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veilder · 3 years

Note

"I thought you left" "Nope, just making pancakes" - Convin

Okay, so, I love this prompt and I promised I'd try to write it so... I actually did this last week at like 2 am and have been too busy to edit it until now. But I'm kinda sick of trying to puzzle it out so just take it please, omg.

(Prompt from this post if anyone's curious.)

Stay

The sun was already high in the sky when Gavin finally blinked awake. He could tell because there was one fuckin sliver of window he could never manage to cover with the blackout curtains hanging up in his bedroom and the goddamn sun was shining right in his fuckin eyes, Jesus Christ! With a groan, he rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to go back to sleep. But even that small burst of cognizance had its consequences. Gavin could feel the awareness creeping in fast, God fuckin dammit. Was a little shut-eye too much to ask for? But there was something... Something niggling at the back of his mind. It itched at instincts well-honed by over a decade on the force and not even his most earnest desire to return to oblivion could keep it at bay. Restlessly, Gavin huffed out a disgruntled sigh as he kicked at the covers, frustrated despite himself at being roused after the night he’d had— Like a shock passing through his body, Gavin’s eyes snapped open, memories of the previous evening flashing through is mind. But just as readily, a heaviness settling deep in his heart as he took in the other side of the bed. The sheets were mussed and the pillow indented, a clear sign of its former occupant. Evidence as plain as day told Gavin that last night hadn’t been some delusion or dream. And yet… He reached out a hand, an involuntary, desperate motion, tracing the outline where his partner had lain. Where Connor had lain. But just as he’d feared, the sheets were cold. They matched the ice filling his heart. Slowly shuffling upright, Gavin leaned back against the headboard as memories of the previous day filled his waking mind. Flashes of the case he and Connor had worked together rushed by in a flurry. The tip-off for the perp they’d been tracking for weeks and the reckless chase that followed. The abandoned warehouse. The shootout. Vivid Thirium across dirty concrete. Connor had taken a bullet for him. Gavin remembered staring up into those brown eyes, watching as a splatter of blue burst from his chest. "I'm fine," Connor had said, "the bullet didn't nick anything important." And even though the android had gotten right back up and proceeded to almost single-handedly take down the rest of the hostiles attacking them, it was still a moment Gavin knew would haunt him for a long-ass time. Shit was enough to give him nightmares. It did give him nightmares, in fact. Which is how the two of them had ended up back here. In Gavin's apartment. Together. Because after that little fiasco, after the gang had been arrested and the hostages recovered and both he and Connor had been checked over by a medic and technician respectively, it still left the job far from complete. Needless to say, Gavin had eventually nodded off at his desk after a long night of interrogation and paperwork, the rushes of adrenaline and fear more than even his beloved coffee could contend with. He only meant to rest his eyes for a moment. Just a moment and then he'd finish up. But when he awoke some indeterminate time later, it was to his own voice screaming, Connor's name upon his lips, Connor's blue blood scattered across the darkest corners of his mind, Connor's hand upon his shoulder jostling him awake. The android’s LED was flashing a violent red as he stared Gavin down, his brown eyes wide with worry. Gavin couldn't help but cling to him, something twisting, clenching in his heart and demanding he hold on tightly. From there, things had passed in a blur, though he remembered Fowler's imposing figure ordering the both of them to take the next few days off. Too tired and distressed to argue, Gavin agreed immediately, only too glad to get the fuck out of there and go home. And Connor? Connor insisted he drive Gavin home. Connor insisted he make sure Gavin got to his door. Connor insisted that he get Gavin to his bed. And Gavin, still clinging to the android with every last bit of his flagging strength, let him. Over and over he let the android steer him along, trusting a partner fully for the first time in... For the first time

in far too long. And when Gavin had finally settled, comfortable yet shivering in his too-large bed, he took a moment to insist right back. "Stay," he'd said. One word. One plea. A lifetime of wanting to not be alone wrapped up in a single syllable. A few short weeks of shifting worldviews and growing affections cradled in four letters. A wealth of experience in loss stealthily couched within a breath. Gavin insisted. And Connor stayed. Or, at least Gavin thought he had. Because here and now, in the stupidly bright light of day, he was alone again. Like always. He didn't know why he'd expected otherwise. He really should've known better. After all, why would Connor want to hang around here? Especially after his fuckin embarrassing little act last night, fuck. He probably had loads of things to do. Important... android things... People to meet. Places to be. He wouldn't waste his entire day sitting around in Gavin's shitty apartment while he slept like a log. How fuckin stupid would that be? It didn't mean anything. Gavin told himself this over and over again as he shifted, swinging his legs out from under the covers and onto the floor. Just because they could be considered friends now didn't mean Connor had to drop everything for him. Just because he'd begging him to stay didn't mean Connor owed him anything. He'd probably felt uncomfortable as hell last night, what with Gavin whining and bitching at him like a fuckin child. Probably said what he could to mollify him before getting the hell out of Dodge. Gavin couldn't even blame him for that. Fuck, Connor'd just had emergency maintenance done! Because of Gavin! Like hell he'd want some handsy human all over him for ten straight hours, Jesus Christ. It didn't mean anything. Even if he wished it did. His stomach picked that moment to rumble, thankfully interrupting his little pity-party. Thank fuck. It was too early in the morning (or afternoon technically) to be crying over stupid shit. He was probably just hungry. Yeah, that's it. He's all fuckin emotional cause he hadn't eaten in almost 24 hours. It didn't matter that Connor fucked off ASAP, Gavin could get some waffles delivered. Waffles never fuckin betrayed him. He could trust waffles. With newfound resolve, Gavin stood, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand before scrolling through his food delivery aps to see if he could get waffles from anywhere at two in the fuckin afternoon. With heavy tread he stepped out into the hallway, mouth already watering at the prospect and stomach rumbling again in agreement. Fuck, he could almost smell them already. Wait. No, he can smell them? What the fuck?! Before Gavin could do anything more but stand there in his pajamas, wide-eyed and mystified, a figure stepped into view. Instinctively, Gavin's heart raced, adrenaline flooding his veins as the threat of a home invader cycled through his brain. In that fraction of a second, he was prepared to dive into an all-out brawl with the bastard. He was not in the mood for this shit! But then said bastard's lips quirked into a dazzling grin and a brown-eyed gaze sent Gavin reeling in disbelief. While his brain was preoccupied with keeping his suddenly-weak legs standing, his idiot mouth opened up on it's own: "I thought you left,” he said, choking on his disbelief. Connor (because of course it was Connor) only quirked his head to the side in that cute way he does, looking for all the world like the dogs he so adored. His LED flashed a single, swirling yellow before settling back to blue and he said, "No, I was just making pancakes. I thought perhaps you might be hungry." A strange hesitance entered his voice, some dour note falling across his features. "Did you want me to leave?" "No!" Gavin blurted out in a moronic, high-pitched squeak because again, he was nothing if not an idiot. (And one destined to embarrass himself at every possible moment at that.) Clearing his throat, he tried again. "I mean, you can do whatever you want. Doesn’t matter to me." (He's lying through his teeth. It obviously did matter to him. It

mattered a huge fuckin deal!) Connor blinked at him, the only sign of the awkward atmosphere between them the flashing colors at his temple. "Your words run contrary to both your body language and your involuntary actions," he said, "And they are a direct counterpoint to your request last night." Gavin fidgeted, knowing the damn android was right but never in a million years wanting to admit it. "Stop analyzing me, dipshit, it's too early for this." Finally, Connor's face relaxes a bit, a smile smile stealing across his lips. "It is two thirty-three in the afternoon, Gavin. Far from early." "Oh, can it, Poindexter! You know what I mean!" With a huff, Gavin moves forward, sidling past his annoying house guest. "What was that about pancakes?" Connor beams at him as the two of them enter the kitchen. "Ah yes. I determined that you would be hungry after going so long without food. I managed to make due with your atrocious grocery selection and have prioritized calories over nutrition for the time being. But just this once.” While Connor seemed dead set on critiquing the apparently-lackluster pantry he’d been forced to bravely overcome, Gavin only had eyes for the heaping pile of flapjacks sitting at his breakfast nook, fluffy and golden brown and still steaming. Fresh off the griddle, holy shit. How did he…? Despite his hunger, Gavin looked over at Connor questioningly. It was almost like the android could read his mind (which was a scary fucking thought) as he answered his unspoken query immediately: "I calculated your sleep cycle based off the Circadian rhythms I observed during your convalescence. I'm glad I timed it right. I wanted you to enjoy your breakfast." "It's past 2 pm," Gavin retorted with a smirk, "can't be breakfast now, hotshot." Connor's answering smile made Gavin want to melt into a puddle and he quickly turned away, staring at said breakfast with a helpless desperation. "Indeed," the android said, heedless of his partner's distress. "Regardless of the time of day, I wanted you to enjoy your meal, nonetheless." And something more vulnerable finally stole into his voice then, the merest shadow of his quiet pleas from the night before. "I thought, perhaps, you might consider them an offering." Gavin tore his gaze away from his not-breakfast then, looking up at his partner with enough confusion to drive out all other complicated emotions. "What offering? What the fuck are you talking about, tincan?" And now Connor was the one to look away. "It's just that..." He drew in a deep breath (though Gavin knew it was only him mimicking humans. Fucker didn't actually need to breathe) and continued, "yesterday... Yesterday frightened me. When I saw that gunman aiming at you, I—" He clenched his eyes shut, LED flashing a dangerous red. "In that moment, I preconstructed a multitude of outcomes, many of them where you did not survive. In which that bullet found its mark. And the thought of it, Gavin!" he wails. "I couldn't—! The thought was unbearable! And so I calculated the best result. And I determined my course of action. And you lived. You lived. And I thought that would be the end of it. But..." Finally, Connor looked up, his eyes meeting Gavin's head-on once more. "It was like a glitch. The preconstruction, it— It kept resurfacing again and again and again, every time you were out of my sight. And I... I disliked the feeling immensely. I think perhaps I hated it, even. And so I did my best to linger. I didn't want to leave you. Even though I knew you were safe, I still... It was so irrational but I still wanted to verify that you were okay. I still do." Before them the pancakes were growing cold, but neither paid them any mind. Connor looked away again, eyes shut. "I thought that, perhaps you had figured this much out last night. Which is why you asked me to stay. Because we are friends now and that's what friends do. But I worried that I may have... forced the issue... in my desperation. And I-I... I wanted to do something for you in return for your generosity." Looking down at the cooling

breakfast, Connor's face fell further. "I know it's not much but I thought at least—" Gavin had heard enough. "Okay, okay, okay, hold the fuck up, dumbass!" He stood, breakfast forgotten, and approached the shocked android with a fierce determination. Jabbing a finger directly into Connor's chest, he stated as sternly as he could, "You don't owe me a goddamn thing! For fuck's sake, Connor! You fuckin saved my goddamn life yesterday! You took a fuckin bullet for me! And even after that, you still fuckin stayed with me and made sure I got home safe!" A growl rumbled through his chest as Gavin poked Connor again. "I was having a fuckin nightmare about you dying! When you woke me up in the precinct! Did you know that?!" Connor shook his head but Gavin only poked him a third time, this time with much less force. He left his hand there, palm splayed across where his heart would be were he human. "That shit kept replaying for me, too. Over and over again. So I get it. I get wanting to 'verify.' I was doing the same thing. That's why I asked you to stay. Because I fuckin—! I wanted you here, okay?! Because the idea that you were hurt or injured or fuckin dead had me panicking!" He brought his other arm up now, slinging it around Connor's broad shoulders in a half-embrace, and leaned in, burying his face in the android's neck. "That shit's unbearable to me, too, tincan. Thinking of this fuckin trash heap of a world without you in it is—" He sucked in a breath. "Can't stand the thought." They stood there for what felt like an eternity (though it was probably only a few seconds) before slowly—tentatively—Connor brought his own arms up to squeeze around Gavin. He held him with a brittle tenderness, his touch light and careful as if he was afraid Gavin might break. And fuck, maybe he would. Maybe Connor could shatter him into a hundred-thousand little pieces. But shit, he'd take it. Because Gavin would never have been in this situation in the first place if Connor hadn't broken right through his walls first, scattering him and leaving him adrift in a strange, new world. And when he’d managed to build himself back up, it was into something—someone—stronger. Someone who could look at the world and see progress instead of oppression, opportunity instead of limitations, people instead of just machines. Connor had shattered his body once before down in the archives. He'd shattered his mind too over these last few months. It’d only make sense for him to shatter his heart as well. But he didn't. He wouldn't. And as Connor held him like a thing to be cherished, Gavin felt again that perhaps he'd been right last night. Perhaps this was a partner he could trust. A partner who could trust him, too. And perhaps he would— "Stay."

_____________

Bonus:

Connor: "Okay, but only if you eat your pancakes. I didn't download an entire cooking catalogue for you to let them go to waste, Gavin." Gavin: "Fuckin bite me, we're having a moment here." Connor: "Is your stomach rumbling part of that moment?" Gavin: "God fucking dammit, I fuckin hate you." Connor: ^_^ "False!" Gavin: "Fuck!"

And they lived happily ever after. ♥

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pigeonp0st · 4 years

Note

Hi!! Can you possibly write a head cannon where y/n is kurts twin and is dating Quinn? Sorry if this isn’t specific any storyline is ok.

Quinn Fabray x Reader #3

Words: 2,024

Warnings: Mention of Car Crash, Hospital

Notes:

I was reading a story that involved a car crash and just...sort of took inspiration from that for more direction. I hope this is what you were looking for, thank you for requesting (and sorry for spelling mistakes)

———

You got into a car crash.

It wasn’t really your fault, it’s not as if you could have known that some dude driving a truck wanted to push you off a cliff…well, you’re sure he didn’t exactly want to; but that’s not the point, you think.

The point is that you got into a car crash. A car crash (or truck crashing, really) that you should have died from, but you didn’t. A car crash that should have presented lifetime injuries, but it didn’t.

And you’re lucky. That’s the magic word that keeps going around. You’re lucky.

Yeah, fuck that.

You don’t feel very lucky, laying down in your hospital bed and feeling so much pain everywhere, laying down in your hospital bed and not even being able to go to the bathroom by yourself... this doesn’t feel lucky. This feels miserable and shitty and—

Quinn. Quinn is here.

Quinn is sitting in the corner of the hospital room, reading a book with red rimmed eyes and shaky hands.

Quinn she— she wasn’t here yesterday. You wonder for a moment how she could have found out, and then you realize…

Kurt.

Kurt went to school today. You figure he must have relayed the news to the Glee club. If you had been awake yesterday, or even the day before—the night you got into the crash—you would have told him not to tell her.

Quinn doesn’t deserve to find out about this the way she probably found out about this. Quinn doesn’t deserve the worry she’s probably feeling...you know it would have been better for you to text her yourself so she knew immediately that you were fine. So you would be able to downplay the injuries.

Kurt likes being dramatic, and Quinn likes to panic.

“Quinn, you can’t be here,” you rasp out, your throat dry from lack of use. Her green eyes immediately snap up towards you.

“Y/N,” Quinn breathes out, voice full of relief as she sets her book down and moves towards the side of your bed to cup your cheek. “They said you woke up earlier but I had to see it to believe it.”

You give her a weak smile, not able to resist nuzzling your face into her hands. Her eyes watering with more tears almost makes you regret it. “Baby,” you whisper, “Kurt...my dad...what if they see? Where are they?”

Quinn’s face morphs into something guilty and apprehensive. “They both... sort of know about our relationship now…” she rushes to continue when she sees your wide eyes, “they were shocked, but they seem to be doing fine with the news.”

You blink at her, once, twice, and then drop your eyes closed with a wince. “Kurt’s gonna bother me so much about this,” you mumble. “How did they find out?”

You feel Quinn tense before you manage to open your eyes to see it.

“Me yelling at the nice lady up front to let me see my girlfriend probably told them as much,” Quinn says slowly, as if she expects an angry reaction. You don’t feel much anger. You haven’t really cared about them knowing for a while now…

In the beginning it just made sense to keep it a secret from them. Now, not so much.

Plus, nearly dying put some things into perspective for you.

“Does Finn know?”

Now it’s Quinn’s turn to wince. “I’m not sure,” she admits quietly, then adds, “i’m sorry if i’ve made things awkward for you.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, a laugh that turns into a coughing fit, and then turns into a whole bunch of growling while you grit your teeth in pain. “Fuck, fuck, that really hurt.”

Quinn’s hand is trembling again. “Do you want me to get the doctors?” She asks, with no small amount of panic. She’s terrified, and has been terrified since the moment Kurt told her you were in an accident.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure her, ignoring the pull of stitches that feel like they’re everywhere, and the hurt in your ribs. “I’m sure Finn will get over it eventually, when he finds out.”

“It’s not as if you two were siblings when I dated him,” Quinn jokes, though her eyebrows are furrowed with her worry.

You give her a smile that you hope is reassuring and try to relax into the hospital bed. Your eyes are heavy with tiredness, and you feel extremely drugged (yet at the same time not drugged enough), but you want to stay awake for Quinn.

Quinn has other plans.

She kisses your forehead, then promises against the skin there, “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

And right before you drift off into the dream world, you hear her say; “please don’t do this to me again,” in a voice that’s so weak and scared that you want to open your eyes again and reassure her.

You fall asleep instead.

——-

Quinn is there when you wake up again, but so is Kurt.

They’re talking. About you, you realize bitterly. About the crash, and the physical therapy you’re going to need to go through for your shoulder.

They’re talking quietly, as if to not disturb you, and it’s weird hearing the two most important people in your life talk. Especially since you know that just a day ago Kurt was terrified of Quinn.

Maybe not terrified...he was intimidated. Everyone is of Quinn.

(Quinn admitted to you once that sometimes she thrives in their fear, and other times she just feels alone. She told you that she doesn’t want to hurt people anymore just because she’s hurting, and that she’s trying to make people comfortable around her again.

The intimidation used to be from fear, now it’s from awe, so you suppose her plan hasn’t really worked. People worship the ground she walks on.

You worship the ground she walks on.)

Quinn is more deep than you expected though, and more deep than you’re sure everyone else expects. She’s more funny, more smart, more self-deprecating, more hurt, more nerdy, more goofy—than you ever realized.

She’s just a person full of surprises.

“Y/N?”

You jump in the hospital bed in alarm, your side and shoulder aching in protest. Yep. Quinn is full of surprises.

“Are you okay?” Quinn asks, giving you a sad smile. “Sorry for shocking you.”

Kurt pokes his head over her shoulder (it’s weird seeing them so close), “you don’t look so good,” he points out, as if you hadn’t already figured that out. The glare you send him has him shrugging.

“I’m fine, babe.” You ignore Kurt’s smirk at the nickname. “Could one of you just ask the doctors for about twenty pills for the pain?”

“And a hairbrush,” Kurt jokes, though his eyes are lined with the worry he thinks he’s hiding well, “got it.”

“You try getting pushed off a small cliff by a truck, see how you look afterwards!” You yell at Kurt’s retreating back.

There’s a tense silence the second Kurt is out of the room. Quinn’s eyes are focused on a spot on the hospital sheets, and she doesn’t look at you, even as she tries to make a joke for some levity;

“Twenty pills is a definite overdose. I hope Kurt isn’t actually asking for that amount.”

You snort, shaking your head. “They wouldn’t give it to him even if he asked.” Then, quietly, you ask; “Quinn, are you alright?”

She shakes her head. “You almost died,” Quinn mumbles, and she says it like an explanation, you suppose it is one.

It was terrifying, those moments when the truck hit, and those long moments after when you were still conscious.

“I keep thinking about what would have happened if you weren’t even a bit as lucky as you were,” she admits, closing her eyes. “You almost died. The only reason you're here now is because you were lucky.”

“Quinn—”

“You can’t die,” Quinn says, her eyes desperate when they snap open to look into yours. “You don’t get to leave me. That can’t be an option.”

But it is, because nothing is really guaranteed in life. Quinn knows this, has known this since a very young age, you imagine.

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing you can manage to say in the face of Quinn’s sadness.

Quinn seems to get a hold of herself after your apology. She just shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair and she’s Quinn again. “It’s not your fault. Just work hard at getting better soon so you can help me get through the school days.”

You nod, then hesitate. “Will you love me if I never drive again?” It’s meant to be a joke but it comes out more seriously than you intend. Quinn’s eyes immediately go soft and loving.

“Yes. I’d love you even if you didn’t even want to sit in a car again,” she says, and you believe her. You believe her.

“Then you’d have to walk everywhere with me,” you laugh, even as tears fall down your cheek. Quinn immediately bends down to kiss them away.

“The more calories burned, the more junk food I can have,” Quinn reassures, and you love her.

You love her so damn much.

——

Kurt is eyeing you and Quinn with something like wonderments in his eyes later that day.

Quinn can’t bring herself to care much though. What he thinks about her relationship with you in the least of her concerns right now. The only thing she really cares about right now is you.

She cares about you looking at her the way you’re looking at her right now, with a dopey drug induced smile. She cares about the fact that you’re looking at her at all. You’re looking at her right now because you’re alive.

You’re alive, Quinn reminds herself. The what if’s don’t matter.

“Quinn, will you marry me?” You ask, words slurred together. It brings Quinn straight out of her thoughts and into the real world.

She blinks at you for a couple of seconds and then nods uncertainty. You won’t remember this anyways, Quinn assures herself, but as she looks over her shoulder at Kurt’s wide eyes she realizes that he will.

Welp.

“One day,” Quinn continues, for appearance sake. Kurt snorts behind her.

She can’t be whipped enough for her girlfriend that she accepts a proposal this young. (She is though. She hates to admit that she’s incapable of saying no to a question like that from you, but it’s the truth.)

“I wanna get married now,” You protest, and Quinn doesn’t really know what to say to that.

“Y/N you can’t force the girl to marry you. Have some respect,” Kurt says, laughter in his voice. Quinn’s thankful for his intervention, though she won’t show it.

You pout at Kurt, and then at Quinn, “Fine. Just tell me when you’re ready, okay?” You ask, and Quinn loves desperately. She loves.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Not even Kurt’s rambling about ‘the disgustingness of love’ keeps her from the lightness in her chest at seeing you smile at her the way you are now.

You’re going to be okay.

The both of you will be, Quinn realizes, when Kurt cuts off his complaints to start planning for your wedding.

“We won’t be getting married for a while,” Quinn reminds the both of them. She gets blissfully ignored after a side glance from Kurt and another pout from you.

She’ll be okay, and even—Quinn realizes—Kurt will be. She wasn’t paying attention to how devastated he seemed earlier today, but in the face of his relief and happiness the differences between his behavior now seem obvious now.

He was devastated, but he’s okay now, because you’re awake. Quinn’s okay now because you're awake.

“Quinn, will you wear a suit for the wedding?” You ask, bringing Quinn out of her thoughts for probably the fifth time today.

Kurt snickers at Quinn’s resounding grimace, and his amusement only raises when Quinn mumbles, hesitantly, “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“That sounds like a no, dear sister.”

#quinn fabray x reader #glee x reader #glee imagine #x fem!reader #fem reader #quinn fabray imagine #quinn fabray #fanfic

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juleswolverton-hyde · 3 years

Text

Not by the Moon | 08

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, eating disorder (personal experience, don’t be a bloody twat), heavy(?) angst, Werewolf!Jaebeom trying to be a normal boyfriend

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Author’s Note: This chapter is from Y/N’s POV.

I am seeing a trend starting to develop where every chapter turns into a behemoth that makes me not want to edit it at all. Nevertheless, I pulled through on this one despite being in the middle of a 32-hour work week and being absolutely exhausted.

Summer holidays, you said? I only see extra shifts and little me-time nor writing time and inspiration. That said, though, be prepared for some heavy worldbuilding because the plot thickens.

Also, and this has been edited in the previous chapter, a new special someone makes his debut in this chapter. Is this also a hint about whose story is next?

Who knows?

I don’t know.

Previous Chapter / Next chapter

Masterlist

“Jaebeom? Jay!” I nudge the big man’s shoulder to signal for him to step aside so I can turn the stove off before the burned pancake catches fire. “That’s the third one in a row.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly. “I- I have a... I can’t focus.”

“Is it because of this morning?” If so, then that makes two of us. However, I tried to forget as best I could by working with timed productivity sprints instead of writing the article on Bruges in one go. It worked fairly well until lunch time came around.

That’s when I, too, couldn’t escape the claw mark.

The image of it flashes before my eyes once more, joining my thoughts with his if his blank look is anything to go by.

How did it get there? What did you do?

“Yeah. Morning. I... I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, this should be a nice evening. A cozy night in. You deserve my attention, for me to,” his breath tapers as he finishes the sentence, “be here.”

The quiver in his lips makes the roof of my mouth dry up and my mind empty save for gut-stirring concern, unable to think of a proper response. Nevertheless, I look for words to say what seems best. Like I did this morning when I went to get his medication. “How about I take it from here and bake the pancakes? You already made the batter and I can’t let you do all the work.”

“I like cooking for you.”

“I know you do, but it’s fine. Really,” I gesture at the couch by the living room window, which provides a glimpse of the small balcony, “sit down. I’ll call you once dinner’s ready.”

“Y/N,” he reaches out for my hand yet only dares to hold my fingertips, “I’m sorry I can’t be more.”

The crack in his voice breaks my heart. But its the vulnerability written across his normally stoic face which tears me apart at the seams. Whatever he means, it’s nothing to do with this morning. Rather, it’s about him as a person, the wonderful man he is.

Throat blocked by something I can’t swallow, I scan his attitude for any hint about what he truly means. “What’re you on about?”

Let’s just forget about it for a little while and be a normal couple. I promise I won’t run away despite what happened.

Unfortunately, Jaebeom dismisses the question to make a point I wish he didn’t. “We both know what’s ahead. But, sometimes it’s as if you’re avoiding the inevitable.”

I let out a deep sigh, caught red-handed. “I’m not, because I know or, rather, can guess where this is going. I just don’t know how to respond at times. And I don’t want you to feel bad so I try to keep the mood high as best I can. To, well, keep us both happy.”

“Is your avoidance of food also part of that?” he asks, carefully formulating the question while keeping a close eye on any change in my demeanour.

“Yes.”

“I hate it when you don’t eat.”

“I know, but if you knew the reasons behind it, you’d understand why it’s difficult for me. Although, I want you to know that I’m trying to keep my promise to you and eat when you tell me to.” I cup his cheek, lovingly swiping my thumb to and fro over the tanned skin. “It’s really hard to escape your determination. You’re very insistent on things.”

“Too much?” Eyes dim and glistening with withheld tears, he nuzzles my palm.

“Sometimes.” I kiss the tip of his nose and smile, a sign of happiness that’s only half a lie. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Now, let me be a proper girlfriend and cook for you.”

Regardless of the wonderful sight of Jaebeom wearing an apron and being absorbed in his element in the kitchen, it’s equally as wonderful to have something to eat tonight. Secretly, I would rather have made a healthier and less calorie-rich dish, but we both need a bit of a reprieve from last night. Thus, for the sake of us both, I’ve decided to let go of my rules for a little while.

To enjoy something sweet.

As wholesome as the sight of the wolf man seated on the couch, knees pulled up with round gold-rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose as he reads the novel he apparently borrowed from my bookshelves. I should write a little note on the title page and give it to him as a present so he’ll have one of my books like I have his.

They’ll be on his shelves for as long as we’re here.

Be there even after he’s gone.

Then they will return to me yet still be his.

He will still be with me.

The pages filled with his love.

It’s everything that will be left of him.

His legacy.

His remains.

The thought leaving me filled with bittersweet affection, I cut the fruit to put on top of the pancakes while gradually using up all the batter. Were it not for the move to the cottage at the end of the month, I could easily be content here if he’d ask me to move in. Wherever we are, evenings like these might become a common occurrence, a splendid reward at the end of a long day at the office.

They could turn any place into our home.

The long road of the lone wolf would finally come to an end.

Because as long as he’s there, I’m home.

“Mind your head.” Despite the warning, Jaebeom nevertheless puts a hand on my head while he opens the cupboard above to grab two plates.

“I was just about to say dinner’s ready.” I let out a breathless laugh, hardly hiding the sobs at the thought of one day having to live without his touch. “Talk about timing.”

For a second, a curious expression treks across his face. It passes by too fast to properly describe it, but it seemed to be triggered by the meaningless remark about his return to the kitchen.

When a dangerously short and sharp breath escapes me, he swallows it with a kiss. Perhaps it’s the sorrow of knowing a storm lies on the horizon that makes me delusional, but a soft whine rises in his throat each time he kisses a stray tear away as he peppers my face in small pecks.

Satisfied he has taken the sadness more or less away, the corners of his mouth curl into a lop-sided smile as if nothing happened. Notwithstanding, it isn’t hard to figure the blissful ignorance is merely feigned. “Right. Timing.”

Our gazes lock and neither of us says a word until he perks up and motions for me to step back. “Fork and knife.”

Discombobulated by the shared confusion, I indeed set a step backwards so he can open the drawer. In the meanwhile, as Jay sets the dinnerware down, I put the final pancake on the stack and set it down in the middle of the table.

Chest puffed out, I clap my hands. “Dig in.”

Like yesterday, Jaebeom insists on doing the dishes while I settle down for the night. However, whereas I gladly did before, I now do with an uneasy mind. Arms wrapped around my knees, my thoughts run down a familiar dark path.

I ate too much. Maybe I should go home and do a workout. Then again, I really don’t want to even though I have to.

“Y/N?” The faint though surprising mention of my name breaks the imaginary stones weighing down my shoulders. I snap my head to the side, almost headbutting the wolf man who has appeared at my side. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lips pulled into a wistful smile, I scratch him under the chin in hopes of distracting him to the degree he won’t be able to ask further questions. “I’m tired, that's all.”

Unfortunately, Jaebeom is like a guardian who somehow notices a lot despite his absent-minded demeanour. Henceforth, the topic is all but abandoned.

Without warning, and as effortless as if he were picking up a book, he lifts me up from the couch to hold me in his arms. Instinctively, I clutch his loose black shirt to have a grip of something in case I fall. It’s an ungrounded fear since his arms are sturdy, but it’s comforting nonetheless to have something to hold on to.

My haphazard action elicits a low chuckle that makes my heart skip a beat, although it almost thumps out of my chest again as he rests his forehead against mine. “Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” I sputter, chest tight and no breath sufficient enough to lift the sensation. “Besides, I- I don’t have any fresh change of clothes or toiletries or a pyjama.”

Did he turn the central heating up?

“Doesn’t matter. Can borrow. You. No, that’s not right. You… you can. You can borrow clothes from me. Also, I think I have a spare toothbrush somewhere around here.”

“Jay,’’ As best I can, I try to keep my tone steady though the words come out too fast and uneven regardless, ‘’I think I should go home.”

If I don’t and I won’t get in some more exercise, I’ll gain weight and slowly go back to how I was.

And I’ll lose him.

Back to square one.

Loveless.

Despite the effort, I can’t prevent the crack in my voice as I weakly tug at his shirt. ‘’Let me go.’’

“No.’’ The gentle kindness has malformed into rough sternness, translated in a sound similar to a growl. ‘’You need to calm down.”

“I am calm!” I retort, more ferocious and sharper than intended though the equal harshness might help to drive the point home.

For a split second, he snarls and bares his teeth. Simultaneously, a flicker of a second personality passes across his mismatched eyes.

The calm ocean warps into a watery grave with high waves on a stormy night.

The hazelnut cracks to set that which it contains free.

His lashes abruptly flutter shut, as he lets out a pained gasp. Beneath my fingertips, his chest caves as if an imaginary fist has dealt him a blow in the guts.

And in mine as well.

Rippling flesh.

There’s… there’s no… Jay, what is happening to you?

I hold on tighter to the fabric, hyperventilating while trying to refrain from bursting out in tears.

There has to be something I can do! But what? What do I do? How can I make this stop?

How do I get you back?

Withal, shivering lips parted to beg for guidance, are interrupted by a shake of the head hanging low. Slowly, Jaebeom looks up, a light layer of sweat on his skin. Our gazes lock, but whereas the wolf man’s was filled with savage chaos, it’s now returned to the stern tranquility it held before the attack. Nonetheless, an uncomprehending whimper betrays the fact that whatever happened wasn’t experienced consciously.

The rage was beyond him.

Outside him.

Another’s.

Still breathless, he scoffs, the sound gruff and overtly disagreeing. “Let’s watch the moon and stars.”

There is no chance to ask any questions about the swift changes in demeanour since he promptly moves to the hallway and up the stairs towards his bedroom. The bedframe of the two-person bed also functions as a bookshelf which takes up the entire right wall, the shelves stacked with second-hand paperbacks in various conditions. An empty picture frame is placed on his side of the bed, a pair of glasses next to it.

Jaebeom puts me down on the navy wool blanket on the edge of the bed and leans in to steal a kiss, which is easy to do considering I’m too shaken to offer any protest. Nor do I feel the comfort of his lips. “Take your clothes off. I’ll go find you pyjamas.”

A tad reluctant, mind occupied by guilt and terror, I start to undress as he rummages through the wardrobe on the other end of the room.

Left only in my underwear, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Although he’s seen me naked once, I still wrap my arms around myself to hide my body. A shield to protect a fragile ego housed in equally as vulnerable body flesh.

Afraid of what might happen when those ripples grow out of control.

Terrified of who he will become.

Of who he is.

“Don’t.” Jaebeom turns around with a black hoodie and grey sweatpants in his hands, eyebrows drawn together. He closes the drawer, throws the clothes on the bed, kneels, and firmly yet gently grabs my wrists to break the walls I put up. And I let him. “Don’t hide from me.”

Not understanding where the shame originates from, he grows still as he scrutinizes my face for clues. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Instead of giving an answer, I change into the makeshift pyjamas. The hoodie is oversized yet comfortably baggy while the sweatpants hang disconcertingly low on my hips. Fortunately, any skin it reveals is covered up by the top.

Continuing to avoid his gaze without saying a word, I crawl under the sheets. Face turned to the window, I pull up the blanket he drapes over me and bury my nose in it.

A wild forest and cologne with a musty hint of pages.

It’s undeniably him.

I don’t know what else to do or say. So, I let the silence speak for itself.

A language he is fluent in too despite his oftentimes loud demeanour.

The mattress dips under his weight when he lies down and rearranges the sheets to cover us both. An arm wrapped around my waist and legs tangled, Jaebeom pulls me flush against him, his chest warm against my back.

A sob rises in my throat when I feel his lips place a kiss on my crown with a sigh of contentment.

I don’t deserve this.

Us.

Him.

The fear of losing him to whatever is happening inside.

Then again, Life isn’t fair. It deals everyone the same awful hand and leaves it up to the player to make the best of it.

I guess we’re both dealt a crappier hand than others. That, or we play them wrong.

Can we win at all?

“Talk to me.” As loving and happy as the casual intimacy of the embrace is, as forgetful it could make me if only I’d manage to fall asleep, Jaebeom’s oddly sweet cooing keeps me awake.

Staring at the moon.

A woman as fickle as me.

And infinitely more beautiful.

Funny how I, too, am jealous of a celestial body.

In love with the heavens.

He continues when he notices I won’t be the one to break the silence, his intonation laced by a whiny undertone like a dog wanting something yet being denied what it wants. “You know what I’m dealing with. But...” he digs his fingers deeper into my hips, the grip iron-like without being painful, “I hope this is okay to ask, but what is it with you and food?”

The encouraging squeeze in my side almost has me bursting out in tears again. There has to be a price to pay somewhere in the shadows, the overwhelming sensation of being genuinely loved and protected must turn out to be as two-sided as the silver goddess in the sky. After all, Life is bittersweet.

“It’s only fair I tell you.” Especially after how open he’s been. Besides, there’s no opportunity to avoid the topic since we’d arrive at it sooner or later. And he deserves to know. In fact, I don’t want him to forget my brokenness the moment I tell him about it.

We both want each other to remember our own missing pieces.

So I sigh, turn over and bald my hands into fists to rest against the warm skin of his bare chest. As I speak up, I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I used to be quite a fat kid, to the degree the GP advised my parents to put me on a diet. Queue high school and social pressure which led me to perhaps work out more than is healthy and left me bordering on the edge of anorexia. There are still foods I won’t eat and days I’ll worry about my calorie intake, especially on the days I don’t work out.”

I can’t help the mirthless chuckle which turns into a rueful smile. “It’s the good old cliché. Just another soul broken for the shallow enjoyment and acceptance of others.”

Lips pulled into a stern line, the wolf man remains silent. Notwithstanding, his eyes speak volumes when I dare to look up at him, the ocean and hazelwood alight with a watery sheen. Perhaps it’s the comfort of his nearness or the familiarity of those one of a kind eyes, but he inspires a confession which I never thought I’d make. “Nevertheless, I’m getting better and it’s partially thanks to you.”

Morgan spamming me with ‘Have you eaten?’ texts and Bam making sure I finish my plate whenever we go out for food either here or abroad help a lot too. Nonetheless, it’s mostly the bookish wolf who makes me want to try.

And be a little better than before.

“What do they feel like, those days?”

“The bad ones?” Jaebeom nods. “They’re ridden with guilt and self-loathing.”

He leans in, leaving only a few centimetres of distance between our faces. His breath is warm on my skin as he bumps his nose against mine. “You’re feeling that way now.”

“I am.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re still you. Beautiful as always. And I’ll love you regardless of how you look. I like your mind, which is as weird as mine. The way you hold my hand, as if you’re afraid I’ll walk away. How you unconsciously squeeze it when you need my protection more. How you feel in my arms, soft and warm as a bunny.” He hooks his finger under my chin and tilts it upward to run his tongue over my lips and nose. “Love you. A lot.”

“I love you too.” I turn my head to nuzzle his palm, my face perfectly fitting into it.

Please, no ripples. Let us have this moment. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Let me have him, just him as he is. At least tonight.

The secure affection of the touch transforms into something else when he glides the back of his hand over my cheek and folds his fingers over my throat. Testing the waters, eyes boring into mine to stop at the slightest sign of discomfort, he slowly closes off my access to air.

It’s funny how the body and mind react to certain situations. Whereas I normally would flinch and run in the direction of safety, there is no urge to run. In fact, the tingling in my chest travels down to rekindle a familiar heat between my thighs while my adrenaline-infused system aches for the wolfish lover. Henceforth, instead of jumping up from the bed, I spread my legs so Jaebeom can comfortably nestle between them.

“Let me prove it. Let me mate you.” The calloused fingertip journeying across the collarbone to the crook of the neck sends a pleasant shiver down the spine. Another electric shock follows at the coarse prickly sensation of his moustache rubbing against my skin as his soft lips kisses and nips at it. “It will only sting a bit, I promise. Please, the mark will look pretty.”

“No biting, Jay.” Reminded of our agreement this morning and the movement beneath his skin when his emotions seem to get the better of him, I pull him against my chest. Before he can protest I scratch his jaw exactly in the way he likes it, thus subduing his great ability to argue. “Not today.”

“It’s not... hm, k- keep go- What do- Bit higher. There. Like, hm, mhm, there. But... what normal-’’ Arms wrapped around my waist again and letting out a content hum, dark lashes flutter shut. For a moment, it seems he’s fallen asleep. However, his drowsy murmurs, while growing incomprehensible, still haven’t finished. “It’s not what couples do.”

“You’re learning,” I giggle, amused by the remark which sounds like a student recalling a piece of knowledge during a test and repeating it for himself.

Without understanding the knowledge completely. “What do they do?”

Staring at the ceiling, I run my fingers through his long dark manes as I try to come up with ideas about what we can do next. “Well, you’ve already given me your clothes. We could try jewelry next, maybe a promise ring. It’s an old-fashioned idea, but people who are promised to each other wear matching rings.

‘’What mean? Promised?’’

I say nothing of the faulty grammar of his question. After all, speaking becomes harder once exhaustion overtakes the body and mind. I have yet to find a sleeper being able to form comprehensible sentences. ‘’They’re sort of similar to engagement rings, but without the immediate implication of getting married soon.”

“Let’s get en- enga- enge-’’ Jaebeom lets out a groan, frustrated by his lack of speech. Nevertheless, it doesn’t perturb him enough to completely give up on the effort to properly pronounce the word he’s struggling with. “En. Gage. Ment. Engagement rings instead.”

I let out a breathless chuckle, amused both by his determination and the absurd proposal. “It’s definitely too early for that.”

“It’s not!” He barks, shooting up with a pinched expression on his face.

Scratching him like before, I manage to calm him down enough to make him lie down on my chest again. Nonetheless, his discontent shines through in the gruff scoff he lets out. “It is.”

“What if...” Prompted by the idea in his mind, Jay scrambles upright to face me once more. Lips parted, the feral sharpness in his mismatched eyes is replaced by a twinkle of barely contained excitement. However, the enthusiasm dims with a shake of the head and a low self-deprecating chuckle that ignites my curiosity. At the same time, it also tugs at the strings of my heart. “No, it’s wrong of me to ask.”

“What is?”

What were you about to say? Don’t keep it to yourself. Tell me!

“Never mind.” He lies down again, nuzzling my breasts as he snuggles up into me.

Then, he slips his hand under mine to lift and compare it to his. “Cute paw.”

Fine. Keep your secrets, you big burly bastard.

“Go to sleep.” I push him off of me, earning myself a disappointed noise which resembles a yelp. “On the other side of the bed, please and thank you.”

In the days that follow, the movement like water set astir under his skin continues to haunt my mind. In fact, it does to the extent that even the keys beneath my fingers seem to flow rather than be pushed down, causing me to flinch for the third time in a row.

For the past hour I’ve been trying to type out the notes on an interview with a chocolatier in Bruges and compose them into a coherent article. An otherwise simple task my mind won’t allow me to complete despite the attempts to remember the good moments we had recently. The video calls right before bed, the cuddle session a few days ago when we gazed at the moon, his enthusiastic texts about and photos of new recipes Jaebeom tried. None of it prevents the likely imagined terrible from destroying our happiness.

I’m going insane. He’s a normal person. Somewhat. I was jet-lagged and therefore not thinking clearly.

That’s why I thought I felt his skin move. I was delusional.

Drunk on him.

A buzz pulls me out of my reverie, the screen of my phone lighting up with a message.

Morgan: Starving! Found a new café thanks to a friend.

Y/N: Let me guess. I have no choice but to come along.

Morgan: There wasn’t a choice to begin with :)

Y/N: Of course not. What am I talking about, eh? See you in five.

Chuckling at the woman’s classic brashness, I shake my head, pack my belongings and head to the elevators.

Outside, regardless of the November chill, it’s pleasant. The sun shines brightly and the wind blows the little bundles of fallen leaves at the roots of the birch trees lining the street into motion, scattering them over the neatly swept pavement.

Winter is around the corner. God, I hate the cold. Hopefully, there won’t be snow any time soon.

I sit down on the bench under one of the birch trees, its branches already bare.

Autumn is truly ending now. Shame. I haven’t even had a pumpkin spice latte and cinnamon roll yet. Maybe I should ask Jay out and find a nice coffee shop where we can get them. After all, if he’s there, we can share the pastry. He’ll be happy and I won’t have to eat the whole thing. A win-win situation.

Enjoying watching the people pass by, each stranger essentially a book with a unique story that is yet not entirely different from someone else’s. Withal, the world feels colder without him, the missing part embodied in the unoccupied spot next to mine.

A delighted sigh on the right makes me snap my head around, alarmed at the notion someone has appeared out of the blue on the empty seat.

A woman clad in a white suit and matching fur-lined coat with pale skin and brown hair glowing copper in direct light stares contentedly up at the clouds. She’s in her very early twenties, although the freckles dusting her cheekbones and rosy cheeks might simply make her look younger than she is.

For a moment, taken aback and speechless, I cannot help but blatantly gape at the otherworldly stranger.

Wow, she’s like a goddess.

A stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach as a dark thought intrudes my mind. My throat dried up, I twist my wrists, the muscles stiff beneath my fingers.

Would Jaebeom like her? If he saw her on the street, would he... would he stop and stare? Prefer her over me or even try and give it a shot by introducing himself?

“It’s a bit chillier than I’d like, but at least it’s better than rain or snow.” The woman turns to face me, her features soft. “I hope spring will come again soon, though.”

I don’t get the chance to respond because a familiar voice calls out. Not that I would be able to form a proper reply otherwise. “You’re here already?”

“I happened to be nearby,” the stranger turns away to answer as Morgan comes to a halt in front of us, a puzzled expression on her face.

“I texted you fifteen minutes ago and you said you had to clean up. I thought you’d join us later.”

“The birth and after birth went faster than I thought so here I am.”

“I’m sorry, but what is going on?” More than a little lost, I look from one to the other in hopes of being given an explanation. “I didn’t know we’d head out with the three of us.”

“Right, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Brigid.” The dark-haired woman holds out her pale hand in greeting. “I work at the hospital as an obstetrician.”

“I’m Y/N,’’ I reply, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Lass,” wonder turned to a darker version of itself yet not saying anything, Morgan shifts her attention to me, “you look famished. Come on, let’s go.”

Offering a few muttered words of agreement, I get up and sheepishly tag along with the other women. As we walk out the street and round a corner, following the signs leading to the artist district nearby the university, I’m occasionally tempted to join the conversation. However, as soon as a short silence falls, I don’t chip in, unsure how to contribute to the small talk they seem to deliberately keep up in order to avoid a topic neither is keen to discuss. Thus I walk in urban loneliness, my train of thought displaced on my face as I let the ghosts of Jaebeom’s skin freely haunt my mind.

Right before the descent into the darkness of the rabbit hole, strong long fingers wrap around my wrist and hold it in an iron grip. The slightly painful squeeze interrupts my reverie.

Jaebeom?

I snap my head to the side to find Morgan standing there, leaning in a bit and her voice low. “We’re here.”

I don’t know how I’ve managed to ignore the bustle of students looking for a free spot on one of the terraces and loud conversations accompanied by the rustle of the paper bags hailing from the shops owned by self-employed artists. It’s also miraculous that I haven’t bumped into anyone by accident.

“Oh,” is all I say, looking at the café we’ve stopped in front of.

Wolf’s is spelled out in a modern font on the sign outside and above the door. A big window provides visitors with a view of the plaza. The interior is simple yet cosy, the white furniture warmed up by oak accents and the bare walls decorated with various art pieces, centered around wolves and various flowers. By the looks of it, they were all made by a single artist who likes to experiment with style every now and then. A few plants are dotted around the place as well to add a hint of free nature to the underlying strangely forest-like aesthetic.

A tall broad-shouldered man with short curly chocolate brown hair partially covering up the scar running over his left eye, strong dark eyebrows and a big koala-like nose stands behind the counter. Both of his arms and hands are decorated with various intricately designed tattoos. Whereas Jay is muscled yet lean, the tanned barista looks like a man who knows how to fight yet is a warrior in a society without combat.

As soon as we walk in, his lifts his head and turns to us. Playful lights illuminate the milky white of his left and raven dark of his right eye. A meadow of snow, its glimmer reflecting off of the smooth feathers of a wise bird. “Hi, welcome. Brigid, long time no see.”

Nobody seems to notice it, but his female colleague, a short woman with long flowy caramel brown hair tied into a ponytail who has her back turned to us and is busy extracting a shot, cringes at the merry mention of the woman’s name. Slowly, she steals a glance at us, hazel eyes sharpening when they fall on the woman in white. Nevertheless, she remains silent and quickly returns her attention to preparing someone’s coffee.

Looks like I’m not the only one envying her.

It is wrong to hate a woman for her beauty. Nonetheless, although it’s shameful, part of me refuses to associate with Morgan’s acquaintance out of a toxic mixture of spite and jealousy.

Such is the female nightmare.

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Brigid muses, nodding appreciatively while inspecting the coffee shop. “You’ve got a nice thing going on here, Rome.”

“Please don’t call me that anymore. It’s Christian now. Chris or Ian for short.’’ Muscled arms crossed, he grimaces and shakes his head while looking down. Notwithstanding, the stern attitude melts into casual friendliness as a bright smile forms on his lips. ‘’But I do, don’t I? However, it’s not just me running the place. I’ve had some help.”

He turns around and motions for his colleague to come over. For a second she doesn’t move, darting glances to each of us like an alarmed cat checking for danger. Notwithstanding, though clearly tense, she warily approaches and halts at the man’s side.

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head when Christian places a hand on her shoulder. “In fact, Gráinne here still helps me out every day. She’s basically the second owner.”

“I- I’m not,” she sputters in a soft Ulster accent, fumbling with her fingers and her cheeks flushed, “I just work here some days.”

“You’re a bit more than a colleague,” her co-worker remarks, shoulders lowered and his tone holding more affection than would be the case when talking to a friend. A warm glow seems to form around him, ignited by the fondness he harbours for her.

Funny, Jaebeom wears that same expression when he’s with me.

“I’m not.” Gráinne stiffens, each word dripping with venom as she steps away, grabs a serving tray and puts the order she was preparing before being called over on it. “Get back to work.”

Lips parted, Ian watches her as she moves past us as fast and agile like a hunting cat without any further acknowledgement of our presence. I hadn’t noticed before, but beneath her apron, she is dressed in clothes reminiscent of the Victorian era. “I know she can be harsh and isn’t easy to get along with, but I’ve never seen her act like this.”

“Och, let it pass. She has every right to be pissed with you since you put her on the spot like that,” Morgan jokes though nobody goes along with it.

She likes him yet doesn’t see it’s mutual. Should I say something? Then again, this is their business, not mine. Furthermore, why would they believe me, a stranger?

So I remain silent.

And leave this to blossom however it is meant to in Fate’s hands.

The icy glare Gráinne gives Brigid behind her back sends a chill down my spine. Evidently, she is a woman not cross paths with once angered. Withal, as the fair beauty looks over her shoulder, the other woman restores her professional composure.

“You okay?” Christian asks as he watches her retreat into the kitchen, done serving for now.

“I’m fine,” she says thickly, the next breath hitching in her throat. Her focus shifts to the moon-shaped amethyst pendant around his neck. The ghost of a rueful smile forms on her lips, but it fades as fast as it appeared. “It’s not like I’m having a vision or something. Help them.”

She waves her hand dismissively when he doesn’t move, lips parted to say something yet at a loss for words. Notwithstanding, although I can’t see his expression clearly, it’s evident her feigned nonchalance is hurting him. “Go on.”

He clears his throat and forces himself into a rigid posture, frowning as he shifts his attention back to us. Finger hovering over the tablet functioning as a till, he stares at the display with an empty and distant gaze, which is as dull as the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “What can I get you?”

We place our order and settle down at the table by the window, neither of us offering a word of solace or dedicated to his colleague’s behaviour.

After a while, Christian comes up to us to serve the food and beverages. As he puts the plates with our sandwiches down, he and Brigid exchange looks like siblings telepathically conversing. Whatever it is they mentally discussed, it only leaves the barista a slight bit less worried though the grave expression plaguing him remains as he returns to the counter.

An expression which must be similar to mine since it prompts Morgan to speak up regardless of having her teeth sunk into sourdough bread, looking equally as somber. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and stir my cappuccino with the vintage silver spoon next to the porcelain cup, smiling at my own silly assumptions of what happened now four days ago. “Everything’s fine.”

“Except it’s not.” The raven-haired woman cocks an eyebrow, far from willing to dismiss my worries. “Now tell me. Or, well, us.”

“It’s something to do with your lover, isn’t it?” Brigid remarks, head tilted to the side as she assesses me while sipping at her Irish Breakfast Tea. Her features soften when she notices she has hit a sensitive snare, evidently meaning no harm.

I pull back in my seat as I take a sip of my coffee, flustered and cursing myself for being an open book. There is no way out of this conversation since the current company is like-minded in their refusal to simply let the topic pass before it has been discussed.

I swallow, put the cup on the dish again and clear my throat. Fumbling with the spoon and eyes cast on the cappuccino’s silky milk foam, I tell them of what I think happened. The story sounds strange to my own ears, like a terrible fairy tale told by a chaotic storyteller who can’t tell it in a manner that makes sense regardless of how he manipulates the plot.

Afraid of their reaction, unable to fathom the slightest bit of sympathy and empathy, I look from one to the other. Fortunately, my silence can be excused by drinking the remainder of the coffee although it’s futile since the thirst has nothing to do with bodily needs.

“Sounds familiar.” The woman in white scrunches her nose in disgust as she glares at Morgan.

“He was different,” Morgan sneers through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.

“In essence, he was similar to her lover.’’ Brigid points at me though she remains focused on my best friend, her voice dripping with venom. ‘’Or should I say, is similar?”

“Since when does it matter what he is?” Thin lips painted plum purple curl into a mirthless smile, onyx locks shaking in discontent. “How hypocritical you’ve become. Forgetful of the past.”

“A past worth forgetting. It’s never too late to change your political opinions, Morgan.”

Great, now I’m the one to open Pandora’s box. I should have kept my mouth shut, changed the topic.

Desperate for help yet knowing he cannot do anything, I look for Christian among the other customers. Expression stern and standing as rigid as a statue, he watches our table from behind the counter. It appears he, too, feels the sense of danger increasing as the conversation carries on. Notwithstanding, as becomes clear from the apologetic shake of the head when our eyes meet, he also knows his hands are tied at the moment.

We are on the same boat, waiting to see how the situation will develop.

Playthings of Chance and Fate.

“We’re not here to talk politics,’’ the woman in question answers, covering her mouth with her hands while chewing on a bite of goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, ‘’but to have lunch like civilized and amiable women. To help our friend.”

“You’re right,” Brigid concludes. Nonchalantly, she pierces a piece of egg in her salmon salad and puts its on the bread provided with it, a bread called St Michael’s Bannock according to the menu. Then, she points her fork at me. “But the best thing you can do is leave him while you still can.”

“L- Leave?” Utterly confused, I look at the woman calmly eating her lunch. “Why would I do that?”

Who is she? What’s more, who is she to tell me to leave Jaebeom after what I told her? He needs help and support, regardless of what may or may not be there beneath his skin.

Unless she is on to something I am not and judging by the current circumstances, I won’t get an answer even if I dare to ask. Henceforth, if only not to snap, I clear my throat and swallow the vile words dancing on the tip of my tongue.

“Morgan can tell you why. All I can say is that it’s better to avoid men like your lover in the first place.” She coughs and takes a sip of tea to wash down the salad leaf stuck in her throat while the woman with hair as black as night chuckles darkly. Luckily, it is only loud enough for me to hear and Brigid is too busy preventing herself from choking.

“Sétan-, I- I mean Seán was the one to leave me, not the other way around. And we mutually agreed to part ways in favour of our own well-being.”

“Sure you did. Totally didn’t resort to throwing plates and other pieces of furniture because he rejected you.”

Morgan growls something under her breath, glaring at the woman seated next to me. However, Brigid doesn’t seem to notice the reaction she has provoked or is indifferent to it. “Or washed clothes at the ford where he so ‘happened’ to pass by. Funny how he died soon after.”

Ford? There are quite a few in Ireland, so where and most importantly, when was this? Then again, what are these two on about? Washing clothes in a ford, people dying, politics, lovers to leave. They’re like arguing voices from ancient times.

Moreover, there is the question of Seán’s life. Is he alive or dead? One moment she speaks of him as if he’s still here, but then why would Brigid remark he’s dead?

“You shut your whoremouth, traitor!” With a loud bang, Morgan slams her fists on the table. She stands up with an expression that makes me cower in fear despite not being the target of her wrath.

Behind the counter, Christian slowly comes into motion, carefully moving with the likely intent to inconspicuously circle our table and jump in if necessary. He flinches as Gráinne places a hand on his arm, holding him hard enough for her knuckles to turn white when he tries to escape from her grip in order to prevent the worst from happening. Notwithstanding, whatever the plan was, it goes to waste since he decides to listen to what his colleague tells him. Sighing deeply, he stands down although he continues to observe us.

Gráinne follows his gaze, which seems to be directed at the brown-haired woman in white, her personal target of envy. Her wolfishly fierce expression falters, growing as bleak as the ash of a great bonfire.

This time he doesn’t see how she comes apart at the seams.

Brigid calmly finishes her tea, daps her mouth on the napkin and stands up too. “Get over your crush. There’s no future for you with him. As for you, Y/N,” eyes oddly alight with motherly affection, she turns her attention to me, “and as a piece of advice from a friend, end this relationship while you still can. There’s only heartbreak ahead.”

“Thank you, but,” a wistful smile forms on my lips regardless of the urge to give into the savage nagging inside, “I can’t leave him because I made a promise to stay.”

“I see. Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong and the flowers will bloom in spring.”

And with those final cryptic words, she leaves the café after waving at the tattooed barista.

Or so Brigid intends, but her way is cut off by his colleague.

While clumsily taking off her apron she storms outside, clenching it hard and shivering as if she’s on the brink of tears.

“Gráinne? Gráinne!” Christian runs after his colleague, pale and eyes wide with worry as he comes to a halt in the doorway. “Where are you going? Gráinne!”

Brigid places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a consoling squeeze. After giving him an encouraging slap on the back she sets off, leaving the man standing there like a defeated soldier.

“Poor lass,” Morgan whispers as she watches the female barista pass the window. Something in her tone hints at a level of familiarity between the two.

“You know her?” I ask, frowning.

“I don’t think she remembers me.” She glances at Chris, who has retreated behind the counter. He has his head bowed, smooth black locks hiding his face from the customers. Trembling fingers entwined to conceal his distress as best as possible, he resembles a man of religion fervently praying for forgiveness. “And neither does he. I saw him and his close friend, Finn, once in the woods. No, it was his brother, Jor… was it? When he came to the island. Was that… who was that?’’

A mist clouds her ocean blue eyes, lost in thoughts far removed from this world and time. ‘’He was there. As for Gráinne, we met… somewhere. There was smoke, a burning body. It was- It was at… where? Fuck, I can’t recall. I think it was at his fu-’’ she abruptly cuts herself short to correct herself with a strange undertone in her voice, “not long after I... saw them.”

‘’Morgan, are you alright? You’re looking awfully pale.’’

Instead of breaking free from the spell that has taken hold of her, the reverie only seems to deepen. Rocking side to side, she clutches her arms to her chest. Her skin, although naturally pale, grows sickly like a walking corpse.

‘’I- I’m supposed to remember. I’m one of the few that do. No, he and I are the only ones left that do. I can’t forget. If I do, everyone will. I can’t… I can’t!’’

‘’Morgan!’’ I stand up from my seat to rush to her side. Rubbing her arms, I try with all my might to bring her back to reality from the depths of deliria. ‘’It’s all right, Morgan, nobody is going to forget. Please listen to me and follow my voice, use it as a guide back to me from wherever it is you are. Please, come back to me.’’

‘’May I?’’ Christian has appeared with a glass of water, which he sets on the table before crouching down at the woman’s side as well.

Gently he grabs one of her hands and holds it, talking in a voice that is surprisingly steady and soothing in spite of what happened mere moments ago. It’s rougher and more gruff, making it hard to distinguish one word from another if you are not well-acquainted with the speaker.

In fact, it belongs to a completely different person. ‘’Morgan, as long as there are people who remember, there is nothing to fear. The past has taught us that what might seem like the end isn’t necessarily truly the end. We are still here. We remember because you do and you remember because we do. You’re safe and sound. Instead, return and help me make her remember.’’

‘’Why, of everyone, did you have to fall for her?’’ Gaze blinded by her mind, Morgan reaches out to tenderly run her fingers through the barista’s hair. ‘’What makes her special?’’

‘’She understands.’’ A similar fog veils the misty white and dark eyes, Chris or, rather, the stranger pulled into the same realm of consciousness as my friend. ‘’She broke the chains that bound me and doesn’t allow me to slip into the shadows of what I once was.’’

‘’You’re all the same, aren’t you?’’

‘’It’s rare to find understanding and acceptance in a world naturally turned against you. So, please help me. Help me find her.’’ His voice breaks, the begging words coming out high-pitched like a whining wolf. ‘’Help me find my reason to stay in this world and not forget nor be forgotten.’’

The veil lifts, the spell broken with the whimpered plea.

Christian falls back, but manages to catch himself before his head hits the tiles. Refusing every helping hand from the customers hurrying over, he scrambles to his feet. Fortunately, he accepts the chair I offer him when his dangerous swaying almost causes him to hit his head against the wall.

‘’Are you okay?’’

‘’Yeah, I’m only dizzy.’’ The hiss he lets out flows over into a sound akin to a growl. ‘’And a splitting headache.’’

Morgan has a better return to reality, completely fine aside from a dazed mind. ‘’What happened?’’

‘’You tell me.’’ I search her face for clues, a sliver of the knowledge she is lying. However, I find none.

She is telling the truth.

‘’I… I don’t know. It’s the first time.’’ She clears her throat, brow furrowed. As if having heard a noise, she snaps her head to the side. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Drink your tea, eat a sandwich and go home early from work.”

She hands the glass of water to Christian. ‘’And you, you drink this and stay seated for at least five more minutes until the dizziness has faded. Are you nauseous?’’

‘’No. Although,’’ he dry heaves, ‘’never mind.’’

‘’Make it ten. You look as pale as a banshee.’’

‘’Speak for yourself.’’

‘’You’d make a pretty one, though,’’ Morgan muses when she returns her attention to me. ‘’Beauty makes suffering leading to death easier.’’

Apparently, her return to reality has left her as mad as a hatter so perhaps it wasn’t as good as I initially thought.

“Why on earth would you say that? Besides, what kind of comparison is that, us and a banshee?”

“One based on truth. Now,” she shoves the remainder of her goat cheese and pomegranate sandwich to me, “eat, rest up and get cracking again. We’ll be in touch and visit the new café I found yesterday later, alright?”

“Hey, not so fast. Where are you headed off to?’’

She can’t be serious. There is no way she is unaffected by what happened.

“Attagirl,’’ Morgan says as if I promised to heed her words, ignoring what I actually said. ‘’By the way, ignore what Brigid said and stay with your man. It’s plain to see how he makes you feel.”

“It is?”

“You’re glowing and you come alive when you speak of him. It reminds me of how I was with Seán.” She starts as if awakened from a dream, but tries to hide her awkwardness behind a sheepish smile. “Well, then, take care.”

“You too.’’ The two simple words, otherwise casual, are now carefully chosen in order to not to trigger another ‘attack’.

My gut tight and skin prickling thanks to her inhuman behaviour, I watch the raven-haired woman leave. I hold my wrist, my pulse too rapid to be healthy beneath my thumb.

Like I am at death’s door.

The next morning, there’s an article in the newspaper. A man’s been found dead at the edge of the bogs near town. The cause of his demise is unknown, but there are witness accounts who said they heard a high screech late the night before. In the days that follow, their names show up one by one in funerary advertisements.

A week later, none of the witnesses are alive. Moreover, nobody has heard the screeching since, though everyone remembers the description of the sound.

It was like the howl of a banshee.

#JB #Jaebeom #Im Jaebeom #GOT7 #GOT7 smut #Jaebeom fanfiction #GOT7 Werewolf AU #GOT7 x Reader #Jaebeom x Reader #Jaebeom smut #Werewolf!Jaebeom #Werewolf AU #Werewolf!JB #Not by the Moon

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

Note

I hope you are having a great day.

I wanted to tell you that I love the way you write and how you show the personality of your characters in so few words.

Also if you have time, for the Bad Things Happend Bingo, could I ask for a Soup for the Sick? (Maybe a villain whumpee)

Thank you for the ask! And especially thank you for that lovely message attached to it, it means a lot!

Soup for the sick... here you go, I hope you enjoy! I did, I had lots of fun writing this one.

Personalized Caretaker

@badthingshappenbingo

Warnings: drug abuse mention, feverish whumpee, talk of medications, mean caretaker, delirium, fever, pills (tylenol)

... there may be more so tell me if there is so I can list them.

Civilian wished that she didn't live in the most heavily super-powered city in the world.

Yes world.

Villains and heroes all running around like teenagers, not caring for the lives of innocent civilians... or the heroes were meant to, Civilian started to think that the whole "we will protect you" was all phony propaganda aimed to get the city to fund their organization.

But the daily bombings and increasing death toll was not the issue with the city. It wasn't even the large mass of heroes and villains. It was only one.

One.

Of all the heroic figures and devilish snakes, there was only one that ticked Civilian off.

Villain.

And not because he was the King of Monologues. No, it was because the bastard made Civilian his own personal caretaker.

Was she asked to tend to his very needs? No.

Was she hired? Paid? No, but she should be getting a salary for the tedious work of stitching wounds and feeding his greedy stomach. The bandage bills were adding up and Civilian's meager wage was completely wiped out from having to buy a pack every day.

She was an inch away from going on a rage and robbing every bank in the city.

No, she wasn't. She just happened to live on 489 Deertree Avenue, where six months ago the murderous villain decided to collapse unconscious on her doorstep to bleed out like it was no problem.

Like it was a leisure, a recreational activity. Probably to him, waking up in a warm bed, doped up on painkillers with the sickening sweet smell of caramel candles burning around him, it was.

But not to Civilian. She had to manually help the injured individual drink water, get dressed, and even use the bathroom.

UGGGHHHH!

The man had millions of henchmen, billions of wannabe minions at his beck and call.

But he just so happened to have a crush on the red door of 489 Deertree Avenue.

But it was a bad case of unrequited love of the highest order, so no hope of a romantic candlelit date at the most expensive restaurant in the most famous city in the world.

Dairy Queen.

The pure hilarity of that fact. Even the Avenger Tower did not hold nearly as many powered or high-tech individuals as the city and the most fanciest restaurant was a chain fastfood restaurant at the corner of main street.

Civilian clenched the towel she was holding. As much as the stupidity of the city got on her nerves, it was very unpatriotic of her to go on and embarrass the area even more.

Civilian was scrubbing the mirror in the bathroom. The walls of the whole room were stained in the most disgusting brown and red from all the grime and blood radiating off a singular person's- not even the owner of the house- body.

Those would never go away unless Civilian paid for someone to come and mega-wash the bathroom. Not that she had any money to invest in such a delightful gift, her bank account was too busy supporting the prescribed pain medications. Like, Civilian was probably on the watchlist for utter bankruptcy and for being a possible candidate for drug addiction.

Who needs two whole containers of opioids and a canteen of valium every three months?

Not a normal civilian washing floors at Walmart, that's for sure.

But then again, Civilian was far from normal. She worked as a personalized savior during her freetime.

Civilian clenched her teeth and took a deep breath in. Her ward hasn't made his grand appearance in over a week. She actually had time to relax, make some popcorn and actually decompress. It was like vacation, peaceful, tranquil and full of serenity, free of any-

Knock, knock, knock.

Civilian's moment of bliss was unceremoniously ended by the all too familiar beat of a fist on wood.

"You have my permission to make out with the door Villain! You don't need to ask anymore!"

Civilian hoped Villain was coherent enough to internalize that as an invitation to bleed on her couch.

Just so she could have one more moment. One more moment of her coveted break.

Cough.

Civilian's head perked up. That was new. She never, ever heard Villain cough in a sickly manner- she never let him get bad enough to get sick, or he didn't permit himself to wait around until infection and fever set in.

She set down the towel, worry settling into her bones like it always did- not that she liked the heart dropping feelings and nauseating pit in her stomach each and everytime Mr. Needy had blood on him. Or everyday that he didn't show up for a bandaid, or a "kiss-it-better".

Yes, the pure humiliation when her delirious patient painfully begged her to kiss his knee better. Like, the puny scrape on his leg was by far the least severe wound on his bloodstained body, but of course, Civilian complied and gave him a little peck on his Olaf bandaid.

Civilian ripped open the door and the scene in front of her chased away those obnoxious memories.

Villain collapsed into her arms, head lolling pathetically against her shoulder. His forehead felt like it was doused with gasoline and then lit by a torch five times over. Civilian's shocked arms involuntarily wrapped around his equally scorching body. Yes, it was not a conscious act. Not in a million years would Civilian muster up the compassion to actually comfort the villain more than the deed of "saving his life" called for.

No, no Civilian hated Villain. Completely and totally loathed each and every cell on his body.

But she dragged him into the house and shut- more like slammed- the door anyways because she couldn't let him die, it would be like murder's sidekick.

Especially since Villain trusted her. Oh how he trusted her. Trusted her to bathe him, to feed him, to give him medicine, but most importantly not to kill him. With all the horrors he committed, a swift knife to the throat would be more than justified. In fact, Civilian would likely be commemorated for such bravery.

Public approval, fame... all a deliciously yummy cake.

Not worth it. Too many calories.

Civilian sunk to the ground and put Villain's upper body in her lap. He nestled into her, pressing his cheek deep into her side with a small, contented smile on his pale face.

"Don't drool on me," Civilian snapped, jostling Villain who woke up. Before he had the chance to get his bearings, Civilian spoke up again, "Are you hurt?"

The villain stared at her for a while before breaking into desperate tears, shaking his head.

What the heck?

"Stop crying or I will punch you," Civilian threatened, but she rubbed Villain's back soothingly.

"Dying," Villain sobbed.

"You are not dying, buddy, you have a cold."

"No, I'm dying," Villain asserted. Civilian rolled her eyes. Did he have to be so dramatic?

"I don't think a cold will kill you. Stop acting like the world is ending now, or I will throw you in the trash."

Villain whimpered and pulled himself closer, still crying.

He really was sick. So sick to the point of being delirously delusional.

"You don't need to be a Disney princess," Civilian said, still rubbing the villain's back. Villain's cries turned into sobs and then into wails.

Okay this was getting out of hand. Civilian stood up and dragged Villain's body over to the couch. She marveled in her strength for a while. When Villain first made his appearance in her otherwise boring life, she was as skinny as a twig. Now? This girl was a freaking hulk, baby.

Okay stop that, Civilian chastised herself, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She laid Villain on the beige colored couch and rested his wet head against a pillow that was metaphorically marked with his name.

Now that the villain was completely stretched out, Civilian- to her relief- found that he was not bleeding, therefore, she didn't have to waste her precious supply of gauze and bandages tonight.

But he still was very, very sick. His face was a gray mask of pale complexion, his hair snarled and matted in sweat. His lips were tinged blue as unfocused eyes gazed around the room, landing on the TV.

"You want to watch something?" Civilian asked, though the question was more than unnecessary. Villain always watched a movie as he dozed off, warm and comforted by the mound of blankets strewn over him.

But still, like a habit, he nodded weakly each and every time. Civilian smiled, the tiniest of grins, and connected the tablet to the television. When the screen popped up with the classic Amazon Prime Video layout, Civilian asked what movie.

"Boss Baby," Villain mumbled, lips hardly moving.

"You want to watch a movie with baby superheroes? Why don't we watch Toy Story or something?"

Or something a bit more adult-ish.

"Mhm," Villain groaned, eyes slipping shut. "Baby superheroes."

Now it was Civilian's turn to groan, loud and exaggerated. But, still he was her unwelcome guest so she had to please his obnoxiously childish wants.

Like how old was he? Five?

Civilian put in the movie and sat down next to Villain, putting his legs on her lap. She tapped lazily at his jeans as the opening credits showed. Leaning her head back, Civilian allowed her gaze to drift away from the stupid fat-faced animated figures and to Villain.

He was nearly asleep.

Civilian shifted her weight and rested against her arm to watch him. Even sick, she had to admit, the evil and annoying villain was shockingly handsome.

What was she thinking?!

Pushing Villain's feet away, Civilian stood up and aggressively shoved her palm to his forehead. It was buzzing with heat.

"You are paying for the bill," Civilian growled and went to go get some tylenol.

Upon returning to the sickly man's sweaty side, Civilian thrusted the pills into his mouth and washed them down with water. She didn't even give him a chance to wake up fully, the motion was instinctual. He swallowed on reflex.

Next, Civilian cussed herself for this, she cupped his cheek. Villain sunk into her palm, chewing silently, and continued to sleep.

When Villain first visited, Civilian couldn't get over how touch starved the poor guy was. It was to the point of absolute fear of touch. He would shiver before violently flinching away, glaring daggers.

He still didn't allow hugs or a highfive when he was in his right mind- not that Civilian saw him fully conscious ever apart from a couple times.

"Hungry?" Civilian mumbled, more to herself than anyone.

Still, Civilian placed Villain's head back onto the pillow and went into the kitchen to make some soup.

Chicken noodle soup with rice... her specialty. Chicken breast and rich seasoning, even one's dampened taste buds could taste the utter deliciousness of the watery broth.

Then the rice. Sometimes when Villain was on the mend, she would add some wild rice or lentils to the dish. Spooning some basic white rice into the bottom of the bowl, Civilian tapped her foot aimlessly.

The kettle on the stove whistled, Civilian pushed it off the heat and added the seasoning and celery. The savory scent wafted into her nose earning itself a tiny smile from Civilian.

Once the soup was done, she presented it to the still sleeping villain. His mouth hung open, desperate for air that his clogged nostrils couldn't deliver.

Dang. Poor guy was really ill.

Civilian sat next to Villain, so close that she could feel the rise of his chest. She shoved his face upwards. Villain blinked his eyes open and settled his gaze on Civilian's annoyed, but worried, face.

"Ghm," he moaned, rumbled in the back of his throat in a fatigued manner. "Cow hopping."

"Shut up," Civilian scolded and helped Villain to a seating position. He complied, but had no strength left to actually hold the stance.

So Civilian was forced to lay him against her chest and feed him by giving him a big old bear hug. Spoon after spoon went to his mouth until Civilian was just dumping it into his mouth without any natural swallowing reflex.

She took a wet rag and cleaned his face before laying him back onto the couch. Civilian smiled and tenderly touched his eyebrow.

Why did she have to care about him so much?

#bad things happen bingo #villain whumpee #civilian caretaker #villain x civilian #civilian #writing #sick villain #sick whumpee #delirious whumpee

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rocorambles · 4 years

Text

Redemption

Pairing: Ushijima x Reader

Genre: NSFW, Fluff and Smut

Warnings: Slight Size Kink

Summary: When you find out Ushijima is a virgin, you offer to be his first and help him out. But in reality, you might be the one who needs some help.

Requested by Anon

There’s a comfortable quiet atmosphere between the two of you as Ushijima hands you a clean towel while you pant for breath. Technically speaking, there’s no reason why the two of you need to be together today on one of the few days the Schweiden Adlers had off, but you had a soft spot for the pro-athlete, so when he had asked if you wanted to go workout together at the team training gym, you agreed. You couldn’t deny you needed some exercise. Being a team manager didn’t mean you worked out much yourself, so you looked forward to sweating some extra calories. But you really should have known better than to expect just a normal workout with Ushijima sternly overseeing your routine.

“Ushijima, you do realize I’m not a pro-athlete like you, right? You can’t expect me to keep up with you.”

“Anyone can do anything if they set their minds on it and work hard enough.”

You roll your eyes before fondly looking at the tall man beside you. Was he a little dense and a little too blunt? Sure. But you saw the heart of gold and genuineness within him. You’d always wondered why the man was still single. You know he’s sometimes an idiot when it comes to social cues and can’t hold small talk to save his life, but you’d seen far worse and less deserving men end up tricking some poor damsel into their spider webs. Surely you’re not the only one who sees the diamond in the rough that Ushijima really is?

You don’t realize you’re intensely staring at him until he uncomfortably shifts. “It’s rude to stare.” You blush and quickly turn away from him, opting to chug your water as a distraction. Checking your phone, you gasp when you realize how late it is. “Shit, sorry, I really need to run…” You trail off and Ushijima narrows his eyes at you as a mischievous grin spreads across your face. He’s all too aware that the look doesn’t mean anything good for him.

“What are you doing tonight?”

There’s a long pause before he grunts out “nothing” and you suddenly seem more intimidating than any opponent he’s faced across the net when your eyes light up and your head moves until it’s only inches away from his own.

“Cool! So you’re going to a party with me then.”

He blinks once at you before completely shutting you down with a resounding no. But really, after knowing you and working in such close proximity with you almost every day, he should realize how relentless you are once your mind is made up.

“When’s the last time you talked to anyone outside of the team, coaches, trainers, and managers? And Tendou doesn’t count since he’s still technically volleyball related.”

Ok, so maybe you had a point there.

“We don’t even have practice for the next few days! So you’ll have time to rest up and recover and be totally back to 100% for the next practice.”

You smile when you see his determined look slip a bit, but your jaw drops at his next words. “I’m not going to a party where you’re just going to ditch me to have sex with someone and then either complain or brag about it to me the next day.”

You frantically cover his mouth with your hands as you nervously look around to make sure no one around had heard him. “USHIJIMA! I tell you these things because I expect you to keep quiet about them. Not just blabber it out for everyone to hear.”

He impassively stares at you and you sigh as you remove your hands from his face before determinedly looking at him again. “But actually since you’ve already brought it up, I noticed you never have any spicy stories to tell me! It’s not fair if I’m the one who’s always sharing. When’s the last time you even had sex? It has to be stressful to not let off some steam in a more enjoyable way than volleyball.” (Although you secretly wonder if Ushijima finds volleyball more pleasurable than sex. You wouldn’t doubt it.) But you squint as he suddenly seems less stoic than usual and...are his cheeks pink?

“Ushijima, are you embarrassed? I literally tell you about all my sex exploits and you’re embarrassed by me just asking you when the last time you did it was?” Your voice trails off when a suspicion begins to form and your eyes soften as you more gently nudge him. “It’s okay if it’s been a long time. I know how busy you are. It’s not a reflection of you, I promise. But isn’t that more reason to come out with me tonight?” He mumbles something and you lean in, unable to make out the words, but when he repeats them, you freeze.

A virgin? Ushijima was a virgin?

You know you should say something instead of just staring at him like an idiot, but shock numbs you and only when he makes a move to get up and leave do you hastily grab his arm. Your mouth flounders as you try to come up with a response, but when you observe how vulnerable and sensitive the topic seems to be for him, your heart goes out to your friend and you shake the lingering surprise from you.

“Hey, it’s not a big deal. I think it’s kind of sweet actually. Your first time should be special, with someone you really care about. You shouldn’t ever feel ashamed about the fact that you haven’t done it. Hell, I wish I hadn’t been so quick to lose my virginity to some asshole in college.”

You smile when you see his shoulders straighten and maybe it’s the slight upturned twitch of his lips or maybe it’s the way dark olive eyes glow when they look at you, but you don’t even register the words that come tumbling from your lips until they hang heavy in the air.

“I could be your first if you wanted.”

You are a fucking idiot. You scramble to figure out a way to take back those words, already preparing for Ushijima to angrily end any friendship the two of you had, already dreading how you’re going to manage a team when one of the starters hates you. Your mind is reeling so hard from the dark future you’ve painted for yourself in your head that you almost miss what Ushijima says.

“Okay.”

Suffice to say, all plans to go to your party fly out the window and you send an apologetic text to your friend. Ushijima and you go to your respective locker rooms to wash up and freshen up before trekking back to your apartment. The walk isn’t uncomfortable per se, but there’s an electric energy radiating between the two of you as you walk silently next to each other. And shit, you’re not the virgin, but why is your heart beating so hard and so fast that you think it might literally explode from your chest? You scowl at yourself as your hands tremble when you unlock and open your front door and when Ushijima’s back is turned to you as he removes his shoes, you mentally slap yourself to get it together.

With renewed confidence, you firmly grasp his larger wrist and tug him along to your bedroom where you gently push him onto the bed. You take a moment to revel in the power you feel from being in charge of the stronger, larger man underneath you and arousal stirs within you from Ushijima’s submission and willingness to let you have your way with him. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him and your heart warms as you lean down to softly kiss him, smiling against his lips when you feel him tentatively reciprocate. Kissing Ushijima feels like what you imagine completing a satisfying day's work on the farm feels like. You can almost taste the sturdiness, the comforting warmth of a fireplace burning as you return from the fields, and the authentic, humble roots on his lips. There’s no frills, no pretenses. It’s purely Ushijima and you love it.

You think you could spend all night just kissing him if you wanted to, but you remind yourself of tonight’s mission. You trail your fingers down his chest until you reach the hem of his shirt which you begin to roll up until it reaches the top of his torso and he helps you fully remove it. Sitting upright on his thighs, you can feel yourself salivate as you take in the broad expanse of his upper body on display for you. You’ve seen it before, but in the dim light of your bedroom and splayed across your bedsheets, it’s mesmerizing and you can’t help the way you unconsciously run your hands across every inch of taut muscle and kiss random lines across chiseled lines. You smirk when you feel Ushijima’s groin thrust up when you coyly flick a nipple with your tongue and you stare at him as you begin to suck on the hardening bud, drinking in the sight of the usually reserved man letting out breathy moans as you continue your ministrations.

You want to tease him more, coax more sounds out of him, but the feeling of something hard prodding your stomach keeps you moving on and you pointedly tug on the waistband of his pants until he gets the memo and raises his hips to allow you to remove everything until he’s completely bare before you. And any confidence you had built up shatters.

If you’re entirely honest, you’d had your fair share of wet dreams imagining what Ushijima was hiding underneath his shorts, but when faced with reality that’s somehow even larger than anything you had even dreamt of, you bite your bottom nervously as your pussy clenches at the thought of trying to fit him inside of you. You’re not sure if it’s lust or nerves that has your stomach twisting as you wrap a hand around his impressive girth. Probably both, you think, as your throat goes dry and your thighs squeeze together when you see how your entire fist barely covers less than half of him.

Your attention is brought back to the man underneath you when you hear a low groan as you stroke your fist up and down his shaft, giving some extra attention to the leaking slit at the tip. Your other hand reaches underneath your panties and circles your clit. You’ll need to be absolutely drenched before you can even think of trying to take him. But it’s not hard for your cunt to become a sopping mess when you stare in awe at the way Ushijima writhes underneath you, releasing low breathy pants and grunts that you can feel rumbling throughout his body. Already feeling a wet spot seeping through your clothes, you affectionately kiss him once more before briefly getting up to quickly strip down. His eyes hungrily devour the sight of your naked figure as you crawl back above him and adjust your position until you feel his tip nudging at your entrance.

You close your eyes and moan as you slowly lower yourself onto him, but even as wet as you are, you can barely take half of him inside you as he stretches you far beyond any person or any toy has. Yet, despite the discomfort and borderline pain of the stretch, you feel even more of your arousal dripping down your thigh as you continuously lift and lower yourself, always pushing slightly harder, slightly further than where you’d been before. Your eyes roll back from the feeling of being so full and your nails dig into Ushijima’s shoulders as you desperately continue to work his entire length into you. But you reach your limit and you swear you can feel him inside of your womb even though there’s still about a quarter more of his cock waiting to penetrate you. You take a deep breath and exhale as you try to sink further down, but you let out a broken moan when fingers twist and tug your nipples.

Ushijima intensely observes you as he kneads your fleshy mounds, playing with your hardened nubs until he sees the tiny furrow on your forehead smooth out. He sits up and bends his neck to soothingly kiss you. A primal instinct in him had been entranced at the sight of your much smaller figure struggling to take just a part of him and he had to use every bit of will power he had to not instantly cum at the feeling of your warm and wet walls squeezing around him. But when he saw the hints of pain you tried to push past written all over your face, a desire to make you feel only pleasure had overtaken him.

He continues running his fingers across your chest as your tongues twist and turn against each other and you moan into his mouth as you reach a hand down to furiously rub against your clit until you feel another surge of arousal and more fluids run down your inner thigh. You guide his hands to your waist before continuing to rub your clit and you urge him to help you as you clash your lips against his once more. But you tear away from his mouth in a silent scream as he grabs you and forcefully pushes you down and down until your lower bodies press tightly against each other, any space between them removed. Ushijima’s eyes are glued to your face and he takes in the way your eyes widen and your jaw drops open as you claw at his arms, leaving angry red trails as your body tries to adjust to literally being stuffed full. He patiently waits until your nails stop their frantic clawing and he drops his forehead to your shoulder with a groan as you begin to rock your hips up and down.

He can feel the sloppy mess you’re making as you continue to flood the sheets underneath with your seemingly never ending arousal, but he can’t bring himself to care as your pace speeds up until you’re practically bouncing in his lap as you desperately chase your end. You scream when he tightens his grip on your waist and assists you, slamming you down and easily picking you up before slamming you down again, perfectly matching your rhythm until everything blends together and you don’t even know who’s doing what anymore. All you know is the feeling of Ushijima’s cock sliding and pressing against every inch and every crevice of your pussy, filling you so well you wonder if you’ll ever be satisfied with anything else inside of you after this.

You can’t even bring yourself to feel ashamed by the wanton wail you let out as you reach a higher peak than you’ve ever reached before and your entire body shakes with pleasure as Ushijima continues to lift and lower your body even without any support from you until he harshly pushes you down one last time and holds you still as he releases thick spurts deep inside of you, so deep that even in the haze of your orgasm you’re grateful you’re on birth control because you’re sure he’s coating your actual womb with how far inside he seems to reach. You slump into his chest and let yourself be maneuvered by him until the two of you are lying side by side, facing each other, your lower bodies still intimately connected.

The two of you lay there for a while and you instinctively nuzzle your face into his chest as his arms tenderly wrap around you, pulling you even closer to him and you both take quiet comfort in the sounds of your heavy breaths filling the air. But when your heart beats slow and your breathing evens out, you cringe in embarrassment.

“Ushijima, I’m so sorry. This was your first time. I should have been the one taking care of you, but you ended up needing to step in and take charge.” There’s a stretch of silence before you feel one of his arms move and a hand lightly nudges your head up to look at him. Your heart flutters when you see the most gentle smile you’ve ever seen on his face.

“Wakatoshi. Call me Wakatoshi.”

You see a flash of uncertainty in his usually confident eyes as he hesitantly inches his face closer to yours, but you grin as you meet him halfway and your lips slot against each other like two puzzle pieces perfectly connecting. You close your eyes and relish the peaceful moment for a bit before using the element of surprise and pushing against him until he’s on his back underneath you once more. You playfully clench your pussy walls and smirk at the way he throws his head back and hisses at the feeling. You can feel him begin to harden once more inside of you and when he looks back at you, you shoot a wink his way.

“Let me redeem myself, Wakatoshi.”

#haikyuu smut #ushijima x reader #ushijima #haikyuu fic #haikyuu #haikyuu writing #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios

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nat-20s · 3 years

Text

what’s poppin everyone please have this fun lil writing warmup/short story inspired by me thinking “Dancing in the Moonlight” was definitely 100% about werewolves

~*~

“So, this your first transformation?”

The counselor? Leader? Tour guide? Asked this with a perfectly jovial tone, as if the typical social mores surrounding, ugh, lycanthropy, didn’t apply to her. They didn’t know what exact title to call her, and her name tag just said “Luna”, which, reflecting on it, either was a joke on her part or a reflection of her parents’ sense of humor.

Picking at the scabs from last month, they cringed and replied, “No. Uh. Second.”

Luna lets out a low whistle. “Oof. That sucks. Guessing you got bitten rather than inherited the ol’ wolfman gene?”

“That’s...kind of personal?”

Unlocking the front door of the log cabin that served as King Harvest’s Headquarters, Luna shrugs and says, “Shit, sorry. Forgot the whole weird stigma around your source of the once monthly nightmare, as if it fuckin matters. Also, I know, I know, ass out of you and me. Hey, you got any dietary restrictions? Gluten, peanut allergies, the like?”

Voice flat, they tell her, “I’m vegetarian,” and waits for the obvious response.

As they wander through the cabin towards the kitchen, Luna flipping on the light switches, generic club music starts to filter in. Instead of the obvious response, Luna asks, “You like veggie burgers? Or maybe pasta? I’d offer salad, but that’s really not gonna cut it for tonight.”

“I ate before I came.”

With a snort, she tells them, “Oh yeah? Did you have about 4000 calories?”

“No? Why would I have?”

Sweeping out her arm, she gestures at the food laying out on the counter and tells them, “Then eat up! 4000 is really a minimum for the night if you don’t want to feel like someone physically beat out all of your energy in the morning. 6000 is more the target area, but we got, hmm, about 15 minutes before things get uncomfortable, and half an hour max before things get dire.”

They glance down to the food, and, admittedly, the broccoli alfredo does look pretty appealing. Still, they have to ask, “Is this a cult?”

Luna lets out a bark of a laugh that has nothing to do with her (maybe) being a werewolf. “Okay, first of all, what kind of cult is like ‘fuck yeah, we’re a cult’? Secondly, despite the first thing, I can say that we’re not a cult. I know how “King Harvest: Center for Movement Therapy” sounds, both clinical and vague enough to be suspicious as hell, but I didn’t come up with the title, blame my long deceased dad for that one. Plus, ‘King Harvest: Bitchin’ Wolf Dance House’ probably wouldn’t look good on the grant applications.”

“Grants?”

“Oh yeah. This bad boy’s been publicly funded since its opening in 1972. Hence no membership fees.”

“Is that why animal control is giving out your business card? Are they one of your sponsors?”

“Nah, that’s just Jack. Me ‘n’ him go way back, hell, to his park ranger days. I mean, yeah, I think he’ll campaign for us, but mostly I think he just hates capturing a wolf in the night only to have a naked, trembling human in the morning, and he knows that our program significantly reduces the odds of that happening, at least in this neck of the woods.”

They let out a hum, then glance back down to the food. As appealing as it down look, they’re still about..30% convinced this is an elaborate organ harvesting operation. Or sketchy sex thing.

Apparently sensing their hesitation, Luna says, “You got a favorite chip?”

“Salt and vinegar.”

Grabbing a sealed family sized bag from the overhead cabinets, Luna tosses it to them. “If you come back next full moon, either eat enough in advance or have a real meal here. That being said, excuse the turn of phrase, you should wolf that down. It’s sure as hell better than nothing.”

They catch it, and the bag opens with a puff of air that speaks to a reassuring lack of tampering. As they toss a chip into their mouth, Luna grabs a water bottle from the fridge and places it down next to them. “So? Any questions for me? We’ve still got about ten minutes before we have to go out there.”

Rolling their eyes, they tell her, “No. None at all.”

“Great! Soon as you’re done eating we’ll get you started.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Yeah, no shit, smart-ass. Seriously, what are your, we haven’t got much time.”

“I don’t know? The whole..thing? I mean, how is it supposed to..work? Like? At all?”

“You ever see Amok Time?”

“Is that relevant?”

“It’s a yes or no question babe.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then the explanation is going to be a lot more technical and take a lot longer, ultimately to likely make less sense.”

“...I’ve seen it.”

“Great! So, Pon Farr is basically this chemical blood imbalance that results in fuck or die disorder, yeah? But then Spock neither fucks nor dies, and eventually the vulcans get their shit together and find out that an intense fight can serve the same function, and the blood fever chills out. Lycanthropy operates on a similar enough basis for comparison. You’re compelled to act out on energetically heavy base instincts, returning to the ways of the wolf or whatever. Traditionally, that’s done through running and hunting, which has, historically, been a crapshoot at best. Theoretically, sex can also get the job done, but I’m sure you can imagine how that gets extremely dicey extremely quickly. Either restraints or isolation has been implemented for a while, but, c’mon, they’re bandaid solutions, and they’re far from foolproof. Luckily for us all, my grandmother decided to connect back with her ancestors, and there was a handful of stories having huge festivals to deal with ‘moon violence’. She tried it out, and, yeah, dancing works.”

“That sounds…”

They don’t know how that sounds. Made up, mostly.

“Like a bunch of hippie bullshit? Yeah, it kind of is, Grandma Josephine was a huge hippie, but it’s hippie bullshit that works. In fact, let’s go see the others, it almost always makes things clearer.”

Figuring that whatever they’re about to see can’t be worse than their transformation last month. They head through the sliding glass door out the back, the thump of the music suddenly loud enough to be felt in their chest. The sight that awaits them makes them drop their chips and let out a gasp. Barely able to speak, they exhale out, “None of them...they’re not wolves. How..how??”

Indeed, the roughly forty people jumping to the pulse of whatever they’re listening to (some to the in house DJ, some, apparently, to what’s playing over the large headphones they have adorned), resemble the image of a wolfman much more accurately. They bare claws, fangs, elongated snouts, upright ears, and serious amounts of hair, but they’re on two legs, and moving like humans. Some of them are even singing along to the lyrics, which really shouldn’t be possible.

Luna grins, making it obvious that she’s used to this level of shell shocks. “Ultimately, you do have to give into some damn rigorous instincts. But dancing is a human instinct, not a canine one, so you end up, well, humanoid. Pretty nifty, huh?”

“And they all..they all keep their minds? I didn’t...they don’t blackout?”

“Not since we banned alcohol in the 90s! Here, watch this.”

Luna nods her head at the DJ, and the DJ, obligingly, turns down the music for a moment. The members of the crowd not listening to their own music pause, then look towards the door. She cries out, “Hey gang! HOW WE ALL DOIN’ TONIGHT?”, and gets a mix between a howl and “WOO!” cried back. The DJ then turns the music back up, and the general movement of the crowd resumes.

They should be more skeptical. They want to be more skeptical, they were just minutes before, but it’s hard to disagree with something right in front of you. “This will work for me? I just..have to dance?”

“Well, it’s not guaranteed. Few things are. But we have yet to have someone turn violent on us. If you start to fell yourself slipping from consciousness, though, I do ask that you start heading further into the woods, as to not hurt other guest. If you find yourself just getting tired, there’s beds inside, and a fair amount of pillows around the edge of the quote unquote dance floor, if you end up in more of a nesting mood. Also, I recommend taking off your shoes before you start.”

“What? Why?”

Luna gives a pointed glance at the dancers’ feet, which, ah. They’re about twice as large as normal and at least twice as sharp. The converse on their feet would be no match. “Ah.”

“Ready?”

They shove off their shoes and place the remainder of their chips aside. “As I’ll ever be.”

Good thing, too, as they’re starting to feel an uncomfortable pressure in their chest that was the prelude to disaster last month.

Luna strides to the center of the dance floor, which is really a plush lawn surrounded by forest. The crowd naturally moves around her, and she yells out, “Aiyana! Play my song!”

Aiyana gives a nod, and the opening notes of “Dancing in the Moonlight” start to sound out. “Seriously?”

Luna shrugs, grinning like a fool, and says, “It’s a classic!”

“It’s cliché at best.”

Luna shrugs, and then begins dancing. She’s hardly elegant, but she is dazzlingly joyful in her uncoordinated movements. As the song reaches the first chorus, she gives a twirl, and in the split second it takes, she’s transformed. They blink in shock, not knowing you could transform that seamlessly, that quickly, that painlessly. Luna in half wolf form is just as expressive as the human Luna, and she gives a nod over her shoulder as if to say Come on.

Feeling somewhat foolish, they start to bop their head to the tune. Luna lets out a huff and grabs their hands, spinning them around and forcing them to get moving. At first, it’s them indulging Luna, but as they let themselves get lost in rhythm, they feel a stretching sensation in their face and limbs. It’s not unpleasant, more like when you wake up and work out the tension in your spine. They open their eyes and look down at their hands, now covered in fur in and made for slashing. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt, and they’re still themselves, and they had no idea that full moons could be like this, maybe for the rest of their lives.

They turn their head to the night sky, and their body can’t help but continue to dance. Despite all their fear, all their dread, “movement therapy” worked, and they can admit, at least to themselves, that they feel warm and bright.

#my writing #nats journey into writing short stories based on 70s songs continues lmao

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thepartyresponsible · 3 years

Note

For the wip ask (they all sound very interesting ngl it was hard to pick just one!) LostSteve

lost steve! yeah, so. what if shield defrosted captain america, and he broke out and just...kept running? what if they lost him? what if he ended up hiding out in tony’s tower, away from the fight for long enough to get his feet underneath him?

this fic is mostly about steve and tony finding each other first, so they can form the heart of the avengers, instead of the fault line that splits the team in half. here’s the first part of it.

—

There’s an alert from Nick Fury that Tony chooses to ignore, for the sake of his convenience and Fury’s ongoing character growth. JARVIS announces its arrival and then diligently reminds Tony about the message twice before Tony tells him to mute it until morning.

“If it’s really that important,” he says, “they’ll just send someone to break in anyway.”

Which is why, on some level, he’s not at all surprised to find a man sitting on a couch in his penthouse twenty-seven hours later. He will admit to being caught somewhat off-guard by the specifics of the situation, though, because Steve Rogers has been dead for longer than Tony’s been alive.

“Zombie?” Tony asks. “Hallucination? Oh, clone? Are you a clone?”

Steve Rogers looks at him the way people look at wax sculptures. Like he’s interested in the details of the creation in front of him, but doesn’t believe for a second that what he’s looking at is real. “Mr. Stark,” he says, politely. His voice is deeper than Tony would’ve guessed.

“Robot,” Tony theorizes. “Sexbot? Updated Trojan Horse? If I let you inside me, are you gonna--”

The man’s brow furrows, and his mouth twists down, and his eyes are too sad for circuitry. No one would code that kind of grief.

Tony pauses for a moment, rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and then back onto his heels. He studies this intruder carefully. Someone sent him a Steve Rogers lookalike in a white t-shirt and stained khakis. He’s hale and healthy, built like a god, but his feet are bare and dirty.

Bloody, too. There are bloody footprints on the carpet.

“Wait,” Tony says. “Wait. Who the hell are you?”

There’s a long beat of silence. The man on his couch just stares at him, eyes tracing over Tony’s face, his shoulders, looking at him like he’s starving for something. He’s quiet and small, somehow, in a way that doesn’t relate at all to the amount of space his body takes up.

And then he stands, light and graceful on his bloody feet. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders pull up, and he’s an American Hero, suddenly and decisively, like he’s made some kind of choice about it.

“Mr. Stark,” he says, again, “I’m Captain America.”

And he is, Tony thinks. The same way that he’s Iron Man. Because once you put on that kind of armor, whatever else you used to be is irrelevant.

—

He’s Captain America, and he’s back from the dead. SHIELD had him and lost him, and Nick Fury wants Tony to go looking for him. That’s the message he left with JARVIS over a day ago. And Tony can’t imagine he was the first name on their list, which means Steve Rogers has been alone in the wrong century for an unknown but considerable amount of time.

“Hey,” he says, calling out from where he’s slouched against the kitchen island, watching Captain America dutifully eat through every scrap of leftovers Tony had in the fridge. “How long have you been here?”

“I was born here,” he says, through a mouthful of fried rice that he hides behind a napkin. He chews, swallows, and jabs his fork over Tony’s shoulder. “In Brooklyn.”

Tony knew that. Of course he knew that. He memorized everything about Steve Rogers back when he thought he could become enough like him to make Howard consider him worthwhile. “No, I mean,” he says, waving his hands, “in this century. How long have you been--- Jesus. I dunno. Awake? Aware? Unfrosted flakes?”

Steve blinks at him. He stares for a second and then ducks his head, stirs his fork through the open takeout box in front of him. “Spent a couple days,” he says. “Looking around.”

Looking around. Steve Rogers, unwitting time-traveler, barefoot in New York. What had he been looking for? Why did he come here?

“Why didn’t you get any shoes?” Tony asks, instead of any of the more complicated questions.

Steve tucks his feet under his chair. He washed them half an hour or so back, walking uneasily into the bathroom Tony showed him and then locking the door behind him, like he thought Tony was some kind of pervert who would bodyslam through the door to catch a glimpse of him sudsing up his bare ankles.

“Didn’t have any money,” he says, surprisingly mulish about it.

“You couldn’t smash and grab a pair of Sketchers?” Tony shakes his head. “If you get lockjaw, you’re gonna have to tell Fury you caught it from somewhere else. Fuck’s sake, when was your last tetanus booster? 1943?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t seem concerned. He’s busy eating his way through enough calories to keep your average winter-starved grizzly happy.

It’s hungry work, coming back from the dead. Tony remembers the unholy things he would’ve done for a cheeseburger.

“Didn’t have any money,” he repeats, scraping his fork around the sides of the takeout box, diligent and serious, like it’s the very last scrap of food he’ll ever get.

Tony clears his throat, hip-checks the counter to heave himself to standing. “I’ll get you some cash.”

—

There’s a weird moment, when Tony gives him the money. It’s just a few hundred dollars. He’s not Tony’s problem, not his project raised from the dead, but he still doesn’t want to give Steve Rogers the means to get himself truly lost in a world he doesn’t know.

Five hundred dollars will get him some food and somewhere to sleep for a few days, but it won’t get him far enough out of SHIELD’s orbit to get himself in trouble.

He looks up when Tony gets close. There’s a well-worn wariness in his eyes. He watches him the way a dog from a bad home might watch him through the bars of the shelter’s kennel. Resigned instead of hopeful, like he knows how this goes, like he knows he can survive it.

“Here,” Tony says. He leaves the money two chairs away from him, within easy grabbing distance. “And I have shoes your size, if you want to borrow them.”

“I don’t need that,” Rogers says, pointing at the money.

Tony lets his mouth tip up sideways, smirks like this is the part of the whole situation he finds truly unbelievable. “You’re going to come into my house,” he says, “uninvited, unannounced, and then you’re going to refuse to accept my hospitality? Rogers, what would your mother think?”

There’s a stall point in Roger’s stare, like watching a bird fly into a window. There’s a moment, right around the word mother, when those blue eyes blank out, and Tony’s just staring into empty space.

“She didn’t,” he says, and it’s fascinating. He’s stitching himself up right here at Tony’s dining table. Tony can practically see it happening, vertebrae stacking up, pulling him taunt like a needle tugging on a thread. “She never liked charity.”

Tony is familiar with pride. He has something of an overabundance himself, although he comes by it honestly. He knows hurt pride hates an audience, so he looks away.

“I imagine she hated the idea of you starving, too,” Tony says. “Probably worked very hard to make sure that didn’t happen. Going to waste all her work now, Rogers? Seems ungrateful.”

He’s half-taunting by the end of it. He’s not sure why. He finds weak points like a magnet finds iron. Sometimes he doesn’t even know what he’s pulling on until after he’s accidentally ripped out someone’s heart. It’s not one of the traits he’s proud of, but, like his pride, he knows where it came from.

Rogers glares at him, but he hooks the next takeout container over anyway.

“I’ll get those shoes,” Tony says. JARVIS has already measured; Rhodey left some boots that should fit.

Steve doesn’t say anything, but, when Tony comes back, the money is gone, and so is he.

—

Tony doesn’t tell Fury a damn thing. If Fury lost a national icon, that’s his problem. And anyway, Tony’s still not completely convinced that the blonde who materialized in his penthouse was actually Steve Rogers and not some kind of really confused, really well-built homeless man. Or a stripper.

Tony’s never actually met a stripper who showed up in khakis, refused to disrobe, and then ate ten pounds of takeout before silently disappearing, but he’d be willing to pay another five hundred dollars for a repeat performance.

He figures out how the maybe-Steve got into his penthouse. He upgrades the security, but he tells JARVIS to let him in if he ever comes back. He’s not sure what he’s hoping for, but he’s too curious to lock him out.

—

There’s a bit of nothing that kicks off in New York, some Hammer tech that goes haywire. Tony puts it down like the cheap knockoff that it is, but he gets stuck in debrief with Phil Coulson afterwards, because he’s not quite quick enough to abandon the scene after the fight’s over. In his defense, he was holding a car above a partially-trapped bicyclist, and Coulson caught him before the EMTs could finish disentangling her.

He makes it back to the Tower after an hour of mostly-wasted time. Steve Rogers is sitting at his dining table. Tony bites back the ludicrous urge to “honey, I’m home!” him.

“Hey,” he says instead, as he steps in from the balcony, stripped down to the skintight suit he wears under the armor. He didn’t expect company. “You get something to eat?”

Steve seems somehow offended by the question. “I didn’t break in here and steal anything,” he says.

“Okay,” Tony says, moving past him. “Well, that’s a gold star and an empty stomach for you, Rogers. We’re all very proud.”

“It’s not my food,” Steve tells him. If he had hackles, they’d be raised. Tony wants to pat him on the head, but only because he’s always had a sort of neurotic tendency to see how hard people bite before he decides whether to trust them.

“Yeah, and a twenty-dollar grocery bill is really gonna break me,” Tony says. He takes a smoothie out of the freezer. “You want pizza? I’m gonna order pizza.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment before he shrugs. “I could eat,” he says.

“Great,” Tony says. He has JARVIS order three pizzas, because he wants at least half of one for himself, and Steve Rogers is a human garbage disposal.

Steve takes a shower while they’re waiting. He asks first, which Tony supposes is the polite thing to do, and he takes his backpack with him, like he’s worried Tony’s going to steal his wallet.

“You know,” Tony says, when Steve remerges, wearing another knockout set of some grandpa’s Goodwill khakis and button-down shirt, “you keep showing up like this, and it’s gonna get harder for me to lie to Fury about having no idea where you are.”

Steve flips open a pizza box and carefully selects a slice. His hair is wet and neatly combed back from his face. He’s handsome from a distance but damn near devastating at close range. Tony takes another bite of pizza, hopes it’ll help swallow back the urge to sink a few grand into war bonds.

“Fury’s the guy with the eyepatch?” Steve doesn’t settle into a seat. He takes his pizza and wanders over to the window, stares out at the skyline.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Tony says.

Steve makes a face. Tony can see it, dulled and faded, in the reflection on the glass. “He’s persistent,” he says, slowly. Not like it’s a compliment.

“Yeah,” Tony says, again, “that’s him.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else. Tony finishes his slice of pizza, eats another one. There’s an ache in his right shoulder from being wrenched around by Hammer’s ridiculous creation, and he should be icing it, but he doesn’t want to. Not with Steve Rogers here.

He’s never liked looking human in front of an audience. His problem has always been that he couldn’t figure out how to stop. At least, not until he built his armor.

Steve comes back when he’s out of pizza. He’s catlike in his wariness, in the way he seems pissed at Tony for daring to exist in his proximity.

“That fight,” he says, apropos of approximately nothing at all. “Earlier.”

“Oh,” Tony says, rising out of his chair and moving toward the bar, giving Steve the room to loom over the pizza like he’s defending his kill. “You see that on the news?”

“Saw it on the street,” Steve says. “Heard the screams.”

Heard the screams and came running. So he’s still in the hero business. Fury will be happy to hear it.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Steve tells him. He sounds angry about it. At Tony, not the situation. “Where’s your backup?”

“Backup,” Tony repeats. “Cap, c’mon. Read a newspaper. I work alone.”

Steve Rogers looks up from his pizza perusal just long enough to roll his eyes. It should feel like a slap across the face, and maybe it does. However it feels, Tony likes it. Wants more of it. There’s always been something grounding in being dismissed, like Tony’s never known where he stands until someone shows him how he doesn’t measure up.

“Is that supposed to be impressive?” Steve asks. “Men who work alone die alone, Stark. And they’re not very effective when they do.”

Tony knows he’s meant to be offended. He is, probably. But he couldn’t bite back his smile for anything. “I think I liked you better when you called me ‘Mr. Stark.’”

“Seems to me,” Steve says, “you want everyone to call you Iron Man these days.”

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Tony says, “surely they had that line about glass houses in the ‘40’s?”

Steve frowns at him. “I never asked anyone to call me Captain America.”

“And yet,” Tony says, tipping a bottle of whiskey his direction, “that’s how to introduced yourself to me.”

Steve gives him a look like he thinks Tony’s being deliberately obtuse. “That’s who I am,” he says.

Tony rolls his eyes and flips a tumbler right side up. “But when I start using a stage name,” he says, “suddenly I’m a narcissistic asshole who doesn’t--”

“Do you think,” Steve says, looming up suddenly, shifting gears like something mechanical, going battle-ready with more decisiveness than a faceplate clicking down, “that anybody spent years, spent—I don’t know. Millions of dollars? Do you think anybody did that for Steve Rogers?”

Tony’s caught wrong-footed. He did it again. Drilled until he found the nerve, cut until he broke the skin.

“I think you don’t get one without the other,” Tony says, trying now to soothe. But he’s not very good at it. His instincts don’t run this direction. His whole life, the only things he could ever repair were machines.

Steve shakes his head. He steps away from the pizza. He looks around, eyes zeroing in on his backpack.

“Stay here,” Tony says, sidling out from behind the bar, whiskey now in hand.

Steve straightens up like a cobra, like he’s going to spit venom in Tony’s face. Tony wants to put his mouth on him, which is probably only half because he’s always been hellbent on his own destruction. The other half is that Steve Rogers is beautiful like something made in a lab for aesthetics alone, carefully designed for universal appeal. Tony likes to tell himself he has a taste for the exclusive, but the reality has always been he wants exactly what everyone else does.

“You don’t want SHIELD to find you,” Tony says, “then stay here. Trust me, this is the last place they’d think to look.”

He’s not standing between Steve and the exit. He was careful about that. Whatever SHIELD might think about him, he doesn’t have a death wish. And also, when he’s thinking about it, he’s not usually deliberately an asshole. It’s just that, most of the time, he’s not thinking about it.

“Why should I trust you?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs. Hell, he has no idea. “Why’d you come here? The first time. When SHIELD lost you, you came here. Why?”

“I went home,” Steve says, argumentative, all squared shoulders and tight jaw. “I went to Brooklyn. But it wasn’t there anymore. None of it was—I couldn’t find…”

He trails off, shakes his head, sharp and agitated, a horse bothered by a fly. It’s hard to look in his eyes. There’s something in them that Tony doesn’t want to see. It’s like watching a statue bleed.

“I heard there was still a Stark in New York,” Steve says. “I read about you. I thought maybe you’d--”

“You thought I’d be like Howard,” Tony finishes for him. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I thought you’d be like me,” Steve says, which doesn’t make any sense at all.

“You,” Tony says. And then, a little helplessly, “What?”

Steve looks away. He shrugs, looks back. “I saw the suit,” he says. “On the news. I saw what it can do. I didn’t think--- things have advanced a lot. I didn’t understand. I thought Howard had…”

Tony squints at him. “You thought Howard did a Rebirth redux and tested it on his kid?”

“I thought a lot of things,” Steve says, snappy. “It was a very confusing couple of days.”

Tony can imagine that it was. “So you thought I was Rebirthed, and you wanted--”

“I didn’t want anything,” Steve says, and there’s that flash of exposed nerve again, that look like a sinkhole in the backs of his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

Tony takes a sip of his whiskey. It settles, warm and sweet, into his stomach.

I didn’t want anything.

I shouldn’t be alive, unless it’s for a reason.

Tony holds the tumbler out. Steve needs the warmth more than he does. “Here,” he says.

Steve takes it, seemingly on reflex. “I can’t get drunk,” he says.

“Well,” Tony says, circling back toward the bar, “not with that attitude.”

#writing #fic

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mneiai · 4 years

Note

PROMPT REQUEST! Did you know I almost forgot that you were doing this today? How tragic (for me) would that have been if I hadn't remembered? So, my first prompt. Jango/Obi-Wan: Obi-Wan is having a nice, easy mission that somehow hasn't gone wrong yet when he stumbles on a half-dead Jango. Obi-Wan being the helpful person he is gives aid. Cue reverse Florence Nightingale effect where Jango falls in love with the person who nursed him to health (and possibly isn't willing to let said person go.)

Haha as if I wouldn’t take prompts from you at other times!

*****

"K'atini," a voice comes to him as he wakes up and he relaxes almost immediately at the sound of Mando'a. Jango tried to speak and choked instead, gentle hands hurrying to help him sit up, a cup pressed against his lips. He took a few sips, knowing that there was no reason to poison him when he was already so week. Water, just water. And the soft voice, letting him know he'd be okay in fluent Mando'a. The next time he woke, the voice was back, and the hands, they were gently wiping him down and it felt so nice to just lie there and be taken care of he didn't try to make a noise.

It went on like that, Jango too tired to even open his eyes, for what seemed like days. He felt safe the whole time, as if the person taking care of him--and he was sure it was just one person--was projecting comfort. He hadn't felt like this since...not since before Jaster had died. Eventually, he could not keep putting off looking at this person, putting a face and name to them in his mind, one that might betray him. "Hello there," the voice said, and a figure moved into his line of sight. A human or near-human, masculine, wearing a casual tunic. They helped Jango sit up, drink water, as he had many times before, but this time he was offered food as well. Bland ration bars, what he would expect to find deep in the Republic, not on the Outer Rim world he last remembered being on. His caretaker chuckled. "I know, they're not great. But it was what I had on the ship that would be easy on your system." He chewed through as much as he could stomach, knowing he must need the calories, before addressing the tauntaun in the room, as much as he didn't want to. "Who are you?" "I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi," the name, thankfully or not, meant nothing to Jango. "I was on my way back to the spaceport when I came across you. I brought you back to my ship instead of dropping you at the local hospital because, well, someone running around in full beskar'gam out here probably isn't too fond of the authorities. Might I ask your name? You didn't have any identification on you." They were smart enough to answer his next questions, at least, even if they just created more. He studied Obi-Wan, the soft fall of their hair, the gentle eyes, the moderately attractive features made all the more interesting by his attitude and smooth Mando'a. Could he really trust this Obi-Wan? Could he not, when it was clear they had spent a lot of their time, and probably no few resources, on him? "What do you want me for?" Fixed up, he'd be a decent enough slave, though past his prime for playing the attractive bodyguard for some sleemo who cared more about impressions than actual safety. But most wouldn't bother. Hell, leaving him stripped down and taking his armor and weapons would be worth about as much as he'd be, anymore. "...Nothing? I know, it's odd," they gave a wry smile, a look that struck Jango for how perfect it was on his face, "but...something told me I shouldn't just leave you there. Perhaps the Manda called to me." "Jango," he said, finally. "Jango Fett." Obi-Wan blinked, frowned, and Jango could see the exact moment that the name registered. "...Truly?" He barked out a laugh, then stopped with a grimace, realizing he wasn't quite up to that, yet. "It doesn't mean anything, anymore, unless you keep up with bounty hunter news." "Only vaguely, I'm afraid." "I wasn't expecting more." He looked himself over, shifting here and there to get a feel for how he's recovering. A datapad appeared in Obi-Wan's hand, held out to him. "This is all your scans and what I did to heal you up." Jango took it with interest, finding thorough notes. "So you can continue treating yourself." Jango stared harder at the notes, the proof that the caring hands and words had existed in some way. "Kicking me out so soon?" "Oh, no! I simply assumed that's what you would want. As opposed to staying here with a stranger." "Not such a stranger, are you, Obi-Wan? Considering the state you've seen me in?" He was gifted with a laugh in return, which seemed to brighten the whole room. Altogether, he stayed for five more days. He thought he wasn't the only one finding reasons for his delay. When he left, he clad himself in beskar'gam that Obi-Wan had expertly cleaned and fixed. But back in his ship, alone, even the armor didn't bring him comfort. He missed Obi-Wan. If Jango had been a less talented bounty hunter, he may have never found Obi-Wan again. Yet, he had long ago learned to memorize all the information he could and to find people even after they'd disappeared into the depths of the galaxy. Finding out that Obi-Wan was a Jedi did not change his mind, not when they had spent weeks together with not a single sign of that wretched culture. Not when he knew that Obi-Wan had known who he was, but had never stopped helping him. He'd save him, as Obi-Wan had saved him.

#feybarn #jangobi #kenfetti #obi wan kenobi #jango fett #ask answers

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ficforce · 4 years

Text

So Cool

Akitaru Obi x Reader SFW No set timeline New relationship

Y/N stared in wonder at the scene in front of her, her cheeks were warm and not only from the heat of the flames. She hadn’t been with Company 8 for long and this was her third or fourth call out with them, she was a second-generation with supporting abilities for others - a buffer. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she watched Obi Akitaru walk out of the burning building with Arthur over one shoulder and Shinra under his other arm. He had run in when the whole building collapsed without a second of hesitation.

His clothing was smoking, and his silhouette made an imposing figure against the fiery backdrop, “He’s so cool…” It took a second for her to get herself back in focus and she ran to her Captain in order to check on the boys over. They were fine, just overheated, she looked up at him in awe, “You’re amazing, Captain!”

“You think so?” He pulled his face guard and helmet off, breathing in the fresh air with a relieved grin, “You really helped out on this one, Y/N. If you hadn’t have boosted Maki’s ability it might have gotten messy in there.” Obi pat her shoulder and headed over to Lieutenant Hinawa, the stoic man confirmed that the fire was under control, then he noticed that Obi was a little flushed and asked after him. “Huh? Yeah…Just… Y/N said I was amazing so…” He rubbed the back of his head bashfully.

Hinawa stared at him for a long second, “Do I need to remind you that she’s your subordinate, Captain?”

“I know, I know…” He glanced back at the woman who was rubbing dirt off Tamaki’s cheek, “It still makes me happy when a cute girl thinks I’m cool - let’s head back.”

Back at the Firehouse, they all headed into the locker room, placing equipment to the side to be serviced and removing their gear. “Y/N! We’re heading for the showers, hurry up.”

“Sorry, I can’t get my jacket off…” Y/N gave the zip pull a violent tug, “The zip is stuck. I’ll catch up, Tamaki,” She waved the girl off and then nearly jumped out of her skin when she turned back to find Hinawa in her space, “Lieutenant?”

He always made her jump when he appeared from nowhere like this. He was the one who scouted her, he approached her in the cafe she had gotten an emergency job in and proceeded to tell her about the awful record she had with the firefighters. Then he had recruited her. “Your zip, do you want help?” At her nod he took hold of the pull and pinched a bit of it to keep it straight, the man gave a hard pull but nothing happened. He took a closer look before stepping back a little, “We’ll pull it over your head.”

They got about halfway up when she let out an awkward sound and stopped him, “Ah, Lieutenant Hinawa, it’s caught up on my clothing inside. I should get one of the girls to help remove it - thanks though.” Y/N wasn’t sure how she would feel about Hinawa seeing her in her bra. He probably wouldn’t care and she was certain he’d probably seen worse but she minded.

“What’s going on?” Obi had taken a call when he got back and had come back to finish changing, “Why aren’t you changed?”

“Zip malfunction.” Hinawa explained, “Her shirt’s caught in it and we can’t budge it.”

The Captain came close to Y/N and took hold of the zip giving it an experimental tug, “There’s a little movement, if we pull it up a little we can probably fix it.” He wriggled the pull part and it gave a little - he gave another tug, all of a sudden it gave completely and her head jerked back as he struck her accidentally. Obi was mortified, he was completely speechless as blood began to pour from Y/N’s nose and then he was apologising profusely whilst trying to stop the bleeding.

— -

He took a final look at his new recruit’s face and sighed, “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I’ve never broken a newbie before.” Obi could see that her face was already bruising under one of her eyes but at least they had set her nose straight again. Y/N had taken it so well, barely making a fuss as he treated her, “I’ll buy you all the ramen you want.” Obi figured she wouldn’t think he was so cool now and he didn’t think he’d ever get over this humiliation.

“It was an accident, Captain,” Y/N wasn’t blaming him, after all, he was so apologetic and he had fixed her up himself, he’d been as gentle as he could as he administered the first aid. Her heart beat a little faster as she couldn’t think of a time she had been alone with him this long or so close, it was a little embarrassing for him to be paying so much attention to her. He still smelt of smoke and sweat, his shirt clung to him and made his every muscle pop, she knew he was fit but didn’t realise how sculpted he was. “I won’t say no to cake instead of ramen though…”

She liked sweet things, he smiled at her and agreed to buy her cake the next time they got a day off. “It’s a date then.”

“A date?”

“Sure,” he helped her up and pat her shoulder, “Head to the showers and get some rest - let Maki know if you feel dizzy later on.”

— -

She hadn’t thought Obi would actually take her out for cake, she thought he would just bring one back but as they walked to a nearby dessert bar, just the two of them, she felt a little nervous. He looked good in casual clothes. The man took Shinra and Arthur for Ramen all the time, this wasn’t any different. Despite telling herself that over and over, Y/N blushed as their hands brushed by chance.

“How are you finding Company 8?” He asked as he opened the door for her and they were pointed to a table to sit at.

“I love it!” She exclaimed and then she sent him a devious grin, “When My Captain isn’t punching me in the face that is.” Y/N watched Obi groan and hide his face for a moment as she giggled, “Seriously though, I’m so grateful you guys picked me up after the regular firefighters sacked me.” She honestly had been so lost after she had lost her job. Her department had been cutting corners, they weren’t maintaining equipment and she had disobeyed orders by going back into a burning factory to save civilian stragglers, she wasn’t quiet about the lack of care from her superiors and had been punished for it. “It’s great that my ability can be helpful to the team and I can walk away from a call with a sense of pride for once…” She took the menu from Obi and then her eyes widened, “Wait… that sounds bad - I mean, it’s awful that we, you know…”

Obi threw his head back and laughed at her, she was so cute as she stumbled over her words and tried to explain, “I get it, Y/N, don’t worry!” He liked being able to walk away knowing they had done all they could, put an infernal to rest, given the family some sort of closure, he tried to make the violent act as gentle as he could for the victims. Her record showed that lives mattered more than her career.

“I just feel a little bad that I can’t help you, Captain.”

The man looked up from the dessert menu and blinked, Y/N was glancing down at her own menu with a nervous little smile that he found endearing. Her abilities only worked on other ignition users and gave them extra firepower for a short time. “I train every day. Not just for me but for the people we help and for my team, knowing that my team can support each other without me is all the boost I need.”

“Captain Obi, you’re so cool.”

He was so happy that he couldn’t help grin, “Enough about that, let me apologise in the form of calories. Hinawa will get them out of you in tomorrow’s training exercise.”

— -

Y/N’s ears were assaulted by explosions, the roar of fires, yelling, boots on the ground, gunfire and through it all she still heard her Captain’s voice yelling her name - searching through her. She could smell the smoke, feel the heat of it over her battered body and when she tried to open her eyes it hurt too much.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Trying to take a breath heeded no result, instead, a gurgle and the pressure of the metal beam that has fallen on her was crushing. Y/N didn’t want to die, she was terrified that she was going to die all alone, no one knew where she had fallen after the explosion. Obi’s voice was closer this time and with a rush of adrenaline, she managed to move just a little to get enough oxygen to call back to him.

“Y/N!”

His voice again, somehow clear as a bell through the carnage around them. “Captain…”

“It’s okay, I got you, Y/N.” Obi grabbed the beam and began to lift it, it was heavier than he expected and he struggled to get enough grip, “We don’t leave anyone behind, not on my watch!” The weight of the beam began to lift from her and Y/N was able to take in more oxygen. She coughed on the smoke, gasping as it burned her lungs, there wasn’t enough relief from the beam for her to crawl out yet and she looked up at the blurry image of Obi, he was struggling to lift it - if only she could use her ability on him.

“I’m sorry, Captain…”

Y/N sounded so defeated and Obi knew what she was likely thinking, “Remember what I said, Y/N?” He gave a growl and pushed himself, his muscles protesting as he forced the beam further up and up, “I train every day for situations like this!” A crash of debris deafened her but she was pretty oblivious to anything other than the sight of Obi with the beam above his head, his eyes so determined as he helped her escape from death.

“Captain…!” Y/N threw her arms around him gratefully, “I…I…!” She didn’t know what to say, couldn’t think of a way that would tell him exactly how she felt. “I - I’ll b-buy you all the ramen you want!”

“It’s a date.”

Captain Obi was so cool.

#obi akitaru #reader #fire force #enen no shouboutai

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healthy-and-tiny · 2 years

Text

Taking my life back

Plan *from 141 to 119*

Fill out a daily journal on weight, cals in, cals out, and steps with measurements weeklyish

Go for a walk as many days as possible during the week and weekend - if there is time, go. If there isn't time, see if I can make some.

Coffee with oat milk when wanted but fall in love with black coffee again

Minimal calories before dinner, fruit is a great snack!

Aim for 1200 a day. I'm a short, small person and this is actually reasonable.

Why

The way my clothes fall effortlessly over my frame and the confidence I feel in my looks - even in simple outfits - is worth it. I get to feel like who I am meant to be.Take

When I see results I feel excited to keep going each day.

When others see results they tell me how good I look and ask what I've been doing. At 32 I'm getting more and more attractive with age and people are in disbelief.

The way my eyes look bigger, my cheek bones are natural, my jaw line is sharp and my smile is bright.

The way my neck and shoulders look elegant but strong.

My breasts are perky and natural without being overwhelming and heavy.

The way my waist is so tiny. I'm naturally built for a tiny waist, an hourglass figure which looks insanely good when I'm small. I am lucky to be able to take full advantage of this look just by being a small weight.

The way my ribs and chest bones show just enough.

The way my hip bones are close to my skin, and when I lay down they show. The way he runs his hands over them.

The way my legs are unmistakably thin even if my body isn't built for a thigh gap. The way no one would even question it.

The way my body feels like it's floating, moving with ease, and grace. The way my stride is longer and smoother. I can curl up smaller. Everything I do feels better. Looks better.

Plan *from struggling to thriving*

Take 7 days worth of feed photos on Monday

Take 5 days worth of PPVs Monday

Que feed for 7 am

Send PPV while having morning coffee

Answer DMs with morning coffee

Stream one misc. day and Friday

Why

When my bank account fills up, my stress goes down and I have more freedom in my life.

I can pay down my debt, mortgage and bills, or anything else that comes up with ease and without worry or stress. It's like nothing. It rolls off my back because there is always more than enough.

As the momentum is gained, I wake up excited for each day.

Once my debts are paid down, I can work towards the things I want like new paint, floors, and window treatments.

I will be able to focus on my future, our future. Everything will be going to me.

#mypost #plan #takingmylifeback

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piduai · 4 years

Text

Interview with Noda Satoru from the Golden Kamuy fanbook

sharing anywhere is fine, but please credit me.

Q: Tell me how you feel about passing 6 years of serialization. Noda: I was already serializing at the time of my debut, so I guess I’d be able to give a summary when I’m finished. I don’t really think about how many years it’s been, it’s merely a checkpoint.

Q: What made you decide to become a mangaka? Noda: I feel like I wrote it down as my goal in my yearbook back in middle school. I also wanted to become a movie director, but as a mangaka you can create the entire thing by yourself.

When Golden Kamuy just took off I was living in a tiny apartment and the postman, a young fellow and a reader of Young Jump, realized that I’m Noda Satoru. The magazine was sending me a lot of things, so it was rather obvious. “Are you the author of Golden Kamuy?”, he asked in a surprised tone while looking around the cramped entryway. I could feel feel his confusion regarding the fact that that vast Hokkaido world of the manga was being created in this modest apartment. Or maybe he just expected me to be making more money and afford a better place. Anyhow, I just thought again about how a manga can be created in even the smallest room in the universe.

Q: Who is your favorite character and why? Noda: As always, it’s Tanigaki. But well, I love all of them. I want to showcase only the best parts of them, and it hurts when I fail. For example I’m very happy that there’s a character who stirs the pot as well as Usami. He’d be Katsuo in the world of Sazae-san.

Q: Which characters are the easiest to draw, and which ones are the most difficult? Noda: Characters like Shiraishi, Tsukishima and Nagakura, they don’t have a lot of hair and even if they turn out a little ugly their faces are well-defined so it’s easy to draw. In general faces that are strongly distorted and resemble caricatures are easy. Meanwhile Asirpa, Kiroranke and Inkarmat have neat facial structures on top of wearing Ainu clothing, so they are a very high-calorie effort for me. Ogata and Kikuta are difficult too. Their faces are distinctive and I have to make them look cool too, which is wearing me out the most.

Q: Have you decided on all 24 convicts at the very start of the story? Noda: Wouldn’t I sound like a badass if I said that that I have? Anyway. There were the ones that were based off real-life Meiji era criminals, such as Shiraishi, Kumagishi Chouan or the lightning couple, and of course there was Hijikata.

Q: Tell me of a funny thing from the manga that you are fond of. Noda: Gansoku’s “Hah! ☆”. And also when Koito Jr. Was flapping his arms and legs around trying to keep himself in mid-air.

Q: Why did you decide on Otaru as the starting point? Noda: I am from Hokkaido, so I’m familiar with Otaru and Sapporo. Otaru is close to both the mountains and the sea. Sapporo used to be a swampland, it’s wide and flat and there is no sea. Otaru is a place where foreigners come and go, there are many criminals roaming around creating danger, and money is found. There aren’t many big cities in Hokkaido. There were Ainu living in Otaru but sources are scarce, however Nakagawa-sensei, the supervisor over the Ainu language, told me not to worry too much about the difference of location, so I figured it would be best to make it Otaru.

Q: Was there any real life experience you had while growing up in Hokkaido that you turned into a scenario? Noda: When I was about 19 someone I knew told me that there is a locust graveyard on a nearby mountain, which sounded so ridiculous I had to laugh in their face. Turns out it indeed was a heap of locusts and their eggs left after a locust plague, that place was the Teineyamaguchi locust mound (a real historical site). I realized I ended up using this in my story. I owe that person an apology.

Q: Was there any scene that was particularly difficult to draw? Could you elaborate on it? Noda: The time Sugimoto went against Nihei and Tanigaki. It gave me a very hard time. Who goes where and does what, how does Nihei carry Asirpa, stuff like this. I had no time to waste either, I just remember that sequence overall driving me insane.

There was also the sequence with Wilk, Sofia and Kiroranke being at Hasegawa’s photo studio. It’s really frustrating to draw something that you know will bore the readers, the story flow becomes less exciting too. I was praying for everyone to have a little more patience and keep reading, because the twist was so good.

Q: If you were to take part in the gold hunt, which group would you like to belong to? Noda: It seems that Hijikata’s group doesn’t have funding problems, and because Kadokura is there the atmosphere is relaxed too. I’d go there.

Q: If you were to find all that gold, how would you use it? Noda: No idea. Had a couple when I was younger, though.

Q: Were you planning to eventually transfer the action to Sakhalin from the very beginning of the series? Noda: Asirpa and Kiroranke have roots there, so I anticipated that the story will eventually move to Sakhalin. I also expected to have to travel to Amur river myself, but couldn’t go after all, only went as far as Khabarovsk.

I was thinking of making Sugimoto eat permafrost mammoth. There was talk of a research team or an ivory excavation team’s dog eating mammoth. However there was no reason to make Sugimoto and Co go as up north as needed for permafrost, so I scrapped the idea.

Q: Tell me something about the hardships you experienced while doing research is Sakhalin. Noda: It was tough, but fun. I was only able to understand the clear differences between Nivkh and Orok people by going there; I couldn't by only looking at records and materials while in Japan.

Complete unrelated, but I was surprised by how many stray dogs wander around there. One time my cameraman and I ended up being chased by one while looking for a factory and we had to run for it. The beast was big, about the size of a German Shepherd. The guide also warned us about junkies, it was really scary.

I also went to the Japanese military pillbox over 50th parallel north and prayed at a cenotaph deep in the mountains. I met a group of Japanese people in the hotel by the place where it's said you can still find remains of Japanese soldiers and their driver, a Russian, seemed to help with collection of the remains on the regular. He said that he's doing it out of reverence, even as a former enemy. As a Japanese, I felt gratitude. The 7th Division are villains in my story, but I don't have any personal bias against either side.

Q: What were the biggest differences between drawing Hokkaido and Sakhalin? Noda: Well... it's Russia. Even though Sakhalin is so close, it's already Europe. The structure of houses is strikingly different. There's also the differences between Hokkaido Ainu and Sakhalin Ainu, and differences between Orok and Nivkh people. There is no manga that will conveniently lay the differences of those down for you.

It seems that the Orok and Nivkh's relation with Japan only got more difficult by the beginning of Showa era, there is only one person in the whole of Japan who can supervise on the Orok language. The professors in cultural studies I consult for Golden Kamuy are truly top-level; not only are they tremendously knowledgeable, they also understand how important to me is to stay impartial.

The wildlife, as well. There's a biogeographical boundary between Hokkaido and Sakhalin, observing animals I would never be able to see in Hokkaido was riveting.

Q: Did Sugimoto really have a hidden plan during the whole stenka business? Noda: No idea. Even if he used it as a pretext to get everyone involved, though... cut him some slack. He's only a man. Sometimes he just wants to fight and win. Not for Ume-chan or Asirpa-san, just for the sake of proving to himself that he's strong.

Q: Your art is dynamic and detailed. I think your style changed quite a bit with time, though. How would you describe yourself as an artist? Noda: I want to preface this by saying that in no way do I think of myself as more skilled than other mangaka, but if you're drawing everyday for more than 10 hours you're going to improve a lot eventually, whether you want it or not. People who are able to keep the same style for years without change are the ones who are impressive, because it means that they achieved the peak of their potential. Ageing and health problems influence your art a lot, you know. I try to draw by observing. I use a lot of references. Drawing by memory alone is not a good thing.

Speaking of other artists, I once had one of the assistants I had working for me for years draw me a door knob from memory, and the result was a truncated cone resembling pre-packaged pudding. The actual shape of a door knob has an intricately angular circular shape. It's the result of being unobservant in everyday life. Good art requires constant observation.

Q: What was the foundation for your style? Is there an artist you were influenced or inspired by? Noda: Araki Hirohiko-sensei, for sure. During my time as an assistant, many authors told me to not even try to be original when it comes to battle abilities, it's already been done in JoJo, it has it all. He's kind of the Beatles of this industry, isn't he?

By the way, I usually have no intention of parodying JoJo in Golden Kamuy, but my friends will tell me that they identified this or that reference from time to time. I read Part 1 about 30 years ago but I was obsessed, so maybe some things were just left in my subconscious. I only did one obvious parody, during the stenka fight. Funnily enough that trope started in Fist of the North Star, though, not JoJo.

Q: What's one thing that gives you the most motivation to write? Noda: Fan letters. I know how straining it is to write long and neat sentences by hand, and am thankful for them. I'm happy that people go that far to share their thoughts about my work with me. I'm really grateful to the people who keep reading and supporting Golden Kamuy.

Q: Did you have an interest in Ainu culture before starting the series? Noda: I did not. I'll be glad if my work makes people interested in the Ainu. Prejudice is born out of ignorance, so if you want to learn about the Ainu, don't limit yourself to Hokkaido only; there are museums all around Japan, and they have knowledgeable curators. It's important to remember to take into account the time period and the occupation of the person on which the research materials are based when you're trying to learn about the subject.

Q: You showed us a lot of aspects of life during Meiji and Taisho eras. Tell us about what surprised or impressed you in the process of research. Noda: It's not that I was particularly knowledgeable, so having to check every single thing was quite exhausting. The Ainu, the military, katanas - all of these needed research on my part.

There are more regulations and rules set for things out there than one could assume, and mangaka who base their works on real life need to be especially careful about this. You have to take into account things like the size of the buttons on a military uniform, how a tea cup is held, and and how different people talk in different ways. For movies there's staff working on costumes and props, there's the cast, there are screenwriters, but in a manga you are the one responsible for every single detail. I wish I had a time machine and travel back to those eras. There are things I couldn't get right here and there that I keep having regrets about.

Q: Golden Kamuy was the main visual in the British Museum manga exhibition between May and August in 2019. I know you went there in person. How was it? Noda: The trip felt like a reward for all of my efforts. The exhibition is jam-packed by opening time, but I got special treatment and they let me inside early in the morning so I could walk around the vast British Museum in solitude. I also travelled between Jack the Ripper's crime scenes at night by taxi.

The driver in a taxi I caught by chance was wonderful, she looked up photos of the crime scenes and surroundings taken at the time of investigation on her smartphone and showed them to me one by one, saying things like "the third victim was found here!".

I've always had a soft spot for Jack the Ripper, back in middle school I even wrote a screenplay for a school festival stage and played him in it myself. It was done in very poor taste, like that one scene in the Addams Family movie where there are arms blown away and fountains of blood gushing out. The audience loved it.

Q: Please leave a message for the readers. Or maybe some advice for the troubled youth. Noda: I want people to say that everyone in Golden Kamuy had a satisfying ending, and I want that for everyone involved more than anything. As for advice for the troubled youth, there's none. Life is survival of the fittest. The weak ones get eaten.

#golden kamuy #noda satoru #translation #i feel burnt out

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