telling enough. Then, a door slamms somewhere, and the house falls into heavy silence.

You can't think. Can't allow yourself to fall apart more than you've had already. So, you focus on the sound of your own breathing, interlinked with your heartbeat. Steady, alive. Your eyelids are heavy, eyes burn with drying tears, so you close them and sigh. Exhaustion pinns you in place, sinking you into the blankets. Darkness welcomes you like a long lost friend.

Your boys will find a way, they always do. And Lucifer can't find you, not with the wards Castiel has put on you. You'll have to thank him i the morning, you think, and it's the last conscious thought you have, before slipping into sleep, shivering like an abandoned child. 

[steviewashere]

In Sickness and Health

Rating: General CW: Discussions of Medical Issues, Referenced/Past Seizures Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Older Steddie, Canon Divergent, Steve Harrington has Seizures, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Breakdowns, Hurt/Comfort, Angst & Fluff, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is giving them space when they need it."

💕—————💕

Eddie has learned to revel in quiet afternoons, even when he’s alone. The way the sunshine bathes the apartment’s living room carpet—his and Steve’s apartment. Their cat, Poncho, settled heavy and warm in his lap. A chilled glass of southern iced tea and a plate of crackers and sliced cheese. The television volume on low. Book open and set on the arm of the couch. It’s good, the quiet.

Yet, it breaks the moment the front door opens. He didn’t hear Steve stick his key in the lock. But he definitely hears his annoyed groans and huffs. The slam of the door, most likely shut with his hip. A muffled, “Damnit”, when he drops his keyring on the floor.

He peeks from the edge of the couch, eyes set and attentive at their front door. And Steve is there, wrestling with his puffer jacket, grumbling under his breath, kicking his legs and stepping on the backs of his sneakers—something he never does, he cares too much for those things. But here he is. One t-shirt stuck on a doorknob away from a breakdown.

Though, Eddie doesn’t chastise him for the way his emotions express. No matter how explosive they are. Steve just gets like this some days. Too angry to talk. Too begrudged to take care of his things.

What’s new, however, is Steve’s slightly splotchy, puffy face. Red and pink and white. The tears brimming in his eyes. Ever apparent even behind his glasses. A paper with professional scribbling on it—a doctor’s note. He had an appointment this morning. Made last night after an emergency room trip. A seizure is what put him there. Scared them both, Eddie too eager to make him take an appointment, to call in sick to work. He should’ve gone with, if this is how Steve’s coming home.

He plops Poncho on the couch, letting him stretch skywards and curl back into a little ball. Tea abandoned on the coffee table. And Eddie gently comes around the corner, hands hooked in front of himself, still dressed down in pajamas, eyes wide and expecting at Steve. 

“St—“

Steve shakes his head. A hand held out in front of him. Jacket and shoes abandoned by the front door. And he sidesteps Eddie completely, barreling down the hallway, slamming the bedroom door behind him, and locking it.

Eddie lumbers after him, slowly, cautiously. Face to the wood of the door. And through it, what breaks his heart, he can hear Steve’s soft cries. He resigns himself to some time on the couch. Steve always needs his space after breakdowns like these.

Needed it after Max woke up in the hospital, half-blind, limbs mostly healed. Needed it after Eddie came out of surgery, pock-marked and head shaved, half a grimace on his face. Needed it when Robin moved out of state for college. After Dustin and Lucas and Mike and Will and Eleven and Max all graduated high school, when they went their separate ways across the country, when they called once or twice a month. When his dad died, the grief a heavy blanket on his shoulders, his chest lighter, his brain angry at being relieved. 

Steve needed his space when Eddie brought home their cat (though he came out merely ten minutes later, an excited smile on his face, name on the tip of his tongue). Nightmares and dissociation episodes. At the grocery store, because he has to stick to a list, knowing that Eddie never does that. The first grey hair, which he then took in stride when Eddie called him a “Beautiful baby silver fox.”

Even after they moved to Massachusetts in 2008 and got married. His emotions were so strong, so palpable, so rapid—he just needed a moment to debrief, take a hot shower, and then cuddle into Eddie’s side on their honeymoon bed.

Point is, Eddie knows when Steve needs his space. Knows that he cherishes that time to himself, to break down in contemplative silence, to let himself digest new information or old information or just get himself restrung. 

He wishes that Steve had been taught that it’s okay to breakdown in front of his loved ones. That it’s okay to ask for help and for comfort. But it doesn’t come easy. It makes him guilty. It makes him scattered like a headless chicken.

For the mean time, Eddie sets himself down on the couch, iced tea in his grip, volume turned up slightly on the television. Steve doesn’t like it when people hear him cry. Eddie doesn’t acknowledge it either, for the sake of saving Steve from another impending breakdown. He loves Steve with all his might, he just wishes things were slightly different. He’ll do this, ever reluctant he may be.

——— Around thirty minutes later, an average amount of time for Steve, the bedroom door creaks open. Eddie quickly turns down the TV and gently places his now empty glass on the coffee table.

Small, floating from the hallway, Steve calls out, “Eddie? Can you—“ He sniffles, voice still choked up. “Can you come in here, please?”

The sight that Eddie wanders in on breaks his heart a little further. Steve’s face is still a splotchy mess, his eyes downcast and teary, waterlines pink. His hair, grayer now, is askew. There’s a definite slump to his body, where it rests on the edge of the mattress. Hands intertwined between his legs, fingers locking and pulling one another, socked feet shuffling on the rug. He got out of his day clothes, now back in his pajamas from the night before—sleep shorts, grey t-shirt.

Eddie closes the bedroom door behind him. He scoots over and kneels down on the floor. Hesitantly, he sets his palms on Steve’s knees. He rubs the inner skin, warm and soft, with his thumbs. “Whatcha need from me, baby? Ask me to do anything, I’ll do it.”

Steve sighs, breath shuddering as it leaves him. His exhale ends on a little whimpered hiccup. Instead of answering, he grabs the paper he was holding earlier and passes it over. It’s edges are wrinkled, probably from being handled roughly, maybe even scrunched. And Eddie was right, it’s something from a doctor’s tablet. Signed off with a messy scrawl:

— Instructions for handling seizures. — What to do if a seizure lasts longer than five minutes. — Steps on how to start the process of getting a service animal. — Firm directions telling the patient to not drive. — Prescription for Tegretol CR 200mg

And the diagnosis in thick, blocky, bold black text:

Epilepsy

Eddie sighs through his nose. He swallows thickly and looks back up to Steve’s defeated face. He murmurs, “I should’ve gone with you. I’m sorry, love bug.”

Shrugging, Steve mutters, “Thought I was done with the after effects of the shit back in Hawkins. I’m so—Angry? Disappointed? I don’t know how to feel.”

The paper is set back on the mattress and Eddie pulls Steve into his chest. He rubs a hand down the length of his spine, the other squeezing around his waist. “You’re allowed to feel however you want. And it’s okay to take the time to figure that out, too. This is hard stuff, baby.” He sways them from side to side. Closing his eyes in relief as Steve’s arms wrap around his back. Something that, unfortunately, doesn’t happen enough when he’s in need of comfort. His hands grip tightly to the back of Eddie’s t-shirt. Eddie gently turns his head and kisses Steve’s cooling, still ruddy cheek. “We’ll start figuring this out. Like we always do. I’ll be right here for you, alright?”

Steve nods against his shoulder. Muffled into Eddie’s neck, he asks quietly, “Can I have some more space and alone time?” He shifts to slowly release Eddie. “Just for a little while. I promise I’ll hang out. I just needed to tell you, so that it’s not harder later.”

He pries them apart gently. Arms still encasing Steve, he holds soft eye contact. “You take all the time in the world. I won’t be offended, sweetheart.” He kisses Steve’s forehead now. When he sits back on his heels, Eddie brings up a hand and runs it through Steve’s hair, fingernails dully scratching at his scalp. His smile is lopsided, the youngest it’s been since the first confession. It comes easier now, “I love you, you know that? I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Steve murmurs, barely returning the smile, and yet it’s there. Eddie revels in that, too.

And when Eddie goes to exit the bedroom, door almost shut behind him, Steve calls out his name one more time. Looking back, Steve swamped in their comforter, glasses folded on the bedside table, wrapped up and warm, Eddie tilts his head in careful implore. He hums in question.

“Thank you for understanding,” Steve whispers.

“Thank you for telling me, I know it was hard. If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room, okay? I’ll keep the TV low, but tell me if it’s too loud.” Steve nods, shifting under the blanket further, fully supine on the mattress. He looks more relaxed. He looks a little easier. “Have a good nap, love bug. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

[rinkunokoisuru]

What if I decided to share Kintsugi again because I went back and did a design for when they were a child? And also cause I've been figuring stuff out about them

Kintsugi (They/Them, Any) Born to a human mother and Oni father in one of the many small villages surrounding Ninjago City, Kintsugi may as well have been a pure-blooded Oni for all appearances. Their human side really only made itself known by greatly increasing the difficulty of shapeshifting: their body fighting against what should have been the inherent ability to change shape leaving behind the golden crack-like scars which would inspire their name.

Despite their difficulty with shapeshifting, they are much more comfortable with their human form than their natural state. They never had the opportunity to get to know their father, as the Oni was found dead under mysterious circumstances when Kintsugi was still young, so they ultimately feel much closer to the human half of their ancestry.

At a young age, Kintsugi and their mother moved to Ninjago City proper, where they met Mystake. The elderly tea shop owner would often help Kintsugi with mastering their shape changing, and in return Kintsugi would help out around the store. As time went on the two became closer and they began to see her as a sort of grandmotherly figure, considering her part of the family.

After the events of Hunted, Kintsugi took it upon themself to continue running Mystake’s shop, despite their grief. One day while moving new stock into the store, they found a girl aimlessly wandering the streets, clearly lost and fascinated by everything. Worried for her safety, they invited her into the shop.

From that point on, the girl would come by every day to ask about life in the city. It didn’t take long for her to declare they were best friends and start doing small jobs around the shop. Ada, as she had introduced herself, became a fixture of the neighborhood. It was an incident where she wound up very nearly destroyed that revealed she was actually a Nindroid, and led to Kintsugi telling her about being half Oni.

After the Oni invasion, they expected her to be scared of them and leave, but instead she continued to insist they were the best of friends. After that, the two moved in together to better keep an eye out for each other’s safety.

Other: -For some reason, Kintsugi most struggles to properly shapeshift their teeth. As a result, they learned not to show their teeth too much when emoting, for fear of their fangs startling people. They start to loosen up about this after Ada learns their true nature. -They tend to use their human form as a sort of “outfit”. Something that’s used during the day and when around people. Despite the human form being more comfortable, they revert to their true form when relaxing at home. -Doesn’t actually care for the taste of tea, so is never sure what to do when customers ask for recommendations. -Has no interest in relationships beyond the platonic. -Is a descendant of an Elemental Master of Chaos on their mother's side, but due to past events, the element has been removed from circulation and is no longer passed on.

[kittttycakes]

red currant

Read on AO3 here. No one can outrun grief, not even Morpheus, formerly Dream of the Endless. Grief is patient, and it will wait, even in the aisles of a grocery store, to take him into its arms and hold him tight. contents: Dreamling, human Morpheus, post-Kindly Ones, mild gore, brief discussion of food-related issues, grief

At first, Morpheus was too busy dealing with a body that needed things. It was often too cold, its joints ached terribly, and it took him longer than he cared to admit to recognize what hunger and thirst actually felt like. The latter came with their own host of indignities, not least of which was the seeming inability to properly digest dairy, and a strong aversion to certain textures, no matter how appealing the food in question might be in theory. 

Hob both understood, and didn’t. He was always warm, something Morpheus deeply envied, even if he wouldn’t admit to it aloud. He too struggled, sometimes, with food, albeit in a much different way; the cupboards were often overfull before being carefully culled for in-date products to donate away, and he ate to uncomfortable excess on occasion, as if he forgot that there would be more for the foreseeable future.

There was also the question of fashioning a life out of nothing. Morpheus was dragged to a tiny shop in an out of the way street and photographed for a passport purchased in cash, along with all other relevant cards and certificates that made someone human. He was, with great effort, persuaded to allow the doctor with kind eyes who still made house calls to examine him, who pronounced him to be in fair health and left him with a number of pamphlets on proper nutrition. He came to know how to use a phone in practice, instead of merely in theory. 

But Hob couldn’t stay with Morpheus in the flat forever, and Morpheus threw himself into the process of becoming human. He spent long hours reading, books he once would have known simply by touching their spine, learned instead page by page and word by word. He slept more often than he thought an adult human might need, and he spent time submerged in the bathtub, topping up the hot water the second it began to grow tepid. He played music on Hob’s speakers, any album that Hob owned, and didn’t stop to think why he couldn’t bear to sit still without distraction. 

Because Morpheus was fine. He had been trapped in a human body in a glass cage for a century; being suddenly and irrevocably shoved into the same form, pieced back together lovingly by hands he could not bear to contemplate, was almost a familiar feeling. He had not felt hunger or thirst or pain in that prison, but to discover them for himself was not mind-breaking. He endured, and he allowed Hob to care for him, and he did not let himself be otherwise. 

But all things, as he came to know, must change. 

He was alone in the shop around the corner from Hob’s flat. In exactly seventy-four minutes, Hob would be home for tea, and they were, inexplicably, entirely out of jam, which meant that he could not have jam on toast for tea, and that was entirely unacceptable. 

To Hob’s unending surprise, Morpheus liked the shop, just as he liked the park at noon when all manner of people were milling about, and the pub of an evening when it was full and loud and bright. He did not want to speak with people, but he wanted to be within them, surrounded by them, the rise and fall of their voices, and Hob hadn’t asked him why. He had, instead, shown him a website dedicated to ambient noise, and told him that he could have the coffee shop in the flat all day if he wanted, if that was what he liked. 

Morpheus was standing in front of the shelves dedicated to all manner of spreads, contemplating the relative merits of strawberry (a known quantity, which he liked very much) or red currant (unknown, untested, but also free of any bits, which he disliked very much, and red, which was a promising color when it came to foods), when he reached for a jar to peer at it up close, and instead met the hand of the shopper beside him, who had crept up without his awareness and reached for the exact same jar at the exact same moment. 

He withdrew his hand, out of courtesy, and began to offer an apology as the woman beside him did the same, and neither of them kept hold of the jar, which fell, end over end, until it landed with a very final sounding smash at their feet. The woman stepped back with a small cry of alarm, and Morpheus stood, as if rooted to the very ground itself, and contemplated the slightly wobbling red mess in front of him. Vaguely, he was aware of the woman stepping to the end of the aisle to catch the attention of a shop worker, who would undoubtedly gather cleaning supplies and in fifteen minutes, it would be as if it had never happened at all. 

There was a scent, a cloying sweetness that rose from the shattered remains of the jam jar, a scent that Morpheus was unsure anyone else had noticed, or that was perhaps unique to him as he stood, still and unmoving, a buzzing in his ears, like the whine of a particularly persistent fly, and he moved his hand as if to shoo it away and clean up the mess besides only to blink and see—

Viscera, deep and red as rubies; he was walking through a field of carnage, each step staining him further, gore working its way over his feet to his ankles—why had they bled? they were never flesh and blood (but that was a lie, a lie he told himself again and again and again—they had been flesh and blood to him) and he was walking towards the end of all things, or maybe just the end of himself, and it was quiet, so quiet, an unearthly silence so vast that it nearly swallowed him whole and he felt it, a physical thing, the shattering of all that he was, all that he was ever meant to be, but it hurt less than he thought it might, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought it was over, the power gone, until—he had never felt so hollow, and he tried to reach out, to feel the warm familiarity of uncountable minds of his creation and those entirely independent of himself, human and creature alike, and found only an unending void, he had thought it quiet before but this, this was true nothingness, an abyss in which there was only him, and him alone and he was nothing, nothing, nothing at all—

“—all right, duck? Just a bit of jam on your boots and trousers, nothing that won’t wipe right off, I’m sure, and no staining to worry about, not with that very sensible black, hides a world of sin, doesn’t it?” 

The woman was standing near him, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her, and once, he would have known her name. She was not touching him, only hovering a hand quite near him, as she continued, voice even more gentle. 

“Let’s just step to the side, and we can get out of everyone’s way while they clean up.” 

For one horrible, painful moment, he thought she might say more, might even offer to call someone for him, the look in her eyes well-meaning, but horribly perceptive. He could not bear to be seen. It was enough to jolt him into motion, and he nodded, somewhat stiffly, and moved away from the puddle of jam. The arrival of the shop worker, complete with cleaning supplies, distracted the woman long enough for Morpheus to enact his escape, abandoning any thoughts of tea or toast as he made his way, with single minded determination, back to the flat.

It was too quiet on his walk back, and it was too quiet inside the flat, the soft tick of the clock on the mantle and the gentle hum of the refrigerator not enough, never enough. Hob would be home in fifty-three minutes, and it was not enough. 

He burnt the paper in the sink, watching it crumble in on itself and smolder into ash, not knowing if it would even work, being as he was. Morpheus waited, hands gripping the cold porcelain of the sink, his knuckles nearly white enough to match. She would understand, his sister. She would know what it was like. She could tell him what to do, how to live, now, that he was apart from the only piece of himself that he had ever cared for, no matter how imperfectly he had done so. He could not abide being so terribly, horribly alone, with only the sound of his own voice in his head to keep him company. There was no consciousness within him, save for his own. 

Morpheus did not hear her enter the flat. She had always been so good at silence, slipping into spaces like smoke. Her hand, when she laid it over his own, was slightly clammy, and so painfully familiar that it made his chest ache. 

“Brother,” she said, and he tried to speak, to greet her in return, but found that he could not force the words past his lips. She would know, he thought, she would understand. 

She led him to the couch, pulling him to sit beside her, and Despair enfolded Morpheus in her arms. 

[zukosdualdao]

through all of the shadowy corners of me

zutara month, day three: (re)meet ugly/meet cute. @zutaramonth

summary: as katara's plans on the anniversay of her mother's murder fall apart, she ducks into a teashop to wait out the storm and finds herself familiar with the rude tea server she comes face to face with and promptly bursts into tears. because of-fucking-course.

warnings: grief, nightmares, references to kya's murder (and ursa's disappearance, though that is less explicit), and references to ableism wrt facial differences. also, just, some lightly gratuitous swearing, on behalf of katara's no good very bad day. she deserves it.

other notes: title taken from landon piggs’ falling in love at a coffeeteashop. because i am basic in that way.

Katara’s pretty sure the universe is conspiring against her.

First, it was the fucking felt-tip markers being all dried up—damn it Sokka—she needed for the posters for the protest she was supposed to head.

(She tries not to think about how really, first, it was the dream she woke up from, that she wakes up from often, but especially on this day, the dream with fearful eyes and the ominous drip of blood and the feeling of too late too late too late. The dream that is also a memory.)

Someone had to make the posters—because seriously, why was the school shutting down the campus food bank when a third of the student population was food-insecure?— so she missed her first class of the day to get new ones from the closest craft store, over half an hour way with traffic. There was supposed to be a quiz, too, and the professor is notoriously stubborn about absences and make-ups. 

And then there was this huge storm, so they couldn’t even have the protest today like they’d planned.

Now, as Katara ducks out of the rain and into the tiny little hole-in-the-wall ambient tea shop—The Jasmine Dragon, the sign had said—which is all warm lighting and soft ringing laughter from the bare few patrons inside, she figures she can at least get a cup of something hot to drink. It’s been a truly horrible day, and she can’t wait to get back home, sleep for ten hours straight, and wipe it from the record of her memory, but right now, this is her one saving grace.

So, when she gets to the second place in line, very patiently waiting as the server at the front snipes at the man in front of her, part of her wants to reel up to confront him. Sure, she knows customer service can be a day-in, day-out nightmare—she didn’t spend her first two semesters waiting tables because it was fun—but really, he could at least try to be a little nicer. The man wasn’t doing anything wrong, as far as she could see.

When she gets to the front, Katara opens her mouth to say—something, she doesn’t know what—and is caught off-guard to find that she recognizes him faintly. With his eyes the color of amber, swoopy, dark hair, and a shiny, painful-looking burn scar set against the left side of his face, on her right—yes, he was a boy who was in Sokka’s class back in high school. And he was a total jerk, barely speaking a word to anyone except to get into arguments, whether with teachers or other kids. She didn’t know him all that well herself, but she’d never liked him from the stories Sokka told or for the way he seemed to bristle at everyone and everything as she watched from a morbidly curious distance.

Zuko. Yes, she remembers him.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice almost a snarl when she spends a beat too long taking in his features, though he’s not looking at her, instead glancing down at his scratchpad. “I’m supposed to tell all of the customers we’re out of the oolong,” he adds in a rough voice, without looking up.

Katara wants to rage, wants to scream, why does he think he gets to treat people like that, god, at least have the decency to look me in the eye and treat me like a person when you’re being a dick—but instead, she bursts into tears. 

Very loud, messy tears. It’s been a long day.

And, well. He certainly looks up then. 

“Um,” Zuko says in lieu of an actual reaction, his right eye wide. His expression has softened considerably, his mouth shaped in surprise, his browline furrowed. “We have jasmine?” he tries.

Well, she thinks as he stands there stiffly, the perfect image of a deer in headlights, before reaching over the counter to push the napkin dispenser toward her, this is humiliating.

At least it’s not terribly busy in here. There’s no one standing beside her, and she only feels one or two worried glances from the tables, the shop mostly empty.

“Sorry,” Katara says through her tears. “God, I’m sorry. I just—I’m having awful day,” she says, motioning to her face as a way of explanation before yanking a napkin out from the dispenser to dry her face.

Zuko’s lip curls in what she thinks might be sympathy. 

“Me, too,” he admits on a sigh. “Sorry. What can I get for you?”

“Um,” she says, shaking her head and smiling through still teary eyes. God. “A cup of jasmine tea would actually be nice.”

“Sure.” 

She pays quickly and tries to ignore his eyes as they follow her over to the tiny round table she chooses in the corner. One cup, she thinks. She’ll drink one cup of tea and be out of here quicker than even the lightning flaring outside, before anyone can say anything about it, and then head back to her apartment and think through every turn in life that got her there, sobbing in line at a tea shop as a mean boy she knew from high school tried not to call her on it.

But he has other plans, because when he brings her order to her, he doesn’t just leave like he’s supposed to, standing there for several awkward moments that feel as though they’re spanning lifetimes.

Yeah. The universe is definitely conspiring against her.

“So… you’re… good now?”

Katara stares at him blankly for a moment, feeling her jaw grow a little slack.

“Are you… checking on me?”

A beat. “I’m just very committed to customer service,” Zuko deadpans, and Katara can’t help but laugh.

“Right,” she says. “Yeah. I’m… good. Thank you.” He nods—just once, a rigid jerk of his head—and starts to turn on his heel to leave.

But for some reason, she suddenly doesn’t want that. He’s being… almost kind of sweet, and it’s so incongruous with the memory she has of him that it kindles a new kind of curiosity.  “We went to school together, you know,” she says quickly, before he can fully turn around. He pauses in his tracks. “You probably don’t remember, but—”

“I remember you,” Zuko says before she can even finish. She frowns, intrigued. “You always wore your hair up in a braid and those loops. And once, even though we barely knew each other,” he adds with the faint traces of a smile, “you told off that kid when he was… uh…” The smile fades.

Katara remembers suddenly. It was an overcast day, not unlike the way this one had started, and Zuko had been sitting alone in the courtyard, not bothering anyone (for once) as Katara made her way to lunch when she saw some other kid go up to him to start needling him, saying horrible things about his scar. Very loudly.

Katara hadn’t liked that, so she’d marched right over and told the kid so. Also very loudly.

She’s pretty sure that’s the only time she and Zuko even tangentially interacted, and even then, they hadn’t spoken any actual words to each other. Everything else she knew about him came from stories and distant observation.

“When he was being a dick,” she finishes for him.

“Yeah,” Zuko says. Peering through his eyelashes, he adds more quietly, “I’ve always remembered that.”

“Really?”

A shrug of his shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

“I don’t like cruel people.” He nods, hands in his pockets, eyes suddenly downcast and looking almost a little ashamed. It makes her sort of sad. “Do you have time to sit?” Katara asks suddenly.

He looks surprised as he glances back at up her. “What?”

“I mean, I know you’re working, so don’t worry about it if not,” she adds in a hurry, tripping over he words. “I just thought maybe…”

“My shift’s actually over,” he answers, and suddenly, there’s a soft, sort-of-shy smile playing on his lips. “I—I could sit.”

He pulls the chair out and sits while Katara sips at her tea. It really is quite good.

“This is almost making up for the rest of my day,” she laughs, and his face scrunches up, maybe almost amused.

But then, the expression morphs. “Why was your day so bad, Katara?”

She’s surprised to find he ever knew her name, let alone remembers it now. He really is full of surprises. 

She could tell him the simple version, the actual events without the why she was taking it so hard, without divulging what it was really about… but, well…

He seems sincere enough in asking, at any rate.

“I just… I lost my mother when I was really young,” she begins to explain, feeling sort of choked-up and tight in her chest again, but no tears threaten to fall right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and she looks up to meet his gaze, swimming with undeniable sympathy. “That’s something we have in common.”

She looks at him for a long moment, surprised. This is something they share, then. Something they can understand about each other. “I’m sorry, too. It’s awful. And… today is the anniversary. I usually just try to keep busy, but…”

“But everything went wrong?”

Katara hums.

“That’s the fucking worst,” he says bluntly, and Katara laughs then. He has very little tact, it seems, but also, yeah. It is. And it’s nice for someone to be able to… just say it. To feel it with her.

“It is the fucking worst,” she agrees. “But… I really am doing better now.”

“I’m glad,” he says, but he frowns, staring down at his hands, which are splayed on the table. “I really shouldn’t keep you from your day."

“I mean… the rest of my plans for the day have sort of fallen apart, and I should probably wait out the rain anyway, so I might, uh,” she says, feeling suddenly shy and hesitant. “I might stick around for a while. Get one more of these,” she nods down to her cup, warm and solid in her hands. “You know.” She takes another sip.

His smile glints, but it’s soft, too, definitely as shy as she feels. “I could do with a cup.”

Katara’s own smile grows wider.

The kindly older man who runs the shop—Zuko's uncle, Katara learns quickly—brings them out another round of jasmine, two cups this time, and Zuko slowly raises his in a cheers motions motion, a little awkward and a lot funny.

“To awful days?” he says with a raise of his brow.

“And to perfect storms,” she adds in agreement, laughter bubbling in her chest.

They clink their teacups together.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Don't Speak 15

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: Happy Wednesday

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You don’t feel better in the morning. The night brought little relief as your anxiety kept you wired and worried.

You can’t help but think of home and Amber. Will she be upset? Maybe she’ll be relieved. She’ll no longer have to look after you. She’s free.

That’s not home anymore. That thought tears you apart. It’s as if you can feel your insides stripping away as you tell yourself that over and over. You have no home. Not anymore. You’re not sure you ever did.

You sway between bouts of sobs and staring blankness. Not quite numb but too overwrought to feel. The house is strange, this bed is not your own, and you are lost.

A gentle rapping comes at the door as you wallow. You are trying to change. You won’t be the same burden you were to your sister. You are going to get better. Andy will not see you like this.

You suck back your grief and force yourself up. You cross to the door and open it a crack, hoping he doesn’t notice your swollen eyes. You force a sheepish smile as he greets you with a sleepy blink.

“Hey, just wondering if you wanted coffee,” his voice is sandy with sleep, “I gotta get the day started.”

“Um, no, I’m… I’m okay,” you croak before clearing the frog from your throat, “thank you.”

“You doing okay?” He puts a large hand on the doorframe.

“Mhmm,” you nod as you suck in your lower lip.

“Tea? I can put the kettle on.”

“Er, well, I was… I should shower first, if that’s okay?”

“Oh, sure,” he brightens up, rubbing his eyes as he takes a step back and yawns, “let me show you…” he beckons you out with a lazy wave, turning to cross the hall and open a door, “just in here.”

You let the door fall open and emerge, your pajama pants dragging at your feet. His own are low on his hips as he wears a grey tee that strains across his shoulders. You tiptoe forward and peer through the doorway.

“There’s some stuff for you,” he points to the small lilac basket on the counter, “I wasn’t sure if you would need anything but I grabbed some stuff. Just in case.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s really nice. You didn’t have to…” you clasp your hands together.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he assures you, “but yeah, sure you can figure it all out. And you know where to find me.”

“Okay, thanks,” you step aside as he backs out.

He faces you, trying to smooth his mussed hair, “you sure you’re doing alright? Big change.”

“Yeah,” you lie, “I just… need to get used to it.”

“Makes sense,” he nods, “well, I’ll be downstairs with my coffee.”

You grumble and turn to the bathroom. You stop yourself as he begins down the hallway. 

“Andy,” you call after him.

“Yeah?” He stops at the top of the stairs and looks back at you.

“About that job… can you ask about it?”

“Sure,” he says, “no problem.”

You wait for him to descend then close yourself up in the bathroom. You flick the lock into place and go to the basket on the counter. It smells very nice. There’s an assortment of goodies; bath bombs, creams, soaps, lotions, conditioner… You have your own stuff in your bag, cheap buck store stuff but it does the job. Still, the vanilla and cocoa scents are lovely.

You choose a few bottles and place them on the little shelf inside the shower. You figure out the faucet, testing the temperature with your fingers before closing the curtain. You undress slowly, taking your time as you focus on your simple task. More so to avoid the dread tugging at your brain.

You step into the tub and admire the pristine white tile. Your sister kept her house well but it didn’t change the decades old trim and worn out hardwood. This place is so sparkly and new.

Your curiosity distracts you from your purpose. There’s a little round object on the wall, attached by a suction cup. Looking closer, you figure out that it’s a speaker. Ah, bluetooth probably. How cool.

You bask in the heat of the shower and take your time in cleaning yourself. It’s almost renewing. 

You’re washing away your old life, getting ready for the new. One step at a time. First; the painting. That’s simple. Then maybe, the job at the library. See, you can do it. You just need to stay focused. 

Yet, it feels all so complicated as you try to unknot the tangle of your doubts. You want to be excited but you’re just afraid. 

📚

You spend your morning trying to get started on painting. With Andy gone, you expect it to be easy but your focus is fleeting. You have your reference, your paint brush, and all the time you need but you just can’t make yourself start.

You give up around noon, after a few strokes here and there but nothing evident. It hardly looks any different than when you got set up. You’re disappointed but you can try again later. Right?

You’ll do something productive. As you enter the house, you look around at the strange walls and feel smaller. You don’t belong here. You don’t feel any better than before. Andy’s been so nice and all you do is mope and procrastinate. Well, you can do something.

You go into the kitchen. Reticent as first, you search the cupboards and drawers. Amber always loved when you surprised her with dinner. Thinking of her hurts so you make yourself stop before it can drain you completely.

Noodles… you could do a tuna casserole! You haven’t made one in a while. Not very special but it’s a meal. Amber always reminded you that food on its own is something to be grateful for.

Go away! You don’t want to think about her. It’s like she’s torturing you from afar. You’re moving on. You set her free, so why won’t she let you go?

You concentrate on your task, even as her ghost follows you around. You feel her most when you can’t find something; when you’re completely lost in this unfamiliar place. She’s that little voice telling you that you made the wrong decision. The one telling you to go home.

That’s not your home. It’s hers.

You pull out a pan with your ingredients, and a pot. You go through the steps one by one. You have the casserole ready and in the oven before two. You’ll turn it on closer to four or five so it’s ready when he gets home.

You pull out a box of crackers as your stomach clenches painfully. You only eat two before your appetite flutters away. You can’t remember the last time you had a full meal. You make a cup of tea and take that out to the garage.

You stare at the painting and compare it to the sketch on your tablet. You shrink down as you realise how much there is to do. Maybe this is too much. Maybe you can’t do it.

You drop your head, cradling it as you fight back the wracking in your chest. You just feel like crying until you’re weak. Crawling into bed and hiding away for days and days. Maybe forever. There’s something wrong with you; not just now but it’s always been wrong.

You wallow in your anxiety, swaying in between dread and self-pity. You hear an engine through the metal door and the flash of light beneath assures you of Andy’s arrival. You stand as the large door begins to roll up and you face him as he walks up the driveway. 

Oh no!

You give a panicked look as he approaches and you close your tablet. You set it on the stool as his smile falters, “what’s going on? You okay?��

“I forgot to turn the stove on,” you decry, “I’m sorry.”

“The stove?” He asks with a stitch in his forehead.

“I made casserole,” you say, “but I meant to have it ready when you got home.”

“Casserole?” His cheek dimples, “I don’t mind waiting.”

“Alright,” you press your hands to your legs and turn, marching away fast.

The door slowly descends with a creak as he follows a few paces back. You scurry inside and down the hallway. You go into the kitchen and stop short as you approach the stove. Amber’s stove is ancient, it has dials mostly. This one has a dozen buttons.

It takes a few tries but you finally get it preheating. Andy hovers at the edge of your vision. You turn and stand behind the counter, watching him, unsure what to do next.

“What kind of casserole?” He asks as he nears the island and rests his hands on the edge.

“Just tuna. Nothing special.”

He nods and his throat bobs. He clears it before he finds his voice again, “dove, that is special. Do you know–” he pauses and gulps again, “do you know how long it’s been since I had someone to cook for me? Since I had a dinner to come home to?”

“Oh?” You furrow your brow. You didn’t think of that.

“That’s very special, that’s… thank you. I love tuna.”

“Good,” you exhale, “good, I was… worried.”

“Worried?” He chuckles, “don’t. It’s nice just having someone here to greet me.”

He pushes away from the counter as you stay on the other side. He turns and shrugs out of his jacket before passing into the dining room. You wait there and he returns as he unbuttons the top button of his shirt. He rolls his shoulders and sighs.

“I’m all tense,” he leans on one of the tall stools along the island.

“Oh? Was it a bad day?”

“Eh, it was… a day,” he leans forward and brushes his fingers along his beard, “how about you?”

You look down ashamed and push your shoulders up. “I didn’t get much done…”

“That’s okay. You got time,” he assures lightly, “can’t pressure good art, right?”

You nod and peek up at him. Your insides twitch nervously. Just ask.

“Did you ask about the job?”

“Uh, yeah,” he bends his arm against the granite, “you would need to submit a resume.”

Your heart plummets but you fight not to show it. A resume? You would only end up with a blank piece of paper. You look away.

“Right, I’ll uh, I’ll get one together,” you utter with no real intent. You’re too embarrassed to even try.

“Just a formality, really. There’s a whole process,” he explains, “I can help if–”

A loud knock interrupts him. His cheek ticks as he glances over his shoulder. You tense up as he stands and the pounding continues.

“Not expecting anyone…” he mutters as he walks out with his hands in his pockets, his stature calm and unbothered despite the battering of the front door.

You hear him open the door as the rapping stops. You hold your breath and listen, frozen at the staunch tones that meet him.

“Sir, we got a call,” you hear faintly.

You swallow and come around the island. The unexpected visitors continue and you hear your name. You peek around the doorframe. You can see the top of the police caps just past Andy’s tall figure.

“A call? For what?”

“We understand that she’s here.”

“Uh, yeah?” Andy answers in a thin timbre, “she’s a friend.”

“Can we talk with her?”

“Of course you can but… why?”

“Sir, standard wellness check.”

“Wellness check?” Andy blusters, “look, I know the law, you have no cause–”

“Andy,” you step out meekly.

“Honey,” he turns so his back is to the open door, “everything’s fine.”

“Are you…” the officer asks your name. You nod as you inch forward. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“Um…” you look at Andy.

“You don’t have to,” he insists.

"What's wrong?" You clasp your hands together tightly as you come down the hallway.

"Miss, we're just here to check in, make sure you're well," the first officer begins.

"Yeah, I'm… fine."

"Would you mind coming out and talking with us," the other, a woman, asks.

"Why?"

Andy exhales but says nothing.

"Okay?"

You pass Andy and step out onto the porch. The officers stare behind you. They're met with a gritty sigh.

"Sir, do you mind if we speak alone?"

"This is my house," Andy retorts.

"Sure, but we just need to chat with her–"

"Honey, do you want me to go?" He bulls through the officer's words.

"Er, I don't… I don't know."

The first officer pokes his lower lip with his tongue and signals to the other, "miss, are you being held here?"

"What?" You gasp.

"Are you being held here against your will?"

Andy scoffs and and issues a sharp, "come on."

"We had a report and it is our obligation to investigate," the second officer denotes, "so?"

"N-no," you stammer. "No, of course not."

"Thank you," she says as she reaches in her pocket, "that's it but…" she holds out a card, "I'll leave this with you."

You sense Andy shifting behind you. You take the card and read the name on it. Sergeant Macy Jones. 

"You wanna ask her anything else? Maybe if I bought her off the black market," Andy snarls.

"Sir, it’s standard procedure. We have to come out."

"Sure," Andy sneers.

"Thank you," you say, "I'm okay."

You back up as Officer Jones narrows her eyes, watching Andy as you retreat inside.

"My number's there," she reminds you.

You give one last thank you and Andy swings the door shut. He sniffs loudly and you quickly hurry down the hall. He follows but not swiftly.

He enters the kitchen as you set the timer on the stove. He clucks and stops on the other side of the counter.

"You know it was her, right?"

You look at him. You figure it was Amber but she's probably just confused. Once she hears you're okay, she'll back off.

"Don't you see? She'll do anything to keep control. She wants to keep you down. She doesn't want you to be successful."

"She's worried," you say.

"About herself," he accuses, "she would claim that I… I took you? I wouldn't… dove, you came here because you want to, right?"

"Erm, uh," you slump your shoulders, his anger roiling hotly from him.

"I didn't make you come here, did I? I'm helping you."

"You are," you confirm smally, "Andy, please… I… I don't like anger."

He stops himself and faces you, gripping the lip of the counter as his brows draw together. He lets out a breath and his expression softens.

"I'm sorry," he lowers his chin and shakes his head, "I'm sorry. It's just… it's insulting. After all I did to protect you from her, she would send the police after me like a criminal. She– she would have them check on you like a child."

"Yeah," you murmur, fidgeting as you reel with his rant. 

You can't believe she'd call the police. She's trying to get you in trouble. You didn't do anything wrong. All you did was try to be your own person, but Andy's right, she never wanted that for you.