#hob thinks it's funny at first but then gets Tired

[avelera]

Where's that post about Desire trying to seduce Hob by shapeshifting to look like Dream but for ~~**some reason**~~ he's immune to their wiles and it's absolutely infuriating because it really seems like something as nauseating as True Love that Hob can just sense that it isn't Dream and therefore remains faithful to his stranger.

Because all I can imagine is Desire having an incredibly obvious tell like their eyes literally remain golden the entire time they're pretending to be Dream and Hob is like, "... This person can't be serious, right?"

But they are, they are serious, it just so happens that deep stupidity runs in the family because Desire is just as dumb about normal day to day stuff as Dream and being an inconceivably powerful anthropomorphic personification means that your underlings are reluctant to tell you when your "genius" plans are nothing of the sort because you live in the ultimate rich magical privilege bubble.

[icallhimjoey]

Define Close

♥ ♥  Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: What good are flatmates even, if they don't comfort you when you need it most? Or when you need it a normal amount? Or, you know, when you don't really need it, but just really want it?

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, hurt/comfort i guess? idk we're sad a lot and joe cheers us up a lot

Author’s note: this sort of came about after taking small little bits from several requests that i combined and then shaped into what i wanted for myself, and for a minute, i thought 'what if i don't make this one extremely self-indulgent for once' but then... why the fuck wouldn't i? so...

Wordcount: 2.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

One of those days.

You weren’t going to wait until you got home to ask Joe what pizza toppings he wanted. Not today. So you texted,

“peperoni or chicken?”

And it took just a few seconds for Joe to open Whatsapp and to reply.

“those my only two options?”

You didn’t have the mental capacity to even think of any other pizza toppings, let alone get into some banter over text with your flatmate.

“joe”

There were a million ways for Joe to have read that, to have interpreted that. Yet, he got the tone of it just right.

“don’t worry, i’ll take care of it”

No playing. Just quick solutions to problems of which Joe didn’t even really know what they were yet. Then another text from him followed, asking you the question you’d just sent him.

“peperoni or chicken?”

“chicken”

You remembered exactly when this pizza tradition started. Could pinpoint the exact date, time, and place.

“no i was wrong.” “peperoni”

The first time you and Joe shared a pizza as new flatmates, was when you’d gotten home one morning, still very obviously in the outfit you’d left in the night before. Joe had been cooking up some breakfast in the kitchen and had his jokes ready, already grinning to himself when he hadn’t even seen you yet.

“Well, well, well,” he called over his shoulder as you took a moment by the front door to just... breathe. You would’ve tried gathering yourself, but there wasn’t much to gather.

“I know you said the plan was to go out and celebrate Friday, but you didn’t mention anything about Saturday morning,” you could hear the joy in Joe’s voice, all chipper and lively. He’d very clearly had a great night’s sleep, unlike you.

Joe heard footsteps, and when they stopped in the doorway, he turned his head to look. Spatula still in hand, eggs just about ready in the pan in front of him.

“Look at what the cat’s drag–...” the comment died on his tongue. “Jesus, are you all right?”

Joe had expected a tired, sloppy girl to have walked in. One with messy hair, eye make-up all smudged and sort of drunk a little, still.

He’d been right.

That was exactly what he was looking at, which should objectively be funny. Hence the smile that still lingered on his face as his brow slowly furrowed in confusion.

“You look like the inside of a shoe,”

Joe tried his hand at humour, but it fell completely flat.

What he hadn’t anticipated, was for his flatmate to look quite so sad in reaction to his comments. So very drained of life. You’d obviously been crying and looked like you hadn’t slept in weeks.

For a moment you just stood in that doorway, looked a little dazed because, um, why were you going into your shared living space again?

You needed your bed.

Without answering Joe, and without even really acknowledging him at all, you took a shuddering breath and slowly turned back around, only to ignore Joe’s question and disappear into the hallway.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Joe quickly turned the hob off and rounded the island to go after you. He was too late though, stepping into the hallway just as your bedroom door closed behind you. The immediate guilt that followed his poking-fun carried him over to stand in front of it, just enough self-restraint left to not just open your door and walk in right after you.

You didn’t seem like you needed to be pissed off any more than you already were.

From just outside of your bedroom door, you heard a very faint knock, followed by Joe’s voice, asking if you were all right once more.

“Did– did something happen? What’s going on?”

All you managed to do was sigh, just loud enough for Joe to catch it.

“What happened?”

But you didn’t want to get into it.

“Do you– hey,” Joe called your name, waited for a second, in case you wanted to answer him, but then when you didn’t, he followed it up with, “Do you want some breakfast?”

And honestly, breakfast sounded nice. But so did burying yourself into your duvet for a few days, where no one would try to look you in the eye, and where no one would try to make you talk. Were you going to listen to your rumbling stomach that wanted some food, or to the rest of your body that just wanted to be horizontal?

“Some scrambled eggs? Piece of toast?” 

You milled it over in your mind.

“Or, I could make you something else? You want some yoghurt? With some berries in?”

Joe tried. Was actively trying. But it didn’t seem to work, just didn’t seem to do the trick. It stayed silent on your side of the door.

“Some pizza?”

And it was meant as a careful joke. A hopeful small little thing to at least lift the mood, if nothing else. If you were even still listening to him at all, that was.

He was about to tell you that he’d be in the kitchen if you needed anything, that you could just let him know. No worries if not. But then he heard rustling. Stumbling footsteps, followed by your bedroom door slowly opening.

“Hey,” Joe cocked his head to the side at the sight of you, his eyes all soft, forehead crinkled with worry. “I’m sorry.”

You looked right past him.

“What... what kind of pizza?”

You focused on the important things instead. Didn’t really care to acknowledge Joe’s apology.

“Well,” Joe tried to hide his smile as he looked down at his feet before stepping aside and holding an arm out, inviting you to walk ahead of him, making your way back into the living area. “I think there’s a few to choose from in the freezer.”

You’d shared a pizza that morning, you sat at one of the stools of the kitchen island, and Joe stood on the side. He hadn’t asked you any questions then, but instead had just tried his hand at light conversation until suddenly, halfway through a slice, you’d started sobbing.

And it wasn’t like you and Joe had never hugged before.

But you’d never been hugged by him like that before.

Where Joe instantly dropped his food and stepped closer to fold arms around you. Where Joe got an arm around your head to press your face into his chest whilst the other curled down around your shoulders that pressed your chest into his stomach. Where he decided he wasn’t going to be the one to pull back first, and so you’d just embraced like that for over half an hour.

He hadn’t asked you any questions.

Not when you cried.

Not when you’d stuttered through breaths as you tried to recollect yourself after.

Not when you eventually pulled back and reached for another bite of now-cold pizza.

Not when you then silently frowned at the hardened cheese and softly sighed to yourself.

Not when you did eventually retreat back into your room but came out just a minute later and asked if Joe had any plans that day.

Even if he did have plans, Joe knew that he’d cancel them all for you.

“Want to rot on the sofa with me? Watch films all day?”

And you hadn’t meant to fall asleep all sagged into his side then, but you had. And Joe had played with the ends of your hair until the warmth and comfort had pulled him into a nap as well.

You’d never talked about what had happened then, why you had been so sad, because you didn’t need to. It was nice that Joe hadn’t asked for you to explain why you’d cried, and instead had just comforted you until you managed to smile for him again.

Joe thought that maybe, if you wanted to tell him, one day you would. But he didn’t need to know why his flatmate was sad when she was. He was happy just being there to help and fix it.

And now, here you were. Two flatmates who shared a tradition of having pizza and watching a film when you’d had a bad day.

And today had just been... long. Hard. Frustrating. You didn’t want to get into all the things that had nearly pushed you over the edge, and you were glad that you didn’t need to.

Joe didn’t ask questions. Never did.

Just went to get you the peperoni pizza you’d asked for.

Would cuddle you on the sofa all night if that was what you wanted.

It was what he wanted, anyway.

He was well aware that none of that was normal though.

You were flatmates.

If Joe referred to you in conversation with a friend, with a family member, or even with a stranger, you were his flatmate. The girl that he shared the living area of his flat with. The pantry, the fridge and the freezer. The coat closet by the door. A letterbox downstairs by the entrance.

Flatmates.

But if someone were to ask you if you and your flatmate were friends too, you’d tell them yes of course. You shared dinner more often than not. If you had friends ‘round, Joe would hang out too. And vice versa.

Normal.

Just normal friendly flatmates that also knew each other’s parents by their first names, but you know, those things sort of just came with sharing a living space together, right?

And no one ever really thought there was more to you and Joe, anyway.

Why would they even assume?

You dated other people. Went on regular dates with different men. Other guys. Would even sometimes sit and watch a film with someone, and Joe would join you for a little while. Have casual conversation with whoever you’d invited over.

Normal.

What wasn’t so normal was that the second it would just be you and Joe, you wouldn’t hesitate to touch if you wanted to touch. Wouldn’t hesitate to find him, wherever he’d be, and sling your arms around his stomach from behind, just to hold him for a minute. Would wait to get comfortable on the sofa until Joe would join you there and you’d wait for his arm to find its way around you before you’d settle in.

You never talked about it.

It was just what it was like. You were close. The affection was just a natural thing between the two of you. It didn’t need any words. Any explaining.

But Joe knew you both understood that this could be interpreted very differently through other people’s eyes.

It’s why you kept referring to each other as flatmates, and why you weren’t like that in front of other people.

Which was fine.

You lived together.

There was plenty of time without other people there.

When you walked into your flat that evening, the promise of a shared peperoni pizza combined with the contrasting warmth that immediately made you feel uncomfortably hot in your coat, was nearly enough to bring you to tears.

“Joe?”

“Hey, bad news,”

Oh no.

Joe appeared at the other end of the hallway.

“They didn’t have any Sprite left, so I got you a Fanta.”

You let your shoulders drop and let your head fall to the side in relief. That was hardly bad news. You didn’t love Fanta, but the bad news revealed Joe had gone out to get a pizza instead of throwing a frozen one into the oven.

“Fanta’s fine.” You smiled. Joe easily copied it.

“Good, okay. Now,” Joe continued, suddenly his face all serious again as you took your coat off and toed your shoes off. “I know that last time, I got to pick a film, so technically it is your turn... but, I’ve already chosen something to watch, and I did go out to get us the largest peperoni pizza London has to offer, so...”

You stilled and gave an exaggerated sigh, all mock frustration, because you honestly didn’t give a shit. If anything, it was nice that Joe had made the choice for you, seeing as you didn’t really have the mental capacity for any decisions right now. If it had been left up to you, you’d hav been scrolling through Netflix for at least half an hour until settling just to watch some celebrity panel shows on Channel 4.

“No sprite and I don’t get to choose the film?”

“I’m sorry,” Joe was trying stupidly hard to hide a smile.

You blinked at him a second.

“You’re not sorry.”

“No I’m not. You made me go out and it’s fucking freezing outside today.”

You made your way over to your bedroom to get changed, and just before disappearing, you said, “Cool way of letting me know you’ve not left the flat all day.”

Like Joe’s hair hadn’t told you as much already.

You wished your job would let you work from home too. Although, with Joe spending weird stretches of time just sitting around and reading, you didn’t think you’d get much work done. Would probably be a bit weird if you logged onto a zoom meeting from your spot on the sofa, half of Joe in frame.

“I did leave the flat! I just said!” Joe argued, leaving you to get into a more comfortable outfit.

You grinned to yourself.

Joe was an idiot.

In an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of joggers, you joined Joe in the living room where you found a large pizza box on the coffee table, two cans of Sprite next to it.

Sprite.

“Surprise.”

Joe had lied.

Then you looked at the TV screen, paused at the title of the film Joe’d chosen and, fuck all the way off, did he want you to cry?

“I know it’s not your genre...”

It was. It absolutely was. It wasn’t Joe’s genre, though. “But I promise you’ll like it.”

You didn’t know if you wanted to hook an elbow to his jaw or squeeze your nails into his cheeks, but you needed to do something to get this surge of emotion out.

You opted for swearing at him instead of physical violence.

“I fucking hate you so much right now,”

“Yea?” Joe sat down, pressing play on the remote and reaching for the throw blanket. “Come hate me over here.”

And so you did.

Sat down next to Joe, thigh to thigh, and let him sort the blanket so it covered the both of you before leaning over to grab the pizza box.

The heat coming from the pizza quickly found your legs through the blanket and through your joggers. It was a stark comparison to how cold your fingers still felt from your trek home.

You rubbed them together as Joe opened the pizza box and, shit, that looked good.

“You cold?”

“Just my fingers,” you replied, already putting both hands to use, ripping the pieces of crust that hadn’t been cut properly and lifting a slice out of the box.

Joe did the same, and then when he saw one of your hands lower down, he was quick to grab it, encasing your cold fingers into his large palm.

The act of being upset with him for being nice faltered, and you smiled at Joe as he smugly grinned whilst he chewed.

See, had someone else been there with you, you’d have gotten comments. If not jokes, at least you knew you would’ve gotten some judging looks. Some questions later, about what was going on between the two of you?

Nothing was going on between the two of you.

Just warm cuddles and comforting touches, which was fine when it was just you and Joe.

So what if Joe held your hand whilst you ate pizza and watched a romantic comedy together?

So what if a piece of peperoni was about to slide and fall to your chest, but Joe saw and got it just in time, and you thought he was going to pop it into his own mouth, but then instead he held it up in front of you and waited till you ate it from his fingers?

So what if, after finishing the pizza, Joe planted his feet on the coffee table and pulled you into his side a little? Grabbed your arm to lay over his stomach? Ended up with both arms slung around, his own fingers locking on your back to keep you in place whilst you watched actors older than the both of you act as if they were in their early twenties still?

Life was just more comfortable when it was filled with good snuggles, you and Joe both agreed.

But you never talked about it.

You were just close.

No questions asked.

Flatmates. Friends. Just, close.

---

The Taglisted

@adoreyouusugar, @alana4610, @ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @barfightzanddiscolightz, @bettyfrommars, @cancankiki, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @dylanmunson, @eddies-puppet, @electricmunson, @emma77645, @emmamooney, @everythinghasafacee, @figmentofquinn, @frootvelvet, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @harringtonfan4, @haylaansmi, @jasminearondottir, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @kellyxo1, @kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @manda-panda-monium, @miserybeans, @munson-mjstan, @nadixq, @notverywise, @pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @roosterisdaddy36, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @thebellenouvelle, @thewondernanazombie, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

[gabessquishytum]

Hob always thought dream, his friend destruction’s older brother, was so gorgeous but he doubted dream ever noticed him. He was just destruction’s friend, and dream was so much older and more elegant. But he always had a smile and a kind word for hob, and sometimes he would talk to him about art and books and movies. Then dream goes off to college and disappears for a while.

Fast forward about ten years and destruction decides he is tired of his parents’ shit. He cuts himself off and moves in…with his big brother dream, who estranged himself years ago.

Suddenly hob finds himself going over to the brothers’ shared apartment all the time and there is dream, grown up and the loveliest man hob has ever seen. He’s so smart and even taller now, and he has such a sense of confidence and power now that he’s living on his own. And he is such a good big brother, encouraging destruction to be an art major and pursue his dreams.

Soon, dream and hob are close as well, and destruction encourages it, with a funny little smirk whenever he catches dream offering hob a ride, or whenever hob makes dinner for three.

When hob gets kicked out of his place, dream doesn’t hesitate to invite him to come live with them too.

Hob’s crush is back full force. And he feels so stupid—he’s a virgin and he knows dream dates beautiful, interesting and experienced people. He’d never go for someone like hob…

Until one day, hob forgets to lock the door when he’s showering and dream comes in and gets an eye full of hob, ass, thighs, dick and tits—everything. and his eyes go molten with want. He quickly recovers and apologizes and leaves but hob is suddenly full of hope.

Not two weeks later, destruction goes out of town for the weekend, leaving them alone. It’s so nice. Dream cooks. They watch a movie and split a bottle of wine, and Dream puts his arm around hob.

Then they’re kissing.

Dream asks him if he’s had sex before and hob admits he hasn’t. But he desperately wants to.

Dream just smiles at him, lays him down and fingers him until he’s crying into the couch cushions.

This is such a wonderful idea!!! I fully and completely adore the idea of Destruction matchmaking Hob and Dream. He thinks they'll be so cute together! They both deserve nice things, you know?

Hob is so nervous as his relationship with Dream finally begins. He's had a crush - well, maybe he's even been a little bit in love - on Dream for so long now. What if he fucks it all up now that he finally has what he wanted? What if he can't please Dream properly? He's a virgin, after all... but before he can spiral into a proper anxiety attack, Dream soothes him with sweet kisses and basically scrambles his brain. He's determined to make Hob’s first time good, and more than that he's determined to love him as he deserves to be loved.

When Destruction comes home from his little trip, he meets Hob in the kitchen. Hob is like... starry eyed. Standing by the fridge wearing what has to be one of Dream’s silky black pj shirts. There are definitely hickies all over his chest, and one of his nipples is red and has obviously been enthusiastically sucked. Hob is just like "dude. bro. i know you don't want to know. but holy shit."

And Destruction really doesn't want to know the details, but he's happy to slap Hob on the back. He's honestly thrilled to see two of his favourite people getting together. Just... don't tell him that Hob lost his virginity on the couch where they all hang out and watch movies, okay? 🤣 In his own bedroom later, Destruction also finds a gift from his big brother - a very fancy pair of noise cancelling headphones. It's a very nice "thank you for introducing me to Hob" gift. And when he's best man at their wedding in five or so years time, Destruction will fondly remember how he really fucking needed those headphones when Hob went from virgin to slut for Dream’s dick, but he couldn't even be mad about it <3

[landwriter]

Hi, hello,

I'd like to hear something about the skin wip

Hi, hello! Skin is my actual Lighthouse AU after someone sent me this super funny ask registering their displeasure with my choice of fandom for the Seventies SF AU, named Lighthouses. I'm very easily encouraged. Even when being discouraged for something I'm not actually doing. I laughed about doing one and then went and wrote in Untitled 1:

Lighthouse Keeper AU - Hob is lighthouse keeper, Dream is human or else eldritch sea creature - or SEEMS human but is a selkie/changeling who will return? Either star-crossed romance or like, gothic romance - lots of gay sex and desire and the sea, old-timey language, lanterns, etc, wailing wind, Forbidden Acts Isolation, alienation from other men, being Slightly Off, loneliness, exploring where you shouldn’t Hob fucks selkie who is also Dream?? Why would Dream be lighthouse keeper? Maybe he murders them but like, Hob found his skin or something and he has to pretend to be a human lighthouse keeper Hob finding journal entries suggesting imminent and terrifying demise of former keepers, can link them to Dream in some way

I also wrote 'all dialogue should be in iambic pentameter' but we'll pretend I didn't.

What can I say about it? I think it can be best described by the fact I scrolled through the WIP as it is now, a collection of scraps and research curios and a couple half-written scenes, and came across:

Beware the shore on haar and hoolan night, beware the sea of star-lost whalers’ plight

Which I have no, and I mean NO recollection of writing, but has no results when I google it. That's sort of the energy I want for the whole thing. Gothic horror fever dream. Claustrophobia and a locked-room mystery. Men driven to terror and mad loneliness and violence. Letters that arrive too late. Thievery and suspicion and revenge. Greed and possession. Becoming/loving the monstrous.

Some of the notes I evidently left myself that don't read as unhinged at allllll under the cut, if you want to read more about it still:

Smalls lighthouse - great oak stilts slime!!! rocks!! smoking! salt water wind, stabbing kind of rain, the way wind buffets first and moisture on it secondary, white waves, seabirds hanging in the air like mobile above a crib, carving with a knife, bleeding - nicking finger, dream looking over as he sucks it - is whittling the selkie/monster form alcohol maybe something weird where dream refuses alcohol and hob finds out something wrong with their water supply - dream is just drinking saltwater hob giving season of the mists style toast sailors have used tobacco pouches made from sealskin ‘where did you put my skin? where did you put my skin?’ bonding over lost sons hob sends pigeon or message otherwise thanking for relief, noting supply shortage, or smthn. days later gets message back being like, no relief sent. protean forms - changing easily - from god proteus - a protean selkie?? Fiddler's Green is an after-life where there is perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing, and dancers who never tire. In 19th-century English maritime folklore, it was a kind of after-life for sailors who had served at least fifty years at sea. important that lighthouse is decaying, used to be nice, now is not gothic theme of ascent/descent with ladder images of death etc claustrophobic, sunless environment, action at night or in fog - no sun imagination over reason

I've never done gothic before and I'm super excited to explore it with this story! I'm going for something like, old and musty smelling, sort of The Terror, lighthouse-edition, except with less death and more monster-fucking. A sluttier The Lighthouse (2019).

[tryan-a-bex]

Writing patterns meme

Rules: Share the opening of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

From this post by @dancinbutterfly https://www.tumblr.com/dancinbutterfly/735744268412534784?source=share

I'll mull about patterns here because I put the last two after the cut due to warnings. So, about half of them start with dialogue, which is how I started writing--a lot of dialogue, minimal else things. The other half start by getting inside someone's head--internal dialogue, basically, so not that different I guess. Also I try to start with something funny or at least interesting, to hook the reader? I don't know if it works.

Endless Family Trick or Treating

“It’s not a sphere!” argued Dream, swinging his jack-o’-lantern trick-or-treat bucket against the leg of his vampire costume. “It is a sphere!” insisted Desire, twirling the tail of their demon costume in their hand again. “I learned it in school and it’s round like a ball so it’s a sphere.”

2. Velma Meets the Family

Velma stared at the gently lapping water of the river, leaning her elbows on the railing. The rest of the gang was fast asleep in their motel, but she hadn’t been able to sleep so she’d come outside to think. The water sounds were restful, but her mind refused to stop whirling. 

3. Freddy the Robot Vacuum

It was amazing what a person could get used to. Hob had enjoyed his first robot vacuum. It was nice, and not a very difficult adjustment, to get used to the vacuuming being done automatically for him while he was out. The little phone app notifications were cute, and he was only human so he anthropomorphized his vacuum, naming it Freddy. Getting used to the anthropomorphic personification of dreams hanging around in his flat… took a bit more time.

4. Life is but a Dream

Rose put her head down on the desk. Why? Why would the words come in the middle of the night, and never when she had her laptop out and on? She’d even tried writing her thoughts down, but found that she actually couldn’t make out her sleepy handwriting in the morning. She looked at the tumblr icon on her desktop, sighed, and got up to get a cup of tea instead. That would be a shorter distraction. Probably.

5. Death is not easy to cheat

Unity poured tea in both cups and sat down across from Rose, pushing the plate of cookies toward her. “How are you doing, dear? You look tired.” “Oh, Unity! It’s been so stressful lately! I can’t seem to think of the right words when I sit down to work on my novel, but then they keep me awake in the middle of the night, you know? And during the day Lyta is either freaking out about Daniel being with Uncle Morpheus and Hob, or freaking out about him being so white and growing up so fast.

6. Trials of a Shapeshifter in Love

“Lucienne has been working so hard lately,” Gault explained to the Dream King’s head cook. “I’d like to do something nice for her. I was thinking a surprise romantic dinner over candlelight in the library.” “Ah, yes, I think she would appreciate that very much.” They put their heads together to plan the meal when suddenly Gault heard a familiar voice from the hallway.  “So, what have you already tried?” Lucienne asked. “Hell, all the normal plunging and clawing didn’t fucking fix the goddamned blockage, and it’s a fucking hassle taking the whole damned drain apart all the way back into the fucking wall.” 

7. Naga No-Go

“Lucienne.” Lucienne’s head popped up from the book she was studying. Lord Morpheus’ summons sounded just a little bit more… strained than usual. She turned her head, using her raven senses to triangulate the direction of the summons. His chambers??? This… could not be good.

8. Which Witch (Okay I'm cheating here because this isn't published yet. but if you want more, let me know and I'll post it on ao3 or send you a link.)

“You can’t just come in here without a warrant.” The cantankerous old witch put her hands on her hips and stood squarely in the doorway. Eldie sighed and rubbed the shaved hair at the nape of her neck. “Please let me come in, ma’am. Your daughter hired me to clean and cook and help you out, and I can’t help if you don’t let me in.” “I don’t need help, you shameless hussy! Who does she think she is, that gossiping busy-body! I’m fine here by myself. You can go now!”

Okay, under the cut are mentions of spiders, and non-con body horror. (The fic is not bad, the backstory from canon is, and that's where I started.)

9. Arachnophilia (mentions of spiders)

Zelda stared down at the cafeteria mac and cheese on her plate. The only thing appetizing about the middle school cafeteria food was that her mother wasn’t glaring at her and criticizing how she did or didn’t eat it. Instead, everyone ignored her, tucked into a corner. She would feel hurt about being shunned if she had any desire at all to interact with the other children. She didn’t. She closed her eyes and shoved a forkful into her mouth, thinking about her science project to distract herself from the taste. Spider webs were actually incredibly strong for the size of the filament, and they came in such an extraordinary variety of shapes and sizes. She couldn’t wait to get back to the library for more research. She opened her eyes as she swallowed, scooping up more food and quickly scanning the room. 

10. The Order of the Knights of the Dreaming (the actual fic I wrote is pretty sweet without much actual violence, but Alice's backstory from InCryptids is intense, so skip this next paragraph if you don't like mentions of non-con and body horror)

Alice closed her eyes and felt her memories and skin being ripped from her once again. It hadn’t actually been like that. In real life, she hadn’t figured out her memories were being adjusted for years, and she’d undergone the flensing willingly. But once she learned that her mind had been altered without her knowledge and that removing her skin had not been necessary but was done for the profit of her “uncle,” well, the nightmares about being violated had been unceasing. 

If you made it this far, congratulations, consider yourself no-pressure tagged!

[writemekpop]

Lipstick On Your Collar (Part 1) | Nakamoto Yuta

Pairing: Nakamoto Yuta x Reader

Summary: Till death do us part... But what happens when he cheats?  

Genre: Husband!Yuta, Angst

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Infidelity, Sexual Content, Body Image

Gif: @yuthereal​

Part 1 ⭐| Part 2  | Part 3 | Part 4

“Ten more minutes, then it’s homework time, alright?” you called to your two older sons, eight and four years old. Caught up in their wooden sword fight, they didn’t even look up.

You smoothed your hand over your face, eyes bruised from lack of sleep. Between your banking job and your three kids, sleep was a rare thing.

Just then, you felt a waft of chill air. Yuta strode in through the front door, his feathery black hair in disarray.

“Hey babe,” you called, shoulders relaxing.

Your husband had this calming presence, your island on a rough ocean. Your chest ached for Yuta’s warmth. You hadn’t hugged, kissed… touched in months.

“Hi, Y/n. We need to talk,” Yuta deadpanned.

You picked up your baby daughter Ayumi. She needed her nappy changed. Bad.

“Alright. What’s up?” You placed her on the changing mat, blowing your fringe out of your eyes.

“I mean in private.” You saw that Yuta’s face was stretched and white. A knot curled in your stomach.

“Nappies?” You lifted your hand. He begrudgingly handed them over.

“Y/n. This is serious.” Yuta’s voice quivered like a taut string.

“Can’t you see I’m busy? What is it?” you snapped. You instantly regretted it. Nowadays, you were always on the edge of an explosion.

“Okay. Fine. I’ve… messed up. And I’m sorry, and I didn’t mean it, but… it’s happened.”

You bin Ayumi’s old nappy, then pull her into your arms. “Is that all? Look, if you’ve broken something, we have insurance.”

“This isn’t a bloody plate! I’ve- I’ve done something awful.”

“Right. Well done. Anyway, I have to help the kids with their homework.”

“Just look at me, Y/n! I’m trying to fucking tell you something!” Yuta’s yell turned your head.

Yuta’s eyes were red-rimmed and wide, like he was in shock. “I… cheated on you, Y/n. I slept with someone else.”

Your heartbeat slowed to a crawl. Instinctively, you pulled your baby close.

“Who is she?”

“Diya. From the school.”

Your lips went numb. You put Ayumi down in her rocker and started rinsing plates in the sink. “How long?”

“Just once. It was a mistake, I swear… it’s just, she was there, and… I didn’t plan it!”

Your chest folded in on itself. While you were kissing your babies to sleep, Yuta was kissing someone else.

“When was it, Yuta?”

“The… day you… went to stay with your sister.”

You’d never forget that day.

It was a few weeks after Ayumi was born. You couldn’t seem to get out of bed, let alone be a good mother. So you’d escaped… just for a day.

While you were breaking apart, Yuta searched out another woman.

“Where?” You picked up the cutlery, letting the hot water scald your skin.

“Her apartment. We met up after work, and one thing led to another… I swear, that was all.”

Images burned into your mind, like a flashed camera. Yuta’s fingernails scraping the back of her neck, like he did to you. Their naked bodies gyrating, sweaty, the smell of sex saturating everything…

Your throat convulsed in a retch. For a second, it was like a brick was hitting your chest.

Then, everything stopped.

You felt a curtain dropping. You didn’t have time to deal with this. Not now. As quickly as they came, the feelings slowed. Drooped. Vanished.

You looked down. You were clenching a table knife so hard it had drawn blood. You let go.

Everything blurred. You felt like a kid again, staring up at yourself from the bottom of a pool.

Your voice was a croak. “Obviously, we’re not telling the kids. My parents are coming next week – so we can’t tell them either.”

You dried your hands and looked up at Yuta. His mouth was hanging open, like a cartoon character’s. It was almost funny.

You continued speaking, bunging toys into a basket.

“If you want a divorce, tell me now, because we’ll have to borrow money. For tonight, I’ll take the bed, you have the couch.”

“What the hell, Y/n?”

You jolt and look up. “Fine! You can have the bed.”

Yuta grabbed your shoulders, knife-cheekboned and wild. “I don’t care about the fucking bed! I just told you I cheated on you. Why aren’t you mad?”

You stared at his hands on your skin, like you didn’t recognise them. Yuta spotted your gaze, and slowly let go.

“I’m really sorry, Y/n. I want to fix this. But you need to let me in.”

You looked into his chestnut eyes and frowned. Why was he being so obnoxious?

Slowly, you spelled it out. “You cheated on me. It was with our kids’ tutor, while I was sick. You’re sorry. You won’t do it again. Now can I go and make dinner?”

Yuta blinked. Slowly. Then, he gulped and gave you a slight nod. “Yep.”

You pushed past him, and called out, “Whoever helps mummy with dinner gets ice cream!”

You ushered your eager kids towards the hob. You didn’t look back, but you felt Yuta’s gaze on the back of your head. Stunned.

------

You plastered on your brightest smile all throughout dinner, whilst laying out bedding on the couch for yourself, even whilst tucking your children into bed.

Now, you were sitting in your children’s room, with the lights out. You’d just finished reading their bedtime story. They were fast asleep.

Finally, you let the iron screen lift from your heart. Instead of fighting it, you bared the most vulnerable part of yourself.

It was a memory: you were in Paris with Yuta on the first night of your honeymoon. You were in a mid-range Travel Lodge – the best you could afford – with rain pelting at the windows.

You had woken up at 11AM, tangled up with Yuta from your cuddling. You’d talked, worried, agonised about it, but you’d never had sex with him before.

Yuta opened one sleepy eye and felt your body with his hands, as if he was checking if it was there. You tingled with lust to the tips of your toes. Suddenly, you knew the moment was right.

For once, you didn’t care about your tummy that you always tried to hide, you didn’t care about your thighs which rubbed together when you walked.

You didn’t think about anything, except the feeling of Yuta’s slow kisses, the feeling of him inside of you, the feeling of his hands reaching to the very ends of you.

You were in a hazy, golden pool of completeness. As you gasped your worries, apologies, in each other’s ears, you became whole in a way you’d never known before.

Then, the memory shattered. And in its place, before you could stop it, was the image that was burnt into your eyelids.

It played over and over again, the trailer to a movie of your shame. Yuta in her apartment, the thumping of the bedposts, him between her legs, her exclamations of ‘yes!’, that were only echoed by him moaning her name…

You screamed silently into your fist.

You knew the real reason Yuta cheated on you. Whatever excuses he made, it wasn’t a mistake or a drunk one-off.

You grabbed the soft flesh around your waist. This was why. You thought of the nights you’d told him you were too tired, that you weren’t in the mood. That was why.

You couldn’t even blame Yuta. He was only compensating for the fact that his own wife would never be attractive enough, good enough, just enough for him.

The tears rose up your throat, making your head pound and your cheeks stretch with sobs. You wanted nothing more than to drown yourself in these tears, though you knew they wouldn’t wash the pain away.

Then, you caught a grey glimmer in the darkness. Your youngest boy, Nico, was wide awake and watching you with saucer eyes.

“Hey baby… go back to sleep,” you whispered, quickly smoothing away your tears.

“Are you crying, mummy?”

The softness in his gaze was like a punch in the stomach. You choked down another wave of tears. “No, sweetie, I’m fine. Go back to sleep okay?”

Obediently, he closed his eyes. You didn’t deserve such beautiful children.

You were doubled over, silent in the darkness. You pressed your palms into your eyes, so hard they hurt, and forced the tears back.

You couldn’t even make your husband love you.

What hope did you have with your kids?

------

Three days had passed since that terrible night.

It was 10PM, and the house was unusually quiet.

You and Yuta were sitting at the far edges of the couch, the Netflix episode you never missed playing on the TV.

Both of you were pretending like nothing had gone wrong.

“So… how was work?” Yuta’s cautious voice broke the silence.

You sighed and shook your head. “Just get me a drink.” You couldn’t be bothered with this charade. But at least you could drown your feelings.

“Are you sure that’s a good-” Yuta began.

“Just get it.”

He returned with a whisky, with two ice cubes. Your heart twisted. “You remembered?”

“How could I forget my wife’s favourite drink?” Yuta gave you a thin smile, and for a second, you forgot to ice him out. You smiled back.  

That was two whiskies ago. Now, the gap between the two of you on the sofa had shrunk.

You were laughing so hard your eyes were teary.

“Do you remember, Y/n? Your shirt was on backwards, my pants were on the other side of the room, we were moaning so loud half the theme park could hear us!”

You dried your eyes, sighing. “I bet we scarred a few kids for life that day…”

Yuta’s lip curled up in a smile that sent your heart racing.

You looked down. Subconsciously, your hand was massaging Yuta’s denim-clad knee. You retracted it.

“God, we really knew how to have fun, didn’t we?” You could barely remember the time before you had your three children. It was rose-coloured.

“I mean, Disneyland was nothing. Remember Taeyong’s attic? The nightclub bathroom? I could go on…”

“Ahh!” You mimed blocking your ears. “There are kids in the house, you know!”

In doing so, you lost your grip on your whisky glass, which was balanced on your knee. Yuta grabbed it before it fell, and his hand was suddenly on your thigh.

He let go, and you cleared your throat.

That was hours back. Now, you were having difficulty sitting straight. You’d lost count of how many whiskies you’d downed.

You grabbed Yuta by the shoulders and shook him. “Look! Let’s just get it out of the way. ASAP, straight, completo. No regrets.”

For the first time in ages, your blood was running warm with more than alcohol. The worn denim of Yuta’s jeans was pulling your gaze southward.

“Get what out of the way? You’re not making sense, Y/n.”

You pulled the pin out of your hair and let it fall over your shoulders. “The big three-letter.”

Yuta looked at you, still bewildered. “What?”

“SEX.”

The glass fell from Yuta’s hand.

To be continued…

Part 1 ⭐| Part 2  | Part 3 | Part 4

[marvelwritings]

A piece of me has disappeared

Summary: By day three, the first doubts set in. He’s convinced Tony is still out looking for him, but putting in the effort doesn’t always guarantee results. These people that abducted him are clever, and they know about his spider abilities. 

or: Peter get's abducted and Tony goes to rescue his son 

Everyone’s sleeping, their breaths loud in the evening quiet. Morgan is in her bed and there’s no doubt that tomorrow at seven am she’ll be up and at ‘em to wake Peter up. Tony and Pepper are across the room of his, their frantic work attitudes finally put to the sleep they so desperately need. Peter is blinking up at his roof in his bedroom, feeling fine, good even, peaceful and sated and most importantly, safe.

Everyone’s sleeping, their breaths loud in the evening quiet. Morgan is in her bed and there’s no doubt that tomorrow at seven am she’ll be up and at ‘em to wake Peter up. Tony and Pepper are across the room of his, their frantic work attitudes finally put to the sleep they so desperately need. Peter is blinking up at his roof in his bedroom, feeling fine, good even, peaceful and sated and most importantly, safe.

Everyone’s sleeping, their breaths loud in the evening quiet and …. The repeats stops working once Peter’s stomach gnaws again, the hunger he’s so gravely experiencing has switched to a whole new level. No longer the petty grumbles of an empty stomach, instead it’s replaced by the need to eat anything, despite Peter’s rationality telling him he can’t. He’s been locked up for at least seven days, but he’s still to sceptic to eat anything his captors offer him. He’s very close to breaking.

He tries to hold on by imagining that he’s at home, but he’s so tired, yet so fitful he won’t close his eyes for more then 10 seconds, and the constant torture is so jarring it hurts worse to imagine home, then be woken up in reality, than to just to be present. Peter wonders if Tony is every going to find him.

The first day, he had no question about it. Tony is scarily determined and protective to anyone who dares come after the people he considers family, Peter got a first row demonstration when some journalist tried to bad mouth Spiderman and he got clocked in the jaw, so Peter knows it’s just a matter of time.

By day three, the first doubts set in. He’s convinced Tony is still out looking for him, but putting in the effort doesn’t always guarantee results. These people that abducted him are clever, and they know about his spider abilities. So much so that they keep him sedated at all times, just enough sedative to keep him conscious, but not too little that he can tap in his superstrength. Peter will never be able to escape on his own.

Maybe if the avengers got called in they were close, but Peter’s not sure Tony would call in people he hasn’t spoken to in a few months, purely to find him. He can hold out hope though.

The third day is also the day his captures, he hasn’t seen any faces so far and the sedative contorts their voices too much to match them to somebody he knows, start with the emotional manipulation. So far, they had stuck to electrocution by tazers and punches applied to any sensitive area of his body, but Peter must not have been broken fast enough for them.

‘You know, you remind me of the stereotypical bad guys in movies, like in kids movies? Do you like kid movies? My favorite is Frozen’, Peter had once babbled in between punches through bitten teeth, trying to keep up his high spirits.

They didn’t like that one bit.

They claim all sort of ridiculous things, like that the Starks paid money for them to have kidnapped him, that Tony never started searching for him, that he might as well give up because no one was coming to fetch him. Peter laughs in their face, witty even in the face of extreme danger. It was still funny to him then. Now, on the evening of the seventh day, he stares unblinking at a wall, only moving when the physical pain becomes too much and he needs an outlet to scream.

‘Please’, he pleads sobbing. If he wasn’t so starved as he was, so mentally vulnerable, he would have been embarrassed. As it stands, Peter’s just so incapable of resisting, he simply gives in.

‘Please stop,’ Peter whimpers. If he had anything to give he’d bargain, but money is tight for May and him, and he has no knowledge of anything avengers related that could be of interest to these people. Mister Stark told him it was for his own safety, so it wouldn’t be used as leverage against him, but in Peter’s warped mind it further adds proof Tony never trusted him.

‘Ahn’, a captor coos, ‘he’s begging already, how cute.’ The voice is distinctly that of a woman’s, but it hold nothing of the warm timbre both aunt May and Pepper possess. He misses them.

The woman slides a hand up in Peter’s hair, and for one confusing moment Peter thinks she’s going to start stroking it, like Tony does, but then she balls her hands into fists and pulls his head aside. The next tazer gets placed in his neck.

‘This wouldn’t be happening if your so beloved mentor would just give up the plans for the new shield initiative, but alas, as long as he doesn’t you’ll be stuck here. The tazzer buzzes to life and Peter seizes up. It’s the so many’th time today, that Peter gives up on holding back, his scream ricochets in the room.

‘Then again, maybe we went after the wrong kid. Maybe we should have taken Tony Starks real kid? The one he actually cares about?’

Tears stumbles down his cheeks and he wishes he could fall back into unconsciousness, but of course life is not that kind. No, he begs inside his head, to warm out to speak. Not Morgan, never Morgan. He’d die before he’d let anything happen to her.

‘What do you think soldier,’ she addresses the second captor in the room, ‘perhaps a phone call would speed Stark along? A sign of life and how close to it being snuffed out the child is? What do you want Peter?’ She asks sickly sweet, as if it’s a regular question and not a taunt.

Still, Peter can’t help but reach out. He longs for one phone call so wholeheartedly. Maybe, maybe he can convince Mister Stark to get him out of this mess. He could promise to do every task Mister Stark ask of him, he could even offer to work for Stark industries until he could pay back the money he’d pay Peter’s kidnappers, anything to get out of here. Peter will do anything.

‘I think he’s agreeing.’ The woman grins, pulling out a burner phone out of her back pocket. She types for several excruciating moments, in which Peter begs to every god listening that Mister Stark will pick up. That he’ll hear Peter out.

‘Hello,’ the woman greets the phone, her smirk so evil Peter’s spider senses warm him to run, fighting through the drugs. ‘I think I have something that belongs to you Stark.’

She lowers the phone to a few inches from Peter’s ear, because Peter is too tied up to hold it on his own. ‘Speak loudly kid.’

The use of the nickname causes shudders to run down Peter’s back. Why can’t he go home?

‘Mister Stark, please help me, I don’t know where I am, but- I want to go home, please mister Stark I-. I’ll do anything you want, just please.’ Peter’s whines gain pitch, until he is nothing but a sobbing mess, barely worth the name Peter Parker, let alone Spiderman.

The phone clicks shut.

‘Whoops, looks like he hung up’, The woman snickers, patting Peter’s cheek with fake compassion. Peter bellows, heaving so severely the nonexistent food he ate threatens to come back up.

He’d never find out the phone was never connected in the first place.

---

By the grace of Peter doesn’t know what, he drops unconscious after the failed phone call to Mister Stark. The sleep is fitful at best, but at least it helps restock his powers. When Peter comes too, there are loud sounds just outside of the room he’s captivated in. He thinks there’s screaming and pleading, but he’s so exhausted he can’t bring himself to care. His hands drop uselessly by his side, his head turned away from the door as he squeezes his eyes shuts.

Why can’t this be over yet?

The door busts of his hinges, the door falls inwards. Immediately, the yellow and red armor, belonging to the iron man suit, rushes in, with the faceplate down. Now that the door is open, or gone more like, It’s clear that all the sounds Peter had been hearing where the scream of his captures. There are many of them, but they’re being taken down one by one.

Peeking aside the Iron man armor, Peter sees a flash of red and blue, and captain America’s shield knocking someone out cold.

‘Kid, kid’, Mister Stark draws his attention in a panic. The faceplate is still down, which means that Mister Stark is either not here, like he wasn’t when the vulture first dropped him into a lake, or he’s assessed the situation and deemed it too dangerous to lower his defenses.

‘You’re okay underoos, we’re getting you out of here.’ With very little effort, Mister Stark snaps restraints on Peter’s wrist and ancles, all the while murmuring under his breath. He’s trying to reassure Peter, but it’s not having any type of effect.

Instead, the comfort causes Peter to burst into tears once more, his body begging for food and pain medication that will make everything stop hurting. He doesn’t care that Mister Stark is doing this out of rightfulness, or maybe out of debt out of some kind that he’s trying to even out, Peter just wants to go home.

Once the restraints are all loose, and Peter is free of them, Mister Stark waits for a tense second, maybe expecting Peter to hob off the table and join the fight or something. That doesn’t happen. Peter lays motionless on the table, looking intensely at the glowing eyes of the iron man suit, maybe trying to convey a message that Mister Stark can’t decipher.

‘Come on Pete, we have to get out of here before they bring backup. I can only hold them off for so long.’

‘Back up?’ Peter ask nonsensical, his spider senses blaring danger at him.

‘Yeah, they’re big fans of the avengers, they’ll all be swarming in here for autographs soon, but we’re kinda busy so we really have to go now.’ Mister Stark turns frantic, his hands carefully, oh so cautiously, gripping at his shoulders.

Peter allows his muscles to turn limp, pliant under strange hands. They belong to his mentor, to one of the only touches he has ever felt that don’t originate from people who are trying to hurt him, but he’s so very terrified, it doesn’t register. Peter holds still, submissive to whatever is about to happen because the pain always seems to end faster when he doesn’t struggle.

‘Peter’, Mister Stark anguished voice insists, his faceplates lifts up, and the dull eyes of who Peter has come to think of as a father gaze upon him with despair. Mister Starks hair is greasy, his mouth is pulled down in a grimace, and his eyes are, for a lack of better word grief stricken. He’s so much older then he was before Peter was taken. ‘Please buddy, we have to go.’

Mister Stark’s calloused finger strokes Peter cheek with the utmost care, barely even pressing firm enough for Peter to feel it. He does though, and traps the touch between his check and his shoulder.  The dam breaks, and the barrier of terror that clouded Peter’s judgment lifts with it. He gasps, coming up for a breath of fresh air, and the moment between mentor and son brings at least a sliver of clarity, before he sinks back under the enormity of his panic.  

‘I can’t walk’, Peter rasps, his throat torn from all the screams. He refuses to let that stop him, he’s so close to safety, he needs to push on further just a tad longer. ‘Please Mister Stark, I can’t walk.’

‘It’s okay Pete’, Tony soothes, pressing an unyielding kiss to his forehead, and if at all possible, Peter see the rage harden his face even more. ‘I’m going to get you out of here, but it’s gonna hurt, I’m sorry.’

Before Peter can begin to process that statement, Mister Stark puts the weight on his knees, the iron man suit helping to lift Peter as if it’s no trouble at all.  Tony is no liar, Peter finds, as his body begs to be placed back on the uncomfortable bed. Even places that had been relatively unharmed ache, and Peter feels like a broken doll.

‘It’s okay Kiddo we’re almost there, just a minute longer.’ Peter clings to Mister Stark, using every ounce of strength to hang on, despite the fact that Tony has a tight grip on him as well. Iron man isn’t fighting alone, as the avengers are here to back him, them, up. In any other situation, Peter would be gushing. Not only is he seeing his heroes in action, but they’re in action for him, to help him, but now, Peter only turns his head to burrow it into Mister Starks chest plate.

‘Please, please’, Peter whispers the entire way to the jet, not even realizing he’s begging for something.

‘I got you Pete’, Tony assures, one hand briefly leaving Peter’s back to shoot at a capture that’s standing in the way of the jet. Other than that, he doesn’t interfere with the fight one time, but he must itch too. Peter hears him bark orders at captain America, telling him to take some of them alive.

‘Please don’t leave me here, I’ll be good, I’ll be good.’

The Jet is nice and warm, something Peter relishes in, but when Tony tries to lower Peter on a medbed, that’s objectively much more comfortable then the bed he was on before, Peter screams. No words are spoken, but the scream startles Mister Stark just the same.

‘Stark, the base is cleared, get him strapped in, Banner is coming’, Natasha ushers, ignoring Peter’s cries and running to the cockpit. Stark has him, she argues, and it does the kid no good to have more prying eyes on him.

‘What is it, are you in pain?’ Tony asks franticly, without responding to Nat, hands hovering over Peter’s body to check for injuries, the light dims when he spots just how badly he was treated in captivity.

Peter screams again when Mister Stark pulls away too far for his liking, latching onto the suit so rigorous it creaks in protests.

‘Please, I’ll be good, don’t leave me, please. I- I know… I’m sorry, Morgan- I’, Peter can’t talk with how much he’s weeping, there are so many things to say and all of them are fighting one another to be said first. Eventually, after everyone has already touched base, the jet leaves and Doctor Banner urgers Tony to place him on the bed, Peter settles for; ‘Don’t leave me here.’

‘Peter’, Tony spits, so harsh that Peter snaps to attention, letting go of the armor and limply following where mister Stark wants him. He gently grips Peter’s chin, mindful of the bruises, and with glistening eyes, he conveys; ‘I’m never leaving you here, do you understand. I don’t care what else you have in your head, but right now, all I need you to know is that I’m not leaving you. Ever.’

He waits for the conforming nod, which Peter only gives when Mister Stark clasps his hand into his. ‘Beside, May would kill me if I came back without her nephew, and I don’t want to be the one to receive her wrath.’ Tony laughs faintly.

He wants to cry at that, good or bad he’s not sure, but instead he allows himself to be lowered, giving in only because Tony is crouching down with him, shielding Peter’s body with his own. It’s unsensical, there in the jet and there’s no danger, but if Peter feels protected Tony will do it, no questions asked.

As soon as he’s in a horizontal positions, Doctor Banner injects him with pain medication, and within seconds, Peter has floated away, dreaming of the lake house with Morgan, Pepper and tony and May at the end of the hallway.

---

Peter knows he’s in the medbay before his body has even fully awoken. He’s been here before, perhaps one to many times for it too be so familiar, and he can recognize the atmosphere from anywhere. The smell of disinfectant lingers around the room heavily, but so does the smell of motor oil, coming from Mister Stark’s lab the floor below the medbay. Usually he’s not alone when he wakes up either, accompanied by Mister Stark or May, maybe even both, and so despite the room having a different connotation, it holds security for Peter.

When all his senses click into place, with an almost audible snap after being out of commission for a week, the burning anguish joins it. It’s almost worse than during the torture itself, because it’s hitting him all at once now, and after stewing for a day his body is one big bruise, but it’s also better, because no more hurt can be added.

Blinking his eyes open, Peter glances around the room and notices that he’s by himself. He hasn’t made up his mind yet whether that’s a good or bad thing. Despite being alone, Peter very nearly cries out for the pain medication he’s sure Tony has at hand. His metabolism runs through painkillers faster than a normal body, but Mister Stark has experience in that department thanks to captain America, which is why Peter never wakes up in the medbay feeling sore.

He’s hoping to snatch some of the good stuff before he can sink away in sleep again, until a dark thought pops up in his head. What if Mister Stark purposefully didn’t give him enough medication so he wouldn’t stay asleep? What if Peter is expected to pay of his debt starting this very moment? It would make sense. Mister Stark is a man that likes to get a move on things, and this is probably no exception.

He bites back a loud whine. He’s so tired and sore, and if he could be anywhere in the world right now he’d choose the lakehouse and rest on the back porch, while looking over Morgan and ensuring she’s safe.

Still, it’s heaps better then what was waiting for him before, so Peter sucks in a deep breath and lifts himself up. He’s dresses in a hospital gown with socks on his feet, the only reprieve of the cold of the tiles that he has. His body fights in protest against the jolting movements, and Peter sinks back into bed three times before finally managing to stay upright. He swallows back bile, and blinks away the disorientation woozing its way through his head.

‘Friday’? He whispers, voice cracking on every syllable.

‘Yes, mister Parker, the AI replies easily, as chipper as a computer can possibly be. ‘It’s good to have you back,’ she adds, when Peter takes too long to reply. It’s not out of rudeness, but the words take a while to be processed in Peter’s hazy mind.

‘Can you tell me what Mister Stark wants me to do?’ Peter finally asks after coughing to clear his throat. Pride flows through his bloodstream when he manages to sound fine.

‘Mister Stark has not given me any directions, but by the distress and elevated heartbeat he experienced whilst at your bedside last, I hypothesize that he would like you to rest Peter.’  

Confusion laces Peter’s next move. Rest? But if that was the case why wasn’t the man here, ensuring that he does like all the other times he’s been in this position?  Deciding not to ask the AI anymore questions, while simultaneously ignoring her advice, Peter focuses on setting one foot in front of the other. If he can’t get a direct answer out of Friday, he’ll just get started on cleaning up in the lab.

The last few times Tony and Peter worked in there, Mister Stark had jokingly grumbled that the lace was getting to disorganized even for his taste, which definitely means something. Peter limps his way to the door, already breathing more heavily and deciding to take a rest against the still closed door. His foot throbs, so Peter switches to put the most weight on the side of his foot, instead of on the balm.

The small trek has left him bone tried, and the lab still seems so far away. Peter tries to calculate how far the lab still is, and agrees with himself to divide the length into smaller stretches. His next stop is at the elevator, so Peter shuffled along the floor, ignoring the black spots that dance before his eyes and threaten to have him collapse.

The extortion reminds him of the time that Toomes dropped a building on him, which is just plain ridiculous, this shouldn’t be half as tough. Peter scolds himself to man up when about halfway to the elevator he bumps into a cart and whimpers.

After finally finding support on the elevator beams, Peter allows himself a twenty second break to cry. At this point, the exact reason for crying is unbeknownst to him. All that he does know is that he feels like a mess, like someone took all the spiderman away from him and left him as a pile of uselessness. He shouldn’t have the right to complain however. Mister Stark rescued him from a fate much worse, the least he could do is help him out.

‘Friday’, Peter pauses to gulp in more air, and to force his tears back. ‘Open the elevator.’

‘Mister Parker I would advise-‘

‘Please’, he begs, voice barely louder then a whisper. The AI complies without further disagreement. The elevator begins to move the floor bellow it, soundlessly passing Peter along. The theme song, a little joke that Tony had installed after they made a song about spiderman, which plays during every elevator ride when Peter is present, stays off. The doors open, and Peter stumbles out, cheering up a dash when the mess doesn’t look as bad as he had imagined it. The clean up should be doable within two hours, even in Peter’s injured state. Most of the mess comes from scattered papers and documents that Tony tosses aside and never bothered to do anything with, and of mechanical parts that are ready to be thrown out.

All in all, not a lot of weight that Peter has to pick up. He has barely started on five pages when the elevator behind him opens again. Peter hadn’t noticed it going to a different floor in the first place.

Lister Stark burst out of the room like the devil himself is after him. He pauses for one second to observe what Peter’s doing -he’s in the middle of bending down at a very lateral pace- and then he’s off again, cursing under his breath.

‘Jesus Christ Peter what are you doing?’

He pulls out a rolling chair from behind his work bench and rushes it to Peter side. ‘Come on, sit.’ He says already clenching a hand around Peter’s bicep to guide him down. In his confusion, Peter follows his instruction.

‘Mister Stark?’ He questions, eyes tracking his mentors movement as if he’s afraid he’s done something wrong and punishment will follow.

There is none, all that Tony does, is fall down on his knees in front of Peter, so they’re making direct eye contact. Peter gulps at the sight. He’s sure those jeans cost more than half of what May ears a month, and if Peter is expected to repay those too, he’ll never be able to pay of his debt.

‘Kiddo, what are you doing?’ Mister Stark asks incredulous, his hand never leaving Peter’s arm. His eyes sweep over Peter’s form, noticing the ailments that he aggravated by walking all the way down here. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

‘I thought you wanted me to get started already.’ Peter admits shyly. He can’t understand why he’s being treated with such kindness all of a sudden.

‘Started on what Pete? I don’t understand.’ Mister Stark shuffles closer, one hand coming up to cup Peter’s chin, sweeping gentle circles that are meant to calm himself down as much as Peter.

‘Paying of my debt.’ Peter replies confused, wrapping his arms around his stomach area and bending downwards in an order to self sooth. He needs to get up soon, are Peter’ not sure he will be able to. Now that he’s granting his body some rest, the pain he forced to the back of his mind is rushing back in.

‘What debt kid, you need rest and you need it right now. Stay here, I’m going to go get you a gurney so you don’t require any more walking.’

Right as Mister Stark gets of his knees, Peter’s hand shoots out, gripping the older man’s wrist.  The action was pure habitual, but now that he’s initiated contact he doesn’t know what to do.

‘When will I have to start working then? I’d rather get started as soon as possible, to thank you for everything Mister Stark.’ Peter’s voice pitches even lower, letting his head hang down in shame. He really doesn’t want to offer his suit back, Spiderman is what gives him purpose, but the sooner he no longer has a debt, the sooner he can start working to provide May with an extra income as well. He has no choice.

‘I can give you the suit back if you’ll accept it.’

Tony regards him with perturbation for several long lasting moment. Then, he gasps, finally clicking in his head what Peter is going on about.

‘Oh kiddo, that’s the concussion speaking. Listen to me,’ he sinks back down in front Peter, taking his hand in his. ‘You have done so much for me. If anything it’s me that should be in debt to you.’ Peter pens his mouth to argue, but Tony hushes him softly.

‘You’re not thinking straight buddy, that why spider baby’s need their rest. But truly Peter, you don’t owe me anything. Well except maybe you owe it to  be safe, I think I’ve earned that much.’

‘Really?’ Peter asks optimistically, his whole body filling up with a feeling he can’t name, but it chokes him up until he’s bursting with the urge to give a hug to his mentor.

‘Yeah Peter of course. All I want is my kids to be safe.’

Kids. Tony sees Peter as his kid, as equal to Morgan. A person to love unconditionally without needing any favors, without having any debt. Of course Mister Stark won’t ask that of him, despite his front, the man has a heart that’s made of gold. Mister Stark, his mentor, and his father figure.

‘Dad,’ Peter sobs, almost falling out of the chair in his rush to get to Tony. The man immediately returns the hug, holding Peter up in a way that he hopes will be the least painful for him.

‘You’re okay Peter you’re okay.’

‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking’, Peter confesses, deeply ashamed of how low he thought of his dad.

‘It’s okay Kiddo, like I said it’s the concussion. Of course you were scared, I can’t blame you. I promise that I tried so hard to find you bud. I’m sorry it took me so long.’

Peter says nothing, he’s had enough encounters with Tony now to sense that the man wouldn’t believe him if Peter told him it’s okay. Instead he just nuzzles closer, accepting all the love and affection radiating from Tony, and giving back what he hopes is just as much.

‘Can we go back to the lakehouse?’ Peter asks softly, burring his head in Tony’s neck. It might be a weird question coming from him. He liked the beach house enough, but he has never actively asked to go there when they could stay at the tower as well. But now, Peter won’t feel safe unless his down there, in the cabin hidden behind threes, where the environment is quiet that he can hear everyone’s heartbeat, and can confirm that everyone is safe.

‘Sure kid.’ Tony responds, a tad bewildered, but happy to provide anyway. ‘We’ll leave as soon as you get check out okay. I want to make sure you didn’t rip anything.’

‘Okay’, Peter mumbles, a bone deep tiredness washing over him, and letting him sink down into Tony. ‘Thanks dad.’

If Peter were more awake, he would have noticed the silent tears of happiness streaming down Mister Starks cheek at the name. As it stands, Peter just hums contently when a kiss is pressed at the top of his head, and Tony strikes a hand through his hair.

‘Anything for my son.’

[katnissmellarkkk]

Chapter Four

“Dang it!” I bellow eight days later, as my body gives way and topples over, having used too great of force to yank a now dead primrose from the ground.

Yesterday morning I had come outside to discover the yellow evening primroses, the flowers Peeta had planted upon his arrival back in Twelve, had all but died.

And I didn’t even notice. I’ve been so distracted with everything else going on in my life—namely Peeta and his blonde companion—that I entirely forgot about the flowers. The flowers that my sister was named for. The flowers meant to represent her when she was no longer alive to represent herself.

The idea that I could forget the plant, that I let myself lag on the simple duty of keeping them alive and watered and healthy, felt as if I had let my little sister down all over again. It felt as if I’d failed Prim a second time.

And it’s more than I can handle. I can’t even endure the thought. The very implication that I am, in any way, dishonoring my sister’s memory is entirely unbearable. Even if it is just me implying it, inside my head.

But in any case, it looks like the primroses are too far gone and I don’t have even a chance at resurrecting them back to life. I took too long to notice their wilting, I was too caught up in other things, that I let the plants die and now there’s no going back.

For a split second I consider returning one of my mother’s many calls to ask for gardening advice. She has always had a green thumb and been able to grow whatever she set her mind to. I never had any of those skills. I was a hunter by nature, not a nurturer.

No, that was Prim. The soft and gentle one, who loved animals, who could heal any wound she could identify, who could garden and grow herbs just as well as our mother.

And I miss her so much. I miss my little sister so very much that I almost breakdown into tears right then and there, right in front of the dead primrose bush outside my house.

“Katniss?” I hear someone call in the distance. I recognize the voice instantly.

And rapidly get up and make a beeline towards my front door.

Unfortunately he’s determined to catch me. After eight solid days of evasion, Peeta is dead set on catching me at any given opportunity before him.

It’s almost funny how once upon a time it was him who wished to avoid me. It was him who craved distance between us, who acted icy and detached at every encounter, whether forced or by chance.

Now it’s him trying to force an encounter between us, trying desperately to make up for hurting me, trying to still be a part of my life, even after I pronounced our relationship finished.

The bread he left on my doorstep—that I immediately tossed in the garbage—is proof of that. The cheesebuns he left on my counter who met their demise to a flock of birds on my back porch is proof of that. The cookies he baked and passed through Greasy Sae when I went to trade at the new, rebuilt Hob is glaring proof of his efforts.

I did actually eat those but I made sure to do it in private, where Peeta would never know if his token was accepted or not.

Because I don’t want him to think we’re okay. I don’t want Peeta to believe me and him can still be friends, with Bailey Robyn, the uptight, controlling blonde still lingering over his every move.

Okay, maybe I’m being a bit overdramatic. Bailey isn’t residing over Peeta’s every action. She probably doesn’t even know he’s made all these treats for me. And she surely wasn’t sitting by his side in the corner of Greasy Sae’s booth when our eyes briefly met before I stubbornly stormed out.

But I feel like she is. I feel her presence overcast in every one of Peeta’s actions, in every deed he partakes in, in every moment I run into him. Maybe it’s only inside my head but it’s enough reason for me to avoid Peeta. It’s enough reason that I wish to stand by my words eight days ago and cut him directly out of my life. With a chainsaw if necessary, I wish to cut the invisible cord that has tied me and him together for so long now.

“Katniss!” Peeta calls again, his arms grasping my waist just in time to prevent my escape into the house.

“Go away,” I mutter under my breath, ire and ache still seeping off me even after a week separating this moment here with our last interaction.

“Why are you upset?” He asks, a little breathless now from the race to my front door. But even tired, concern still manages to leak into his tone. His blue eyes still show anxiety for my well-being.

And it’s still not enough to thaw me.

“You know why,” I say rigidly, pulling my front door open and shoving his hands away from me.

“No, no, I mean,” he quickly tries to correct his question. “I meant, what’s happened out here that has you upset?”

I audibly huff, my eyes about as warm as a popsicle in a snowstorm. The last thing I want to do is stand here and recount just about anything to Peeta, especially in regards to the way I’m currently feeling.

Especially after the last time we spoke about our feelings, when I chose to let him in and allowed him to see the vulnerable parts of me that I never trust anyone with.

Only for him to turn around and side with Bailey over me.

But knowing how persistent Peeta can be when properly determined—his intensity to train like a Career, Brutus’ murder and him warning District Thirteen about Snow’s incoming attack all fly to the top of that list—I merely gesture widely to my backyard, where the dead flowers lie.

It only takes Peeta a moment to click it all together, to his credit. Though I’m hesitant to even offer him that right now.

“I’ll replant them,” he instantly offers, like a dog begging to fetch his owner a carcass bone.

“Don’t bother,” I say, about as rude and uninviting as humanly possible. “It’s not your responsibility.”

I’m just stepping into the house when Peeta’s hand shoves on the door, hard enough to keep it open. For a split second, I contemplate putting all my strength behind it and slamming his fingers in the door. But even as mad as I am—even as wounded as I am—I won’t physically harm Peeta.

After all, he already lost his leg once about I tied it in a tourniquet. I may have saved his life but I also cost him half a limb and that thought alone stops me from nearly taking his fingers off too.

“Katniss, I want to,” he pleads and his eyes are so big and blue and I feel my heart involuntarily melt a bit upon at the sight. “I want to replant them.”

I release an unconscious breath, for the first time in over a week not completely hostile towards the boy with the bread, who in my eyes, completely turned his back on me. Or so it feels. “I’ll just end up killing them again, Peeta. I’m serious. Don’t even bother.”

“Then I’ll tend to them,” Peeta throws out, getting more and more desperate the more I refuse, it seems.

I’m about to brush off his offer once again when another voice joins us. “Oh, let him do it, sweetheart. The boy needs a hobby besides baking,” Haymitch chimes in, standing at the bottom of my porch, looking drunk as ever.

“You love that baking is his only hobby,” I shoot back at the paunchy, old man.

“Well, not anymore. Since you two started fighting he’s been making me fat. I need a break.”

I’m about to come back with another comment, probably one to suggest Haymitch doesn’t have to eat everything Peeta brings, when we’re joined by a third presence.

Of course, she has to join us. Bailey can’t seem to let Peeta go anywhere without her nowadays.

“What’s going on?” She murmurs, looking around at all our tense body language. Well, at mine and Peeta’s tense body language. Haymitch is currently sitting on the bottom step of my porch now, as relaxed as Buttercup is in the window.

Peeta opens his mouth to respond but then shuts it again, glancing back at me. I don’t know if it’s the fact that he doesn’t wish to discuss his offer to help me with his girlfriend or if it’s the fact that he clearly knows I dislike the notion of Bailey in my business, but either way I’m a little pleased when he closes his mouth and adverts eye contact away from the blonde.

Instead it’s my drunken mentor who elaborates. “The girl’s flowers died. Your boyfriend just wants to replant them.”

To my utter astonishment, Bailey seems amendable to the idea. “The flowers for your sister?” She inquires, looking right at me. I shoot her a quizzical—and perhaps slightly unfriendly—look out of the corner of my eye but she continues on anyway. “Peeta, you should help her plant them again. Especially since you let them die-“

But I’ve heard enough from her—and everyone else here, for that matter—and I turn to Peeta, my hand still holding the doorknob tightly, ready to slam it shut. “Fine,” I cave, my tone anything but grateful. “Go ahead and replant the primroses. If that’s going to help you, then go for it.”

I don’t wait to hear a response from any of the parties now camped out on my property. Instead I shove Peeta’s fingers off my door—first time I’ve touched him in eight days—and throw it shut with such a force I feel the walls in my entryway shake.

“She’s always been a spitfire,” I hear Haymitch mumble as three sets of footsteps make their way further from my porch.

I barely catch Peeta’s response. If I hadn’t been standing by the door, unintentionally listening to hear what they may be saying, I would have missed it altogether.

“That’s the best thing about her.”

/

It’s just mere hours later before I’m disturbed once again. This time not by a crew of three but by one solo intruder.

“Sweetheart?” Haymitch barks, evidently not too keen on the fact that I decided to turn every light in my house off after returning home from the Hob.

“Go away,” I mumble out, knowing well and clear that he can’t hear me from upstairs. I’m in my bedroom, lying in the safety of my own bed, in my own private sanctuary, where I do not wish to be disturbed by anyone at any cost.

Of course, it only takes a few minutes of bumping into things and cursing for Haymitch to track me down. “Girl, it’s six at night?” He says incredulously.

“So?” I snap, as he turns my light on, effectively blinding me.

“Did you just forget about dinner tonight?” He asks, his voice neither kind nor hostile. In all honesty, he just sounds puzzled.

“Why are you in my room, Haymitch?” I murmur, rubbing my eyes until they adjust to the beaming brightness and pulling myself upwards now. Off his dismissive glance, I let out a deep sigh. “I wasn’t hungry.”

Of course, we’re not really talking about me skipping a meal. I highly doubt Haymitch truly cares if I miss dinner by my own accord. He surely wasn’t too interested in my meal intake when he brought me home from the Capitol and dropped me off on my doorstep.

No, we’re referring to the weekly dinners me, Peeta and Haymitch have at the old man’s pig sty. The same dinners I’ve brought Delly along to, that Haymitch is constantly passing out drunk during, that Bailey has been crashing nonstop since arriving here in Twelve.

When I came home from trading at the Hob tonight, I decided I was done with those dinners. I don’t need to subject myself to bossy Bailey any longer, and my resolve to keep Peeta out of my life as much as humanly possible is still strong. Despite the fact that I agreed to let him plant the primroses in my garden again and tend to their growth, I still don’t wish for us to be friends. I still don’t want to subject myself any further to him and Bailey’s exhibits.

And I figured no one would mind my absence anyways. At least not for a few dinners. I knew eventually Haymitch would try to push me to come back and Peeta would probably ask me very sweetly to join again, but I didn’t think the first night I skipped would be a huge production.

And okay, maybe there is a small part of me who deep down hopes if I refuse to come, Bailey may be disinvited in order to make me feel welcome again. It’s a long shot and not one I’d consciously admit to counting on, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small, minuscule part of me wishing for that to happen just the same.

Haymitch glances at me suspiciously now. “You’re always hungry, kid.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re the most enthusiastic eater I know.”

Okay, he is blatantly confused apparently. His drunken goggles are blurring his perspective of reality, it would seem.

In any case, I flop backwards on my bed and roll away, hoping if I ignore my mentor long enough he’ll just evaporate into thin air.

But for some reason, Haymitch is weirdly dogged tonight. “Come on,” he urges, shaking my shoulder a bit too roughly. “I know the boy always says you’re just like me, but this little display is over the top, Katniss.”

I roll my eyes. “Why do you even want me at those dinners, Haymitch? You have Peeta and Bailey there.” I can’t stop myself from throwing the extra emphasis on Bailey, as immature as it may be.

However, the old man isn’t interested in dignifying me with a response. “And Delly. And Johanna. And Annie Cresta.”

That catches me completely off-guard. “What?”

In the time since the war ended and I returned to Twelve—or rather, was exiled to Twelve—no one from the other districts have visited. I have barely seen anyone I know in the last few months, outside Haymitch, Peeta and Delly.

“Some of which are anxious to see you at dinner,” he adds, gesturing for me to get up.

I shoot him a mordant glance. “Johanna’s anxious to see me?”

“I said some. Meaning Delly and Annie,” he clarifies. Off my still hesitant expression, he reaches down and tugs on my wrist, trying to get me out of bed.

“Fine!” I exclaim, feeling strangely embarrassed now as I realize that our roles are suddenly being reversed. I’m the one who always forced him out of bed, who made him come to meals, who fought with him to hurry up and get moving.

In the end, I don’t bother cleaning myself up or trying to appear presentable. Johanna and Annie won’t care and Peeta doesn’t get to care anymore.

And it wouldn’t matter anyway. Even if Effie Trinket or my entire prep team were here, I’d never stand a chance of looking anything but plain next to Bailey.

It’s not that I care that she’s so blatantly pretty. It’s just that her looks are one more thing about her presence to be bothered by, and that list is getting long and extensive. Even after her apparent approval of Peeta gardening my primroses, even after no negative interactions in eight days, I still sense hostility with her. And I still can’t stare at her without feeling my stomach churn.

Because every time she’s around, I know I’m about to be the odd one out. For whatever reason, outside of Delly, the people I care for, hold a deep affinity for Bailey Robyn.

And it bothers me above anything I can express. It bothers me beyond words, beyond measure, beyond any sense of feeling.

“Look who I found,” Haymitch announces as we enter through the threshold of his filthy residence.

“Katniss!” Annie exclaims and tosses her arms around my neck, despite the fact that we’ve never been too close. I can’t even remember the last time we had a conversation in person. The only true communication between me and Annie is the letters she sends, the ones filled with details of her life in Four and Finnick’s son. The ones I rarely respond to, but always read just the same.

Still, despite the fact that Annie might as well be a glorified stranger to me, I return the embrace, instinctively at first and then, simply because I want to. Because no one besides Peeta has given me any sort of affection in months and I miss it. Now that Peeta has put conditions on our relationship, I am hungry for any physical touch at all.

It shocks me to realize, in that moment, just how completely starved I am, for closeness.

I hug Annie for far longer than I think anyone watching anticipated but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seems to welcome it too.

Then again, her husband died and left her with seemingly no family at all to help raise their baby. So perhaps she’s just as desperate for a human touch—I suppose besides her son—as I am.

I don’t receive the same welcome from Johanna, unsurprisingly, but as soon as me and Annie break apart, she shoots me a satirical glance and pulls on a piece of my hair.

“Ow!” I exclaim, my thick brows furrowing in confusion. “What was that for?”

“It was sticking up,” she explains with a shrug and then smirks. “Did you just roll out of bed and come here?”

“Did you?” Her outfit is just denim pants and a low cut t-shirt. Not that different from my attire.

“Yes. And I’m not ashamed of it.” She runs a hand over her hair which has grown out to about length with her shoulders. “But I know how to use a hairbrush, at least.”

I roll my eyes as she nudges me. “This is dinner,” Haymitch deadpans as he makes his way to the table. “Not a Capitol Beauty Contest.”

Jo examines the unwashed table as we follow the grumpy man’s lead. As of right now, the table is completely void of substance. “Doesn’t dinner imply food?” She asks and Annie laughs lightly, suggesting she was thinking along the same lines.

“Haymitch doesn’t believe in cooking himself,” I retort, earning a look from the old man. “He’s waiting for Peeta to arrive with food.”

“You’re more than welcome to provide the meal, sweetheart.”

“And what are you providing?”

“The residence the meal is served at.”

“And what a residence it is!” Exclaims a completely different voice, a higher pitched soprano.

And like clockwork, three blonde heads round the corner of the dining room, abruptly joining the party.

Delly looks as enthusiastic to be walking with Peeta and Bailey as I am to be in their company right now. Which she further evidences by hurrying to the seat at my right.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a grin,” Haymitch remarks as he pulls out a bottle of white liquor and pours it into a half-clean glass.

“Wonder why that is,” I murmur out loud before thinking better of it. After all, Haymitch seems to care for Bailey more than me nowadays. I should probably not stir the pot before the food is even presented before me.

But he doesn’t reply back. Even if he did, I doubt I’d notice anyway.

Because, in the flash of a second, the attention of the room is completely shifted.

I knew Bailey was coming with Peeta. She’s practically glued to his hip at all times of day, almost as if she’s afraid to let him out of her sight. But it would seem that Haymitch did not inform Johanna or Annie about Peeta’s new relationship, effectively catching them both by surprise at the additional dinner guest.

And there’s little room for doubt to anyone with eyes that they’re together. Their hands are practically singed as one, in an airtight grasp, her manicured nails intertwined with his long fingers.

For a split second I wonder if that’s what my hand looked like inside Peeta’s last week. I wonder if this is what Bailey saw before her, when she caught us roaming through town at the crack of dawn.

“Barley?” Johanna says in a shocked voice.

It takes a moment for her comment to compute in my brain. “Bailey,” I correct, trying to be helpful. Though I’m unsure where she even managed to get the name Barley at all. Especially if Haymitch didn’t warn her about the girl Peeta was bringing and I strongly suspect he didn’t.

Jo looks at me like I’m insane for the amendment before turning back to Bailey and Peeta. “You’re dating Bailey Barley?” She say incredulously.

Bailey Barley? Is that a nickname? Now I’m the one who’s completely lost at sea, feeling like there was a good chunk of time I somehow missed.

Bailey’s blue eyes stare into Jo’s now, not exactly friendly but not as belligerent as I’ve seen her before. As I saw her last week.

I don’t know nor do I understand what they’re silently communicating, but I do comprehend one thing without a doubt.

Johanna knows Bailey. Somehow, someway, Johanna knows Bailey even more than I do.

Peeta doesn’t seem too confused though. He doesn’t even seem fazed by the exchange at all. Instead he drops Bailey’s hand—not soon enough, in my opinion—and moves to set some kind of meat and potato meal down on the table.

“Where did you get the meat?” I ask abruptly, recognizing it as deer. I just shot my first in a long time only the other day. How on Earth did Peeta get deer meat around the same time I did.

“I traded a cake for it. At the Hob,” he explains nonchalantly, avoiding my bewildered eyes now.

I just stare at him for a second, debating on even further commenting.

The Hob is where I traded the deer after killing it. Peeta literally baked a cake and traded it for meat, just because I wouldn’t speak to him.

He literally traded a cake so I could eat the meat that I hunted myself.

Something about that scenario vindicates me slightly. And I have to wonder if I’ve become sadistic with time and solitude.

My attention though is pulled back to Johanna and Bailey now. “What’re you doing in Twelve?”

Bailey takes her seat, between Haymitch and Peeta, with grace. “Peeta and I met in the Capitol,” she states simply. “I decided to come here and spend some more time with him. Get to know him a little better.”

As if to punctuate her words, she places one dainty hand on top of Peeta’s and gives it a squeeze.

I can’t even fight my eye roll.

“I see,” Jo murmurs, casting a sideway glance at me, none too subtle. “Well, it looks like you did... that.”

Delly snickers into her water glass and I don’t miss the way Bailey shoots her an irritated glance. Peeta seemingly does though. Haymitch is already too tipsy to care if an actual fight breaks out among us, his white liquor kicking in quick.

Annie on the other hand, who I’ve always believed to often be oblivious to all those around her, decidedly cuts the tension here. “Well, I’m hungry. Peeta, pass me a plate.”

And just like that, we’re having one of the most awkward meals I’ve ever had to endure.

Read More On AO3

[katefiction]

Angels - Part 2

by mrandmrswales (Emily) / February 24, 2013

I had an urge to write this afternoon, so I did this all in one go. I’m sorry if it has any problems, if its really obvious, let me know! Thank you to my lovely anon for the idea, I changed it slightly though. I hope you don’t mind. Please, please give me some feedback, negative or positive. If you guys want anything in particular next time, let me know. Anyway, without further ado, here’s Angels Part 2!

Emily xx

————————————————————————————–

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes Libby?’ I replied absently as I retrieved the potatoes from the hob before they spilled over.

‘What time are Granny, Grandpa, Auntie Pippa and Uncle James coming?’

‘Uh…any moment now poppet. Why don’t you go and find your sister and have a look out for them?’ Libby nodded happily and skipped off, leaving me to deal with supper. Every year, since we had been given Anmer Hall by the Queen on Sandringham Estate, We’d gone to Sandringham for lunch on Christmas Day and then my parents and sister and brother came down either in the evening or on Boxing Day. This year they were arriving on Christmas Day night, and to say I was stressed was a bit of an understatement.

‘William?!’ I called; he was supposed to be helping me cook, although whether that was a good idea was debatable. ‘WILL?’ I screamed again, rolling my eyes. He always chose not to hear me the first time.

‘YES?’

‘CAN YOU COME DOWN AND HELP ME PLEASE? I NEED TO CHANGE BEFORE THEY GET HERE.’

‘I’m right here, darling.’ Said my husband from behind me, looking amused. I huffed and began taking my apron off, blowing my fringe out of my eyes in annoyance.

‘Will you calm down?’ He said, helping me take it off. I said nothing and made to go, yet he caught me in a hug and held me until my body relaxed. ‘Better?’ he asked softly, I smiled a small smile in return, and hurried off to change, leaving him to finish off the supper.

———————————————————————————————-

‘THEY’RE HERE!’ A large thump echoed through the house as no doubt my two daughters were causing havoc downstairs in their excitement.

‘Oh Shit! I muttered to myself in panic as I quickly flung on my dress and began pulling on my tights, making sure they didn’t ladder in the process. Fluffing up my hair and pulling on my heels, I raced out of the bedroom door and down the corridor, slowing down before descending down the stairs with some dignity. Reaching the kitchen I cried out my hellos and began to hug my parents, my sister, her husband Robert and my brother, who with Pippa’s baby son was already with the girls handing out the presents he’d bought them, to great excitement. ‘What do you say girls?’ I asked them both and they both chanted out the pre-rehearsed ‘Thank You Uncle James!’ I grinned and went over to check that William hadn’t burnt the supper.

‘Don’t you trust me?!’ He asked teasingly as he poured out drinks while I inspected the food. He knew what a perfectionist I was. ‘Well yes…to some extent!’ I teased him back, gladly taking a glass of wine from him. Now to put the girls to bed.

———————————————————————————————-

‘Mummy?’ Belle asked sleepily, who was tucked up cosily in her bed. How I wished I could go to bed. I was shattered. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas to you my angel.’ I replied softly, blowing her a kiss. ‘Love you.’ I closed the door quietly and moved on to Libby’s room. Unfortunately, she was not ready to go to sleep yet and was jumping around her room.

‘What are you doing? Get into bed!’

‘Oh Mummy I don’t want to!’

‘I don’t care if you want to or not missy. Get into bed, I’m turning the light out in a few minutes.’ Libby huffed and crossed her arms. She was just as stubborn as William was. Luckily for me, having lived with William for years and years, I knew how to deal with stubbornness easily. ‘The quicker you get into bed, the quicker you can get up and open your presents from Granny and Grandpa and Aunty Pippa. That got her, and before I knew it, she was in bed and I was closing the door. ‘Phew’ I sighed to myself, leaning against the door in defeat. The smell of beef began to waft up the staircase and my tummy grumbled. Staggering away from the door, I made my way to the source of the smell.

———————————————————————————————-

‘Mm. Darling this is delicious!’ Said my mother, tucking into the beef fillet I’d cooked. Everyone else echoed me and conversation started as we made our way through the meal. Pippa and I chatted about baby things, me giving her advice on things she needed. The two of us had really turned to each other during our respective pregnancies. Having had Hyperemesis Gravidarum with Libby and a milder version of it with Belle, Pippa had been a great support for me on the days I needed her when Will was away. Whether it was taking Libby for the day, cooking me meals or visiting me in hospital when the odd time arose, she did. Pippa luckily had not got HG with Ben, but had been quite sick for the first few months, so as the good sister that I was, I spent a lot of time helping her out. I still did. It wasn’t far into pudding when the whole family banter started. Teasing and laughing about funny memories was pleasant, and the meal passed quickly. When the meal had finished, William and I began to do the washing and drying of the plates. ‘You look tired Kate.’ William said lovingly as I sighed whilst stacking the dishwasher. I straightened up and smiled. ‘No I’m fine sweetie.’ He didn’t look convinced, yet turned back to pick up more cutlery to dry. A comfortable silence returned until Pippa and Robert came in to say goodnight. It wasn’t long before the other three did the same, and we were left alone to finish. William and I chatted idly and pleasantly until we finished. Dishwasher set off and cutlery back in its draw, we sighed happily. Feeling the need for a cuddle, I sidled up to Will and wrapped my arms around his waist. I felt his deep chuckle and he kissed my forehead. He drew me over to the sofa and we collapsed onto it. Me curled up tightly into his side, his arms forming a protective barrier around me. One of the few places I felt truly protected and safe. ‘I love you’ He whispered into my ear and I smiled, nuzzling my face into his neck and trailing kisses down it. Lifting my head up eventually, I looked deep into his eyes and returned his earlier sentiment. He leaned in and kissed me softly for a while. I was just getting into it, when a sudden urge to vomit overcame me, and I pulled away, lurching for the bathroom, where I only just made it in time. ‘Kate?’ He asked, coming up behind me and holding my hair back while I threw up. Once finished, I straightened up shakily and looked at him. ‘Are you okay?’ He asked, looking worried. I nodded, though I wasn’t fully sure yet. ‘William.’ I said when I was sure I wasn’t going to be sick again, my breath coming out heavily and shaking slightly. ‘Um…I haven’t told you that…um I’ve been sick for a while now, because I didn’t want to worry you.’ He stared at me, his eyes wide.

‘How long have you hidden this from me?’

‘Uh. A few weeks’ I whispered, fearful of his reaction.

However, to my surprise he looked thoughtful and his eyes glowed. ‘Do you think that you might be…?’

‘What, pregnant?’ I answered, ‘I don’t think so… wait hang on.’ I mentally began to do the sums. I had to do them several times, but I at last came to one answer.

‘I…think I might be!’

———————————————————————————————-

(8 months later)

‘Mummy!’ cried the two very excited voices of my other little babies as they appeared in my hospital room. William had brought them to see me and our little addition to the family, Thomas Peter Charles Michael. Peter after my grandfather, Charles after William’s father and Michael after my own. ‘Hi darlings!’ I cried happily, pulling them in for plenty of kisses. I had missed seeing their little faces every day. William sat down on the end of my bed and smiled lovingly at me and the baby. He lifted Belle onto his lap and helped Libby up next to him.

‘Mummy can I hold him?’ asked Libby and I nodded, helping lift him into her outstretched arms, holding his head while the girls looked down at the baby with nothing but love and awe in their faces. I looked at them each in turn, my heart filled to the brim with love for my family. My gorgeous husband and my three little angels.

[gabessquishytum]

I’m cackling over the idea of Hob tricking Dream into caring for him by letting himself get kidnapped. I love an angst kidnapping but this is just so funny to me. Hob is a former soldier who was a weapons expert and has had six centuries to learn to fight. He has scrappy street smarts and instincts honed over centuries. Sure, let’s say someone actually does get the jump on him. It’s scary! At first.

But the kidnappers aren’t like…great at it. They think he might be a vampire or something but they aren’t equipped for villainy and aren’t sure what to do with him once they have him. They don’t even tie him up very well, nor do they pat him down and find his pocket knife. Instead they hover around throwing garlic his way to see if he recoils.

Because Hob doesn’t feel he’s in any real danger and lately work has been tiring, he’s pretty happy to chill until Dream notices he is gone which takes only 2 hours. And dream storms in in full Nightmare mode to save him, and Hob is very grateful and puts on a big show, throws himself into Nightmare’s… clawed arms and kisses Nightmare’s…fangs or whatever. And Hob earns himself a two-week vacation in the Dreaming with his doting boyfriend, being fed grapes and snuggled and adored.

Yes!!! Extremely valid!!! Listen sometimes life is very stressful and I too would low-key like to be kidnapped, tied up and sprayed with holy water by amateurs. It's like a spa day, right?

Hob has definitely been through worse. And while he's not thrilled to be tied up in a basement somewhere, he knows that within a few hours, Dream will absolutely come and pull the house down brick by brick if necessary.

Hob loves Nightmare so much. He doesn't come out much but when he does he is SO possessive and protective of Hob. Hob just feels so safe when he's got Nightmare's strange gangly limb wrapped around him. Admittedly during the rescue he does ham it up a bit but he figures that he deserves to be cooed over and covered in kisses by Nightmare's lovely slobbering fanged mouth.

Back in the dreaming, Hob is pretty much dragged to Nightmare's lair. Nightmare curls around him and licks him from head to toe, making sure that Hob smells like him and no one else. When some time has passed and Dream shifts back into his normal self, he treats his love to a proper banquet of dream-food, a massage, anything he wants after his ordeal.

And Hob climbs into Dream’s lap (Dream is Big at this point so Hob just snuggles in perfectly), because what he really wants is to be held. And maybe a dreaming version of a venison pasty.

[blu-joons]

BTS Reaction: You’re Struggling To Cope With Stress

Jin:

Jin knew you like a book, he was incredible at reading your emotions, so as you sat on the couch, running your hands through your hair, he knew exactly what was wrong, vowing to make it better as best he could.

“Bad day?” He asked, sitting beside you. “Maybe we can watch a movie and order a takeout? I’ll give you a massage too if it will help you relax and keep calm.” His hand rested on the small of your back as you looked up at him.

“I can’t, there’s so much I’ve got to get done, there’s not enough time in the day.” You went to stand up, but he pulled you straight back down. “Jin, sweetie, please just let me get on with all the things I’ve got to do.”

He sighed, pulling you into his body. “Sorry, but looking after you is much more important, there’s always time in the day for loving yourself. Jagi, you need to look after you too, which is why I’m staging an intervention. I know this is what you want too.”

“Of course, it is. I just, don’t really know what to do anymore.”

He smiled, kissing the top of your head. “Go upstairs, change into something comfy and let me look after you. I’m not going to let you overstress yourself, you’re too gorgeous to have to worry, everything will be alright.”

“You’re right, everything works out in the end.”

Yoongi:

His body became numb as you crashed and burned over your laptop, all the tears you’d been holding back finally falling. He ran over, senseless, scooping your fragile body into his strong arms, cradling you close.

“Jagiya, it’s all going to be okay. Don’t cry, please.” He looked up at your laptop screen, noticing the thousands of emails you’d been sent by work. “Why didn’t you say something sooner, you’re too stressed love, you need to slow down.”

“I can’t Yoongi and it hurts. Everything has just got too much, I can’t get away from it all, no matter how hard I try.” You tightly grabbed around him, never wanting to let go. “Just help me, I need you to be there.”

His heart broke as your whimpers cried out. “I’m going to help, I’m here. Whatever I need to do, I’ll be there for you always. You’ve taken the first step, I know it’s hard to show weakness, but now I’m here, and I’m not leaving.”

“I’m going to quit, find something else, I cannot spend the rest of my life like this.”

Relief was his first feeling, the burden was to be lifted. “I’ll support you, you don’t deserve to be treated like this. We’ll find you a job elsewhere, or even at the studio, anything to bring you happiness.”

“Just you, you’re my happiness.”

Hoseok:

Hobi knew that you’d been having a difficult time at work recently, but as you came home one night, tears already freely falling he knew something serious was up. He ran over to you, pulling you tightly into his arms.

“What happened? Tell me all about it my little sunshine, let me help you.” You grabbed onto him, never wanting to let go, never wanting to return to work again. His touch was the comfort you needed in times like this to calm yourself down. “Let’s go sit, I’ll make some tea.”

“I just can’t deal with it anymore, all the blame is constantly put on me and it’s not fair.” You told him, sitting on the sofa. “I don’t know what to do anymore Hobs, I’m just lost.”

He pulled you back into him, pressing long kisses to the top of your head. “You’re never lost, not with me anyway. I’m going to help you my love, whichever way I can I’m going to help make things better, I’m not having you treated this way.”

“There isn’t anything you can do, I’ve just got to ride it out and hope that soon it will come to an end and I’ll be left alone.”

He shook his head, no way was he going to sit back and watch you suffer night after night. “I will find a way, I promise you, I’ll walk to the ends of the earth for you, I want to take away your hurt, whatever it takes, I’m there.”

“Thank you Hobi, you’re just the best.”

Namjoon:

Instantly his heart sunk as you unloaded all your problems onto him. He’d become oblivious to what went on your life, how had he not realised sooner that day by day your stresses were just building to a point of no return?

“I don’t even know what to say, I can’t believe I’ve let you go through this alone.” Both of you shed a few tears as you embraced each other tightly. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you jagi, it’s not fair at all.”

“I guess it’s just my time to go through a bad spell.” You tried to joke, but Namjoon frowned at you. “At least now I’ve got you to support me.”

His head nodded, “you always had me, you never lost me. I should have been there from the start, properly, I can’t make up for lost time, but let me support you through all of this, just like how you always support me.”

“I need you Joon, I’ve always needed you. A problem shared is a problem halved, right? Together we are invincible.”

He chuckled, pressing a loving kiss to your lips. “Gosh, I don’t know how I got so lucky, you’re so brave babe, continue to be strong for me, just like I’ll be strong for you, you’re through the worst, I’m going to make it all okay.”

“You already have by just being here with me.”

Jimin:

He blamed himself entirely when he saw you breakdown in front of him. He’d been so wrapped up in work that he’d forgotten how much you needed him too. As you fell to the floor he was wracked with guilt, kneeling in front of you.

“Jagi, I’m so sorry that I’ve allowed things to get this way.” You looked up at him, allowing his hands to wipe the tears from under your eyes. He blamed himself for this? You frowned, cupping his guilted face with your hand. “I promise I’m going to help you sort things.”

“This isn’t your fault,” you encouraged, “I know how busy you have been with work and the pressures of comeback. Please don’t blame yourself.”

He leaned forwards, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But I should have seen, if I wasn’t such a terrible boyfriend I would have recognised that you were struggling, and I didn’t. I wish that I could have intervened sooner, stopped it getting to this.”

“Baby, this is not your fault. If I’m honest I’ve hidden my feelings for some time from you to not get in the way with work.”

His eyes widened, shaking his head, disgusted with himself. Your beautiful smile remained, but now he could see how much you had been hiding. “Don’t ever do that. From now on, I will be there. Don’t bottle things up, talk to me, please.”

“I will, I promise you Jimin.”

Taehyung:

You scribbled through yet another set of notes, the clock ticking behind you, a sign time was running out to cram in as much revision as possible before you took the most important exam of your life tomorrow.

“Baby, just take a minute to breathe, you’re not helping yourself.” He came over and sat beside you, “you’re not in any state to revise right now, don’t stress, everything will be alright, you know all the stuff, you just think you don’t.”

“I don’t know it Tae,” you cried out, “I know nothing. All of this is just going to be for nothing.” You didn’t even look at him, grabbing another revision card, only for him to snatch it away. “Don’t. I’ve not got enough time as it is.”

He sighed, sliding all your work away. “You’ve got plenty of time, I’ll help you. When was the last time you even took a break?” Your shoulders shrugged in response. “Right, well you’re just going to sit there and let me cook tea for you, you’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine, I’m not tired, I’m just stressed, that’s all.”

He stood up, kissing the top of your head. “I’m not listening to your arguments. I’ve always promised to look after you, and that’s not going to change now. So, tell me what you want for dinner and I will cook it, for you.”

“Anything, I just need anything right now.”

Jungkook:

Watching you struggle through the hard days was impossible for him. Slowly he watched the stress become too much, knowing that he couldn’t help you how you needed him to. It broke his heart to see you despair.

“I know it’s hard, but you’re going to get through this,” he would remind you day after day, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. He became frightened of who you become, your demons overcoming you. “This will pass.”

“When? Jungkook, I’m not me anymore! Every little thing troubles me, I don’t know how much more I can take of this stress.”

He sighed, pulling you into him, he didn’t care if it wasn’t what you wanted, it was what you needed. “I’m not going anywhere, there’s nothing to be scared of. I will spend the rest of my life bringing the old Y/N back if I have to.”

“She’s so far away, how did I not realise I was like this sooner? I’m just a ball of stress these days.”

His head shook, cupping your face to bring it up to look at him. “There is so much more to you, you’re beautiful and funny and kind, and you’re the love of my life. I’ll help you get better, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re all I’ve ever needed Kookie, please stay, always.”

---

Masterlist

[patience-hope-strength-courage]

My Life With Anxiety #1 - 05/01/2021

*Warning Long Post!

Tonight I thought I’d write a post about my experience with anxiety during my life. This is obviously only my experience and anxiety is different for all who suffer with it.

It’s difficult to say when I began suffering with anxiety because I probably didn’t even know what it was or recognise the feelings I was having were caused by anxiety. As a young child - pre secondary school I don’t remember worrying particularly day to day but I think there were some signs if I was to try and really dig deep.

Something I do recall from being a young child was I did develop a fear of people dying from a young age after losing my mum. I’m unsure of my exact age but it would have been between the ages of 6-11 because my Granny sadly died shortly after my 11th birthday. I remember during the night if I woke and needed to go to the toilet on my way back I would stop for a few seconds and make sure I could hear my Granny breathing in her bed. I mean it sounds bizarre in my head now because I’m not actually sure what prompted this behaviour but I guess I felt I needed to check she was okay before I went back sleep - I never told her I did this. I guess you could say this is a form of anxiety - I was worried about something happening to her and clearly felt some responsibility for making sure she was okay.

Of course these behaviours don’t appear all that strange given my early life experiences. My experiences told me that people I love died and so I clearly knew this could happen. As I got older I’d say I maybe became more concerns with friendships and hated falling out with people or upsetting them. This was definitely true during secondary school and actually has never really changed as still to this day I worry far too much in case I’ve said something wrong or upset anyone! When there were friendship dilemmas between people I hated feeling like I needed to take a side (if it wasn’t me that was part of the fall out of course). I just wanted to please everyone and stay friends. This was difficult and so often I’d just remove myself from the situation and spend time alone - I’d sit somewhere alone and listen to music or go to the school library and do homework instead. This was better than conflict for me.

I did develop some anxiety around exams during school but this only really became noticable at the end of Year 10 I’d say. I think because there was extra pressure of GCSE coursework too it just got on top of me. I usually managed to get through the exams and actually would do better than I thought I had anyway! I always came out of any exam saying I’d done rubbish or probably failed, even if I thought I may have done okay (which wasn’t often). It was easier to tell myself I hadn’t done well because then if I hadn’t I wouldn’t be as disappointed. I got through my GCSEs and A Levels at school and did well for me, I mean I was never a straight A student but I put all my effort into revising and working hard. So I did well for me and got the grades I needed. I always found it frustrating that there were people who didn’t appear to work that hard but would still do so well. If I hadn’t have worked as hard as I did I’d have failed most subjects.

It’s difficult to talk about my anxiety without mentioned my OCD but I do want to write about this in a separate post because obviously it’s an anxiety disorder but I feel like I have general anxiety and OCD so they manifest in different ways and different times in my life. I first noticed OCD tendencies when I went to University. I became obsessed with worrying about leaving the light on in my room or making sure I’d locked the door. I would film myself turning out the lights and locking the door when I went home for the weekend so I could check if I was worried. I also was so worried about people leaving the hob on in the shared kitchen that when I knew they’d all gone out or to their rooms I’d go in and check. I’ll probably write about my struggles with OCD another time but feel it makes sense to mention it here because during that year at University that my Dad sadly and suddenly died.

I would say my Dad’s death was probably the event in my life that really set my anxiety off because although it was clearly there beforehand in various ways and the emergence of some OCD traits too, it was almost still under the surface and fairly manageable I’d say. After my Dad’s death I just felt anxious full stop, I think the suddenness of it all was just so scary and then the emptiness that he’d just gone. I’d always known people to get ill and die but because it just happened with no warning it just made realise that anything can happen in life. Obviously it taught me some good lessons too like how short life is and to make the most of every day etc and I do try to always do that regardless of my own struggles.

The months that followed my Dad’s death are difficult to remember that clearly now but I remember just feeling a bit lost and scared. It’s hard to explain now as it’s been nearly 10 years but I was just so worried. As the years went by I became more anxious of most things in life to be honest, but it didn’t actually stop me doing them. As in I managed to keep living and doing the things I enjoyed but just feeling anxious about them too. I studied for my degree with The Open University in the 3 years that followed my Dad’s death and this was brilliant for me. I had a hard time adjusting to University and had already decided to leave before my Dad died. Doing my degree from home worked perfectly for me, I didn’t need help being motivated to study and do the work as I have always loved learning so almost enjoyed it more reading textbooks and writing assignments. I guess I was in control of my studies abs study schedule. I realise many would find this way of studying difficult but it worked for me.

I was still anxious during these years. Driving became an issue I was always worried about doing something wrong and OCD quickly became a big issue with this (I will write about this another time). It’s difficult to remember exactly how things were back then as it’s been a few years but I know I was anxious and just scared I think of what might happen. Almost on edge the whole time ready just in case something went wrong in life.

I did take medication for my anxiety for nearly 5 years I think. It took me a long time to actually go to the doctors and do this but I did. It’s difficult to say whether it helped or not, I think it did in someways but not others. The worries were still there it didn’t fix my mind but I guess it helped it become more manageable at times. For me personally I wouldn’t go on medication again as I don’t feel it did enough for me but I know it’s different for everyone and for some people it helps so much. I decided to come off it before my Husband and I started trying for a baby. I did get withdrawal symptoms when I came off it, not in terms of my mental health feeling worse but more I felt physically not well. It was hard to actually say how I felt , I described it as kind of dizzy / wobbly and my head felt funny but not an actual headache. I was tired too but just didn’t feel great. Again it’s different for everyone but for me coming off them was tough because I absolutely hate feeling ill.

Since then my anxiety I would say has been okay in terms of I feel positive about it and although it’s never actually gone away I feel I’ve copied fairly well. Being pregnant was tough because I worried about every little thing but thankfully all was fine and I couldn’t be more grateful to have our little girl, she changed my life in the best way. I have a fear of hosptials in general, which I think stems from visiting my mum as a young child on ICU, so going into hospital to give birth was so scary even before it started! Becoming a new mum was obviously a massive learning curve as it is for anyone and I was worried about everything and probably still am!

I felt quite proud of myself (which is rare) for how I managed the first months becoming a mum but obviously then with the news of Coronavirus it definitely just made me so anxious. I was worried about it before most people even realised it was happening I think! I was premature in my fears compared to most I guess. I remember the first cases in the UK even though it was like less than 10 at that point!

I think for me having Anxiety, becoming a New Mum and then The Pandemic was obviously a recipe for me to become a bit overwhelmed with my worries. I don’t think I’ve really relaxed in nearly a year now since I first started hearing about the virus on the news. Despite this I actually think for me I’ve coped pretty well, unfortunately my OCD now is more about germs and washing my hands far too much whereas originally it started with checking things but I guess it’s my way of feeling like I’m doing what I can to keep me and my family safe. Being the kind of person I am I’ve made sure to follow the rules which I believe are incredibly important as I do believe we all need to do our bit and I get anxious knowing and seeing others breaking them but I know that’s life and people do have different views on things.

I’ve had to stop watching and reading the news at times because that is the worst thing for my anxiety. Seeing pictures of hosptials and reading figures terrifies me and also breaks my heart too. I do look sometimes when I feel able to without becoming overwhelmed by it. I do just find it so scary. I know other people who maybe don’t usually have anxiety feel just as scared by it all so I guess my feeling on this are justified. It’s a Global Pandemic I guess it’s understandable to be worried about it all.

I think the difference for me is that it’ll take me time to adjust back to how things were before. I’ve almost been grateful for the lockdowns and restrictions in some ways because then I feel I can follow them and keep safer but I guess then you get used to that and feel secure in your own bubble and way of doing things. When restrictions were lifted over the summer and into autumn we did do some things like some trips out to places for our little girl which was so lovely and seeing some family and friends too. Mostly outdoors because that’s where I’ve felt more comfortable but we did meet indoors with some people on a few occasions (when it was permitted) after a bit of pressure and feeling judged for still being worried and wanting to be more careful (or they would have seen it as over cautious). Some hurtful comments were made about my mental health which I won’t go into now but it’s affected me and I guess I’ve been seeing myself as not doing well enough or needing to be “fixed” since then - despite actually thinking I’ve copied pretty well with it all! It’s complicated and I won’t go into it now but the funny thing is when I feel judged it actually makes my anxiety worse for some reason? Like I then feel I need to work harder to not be anxious which makes it stronger.

I’m going to stop now but this is just a bit about my anxiety, there’s a lot more to it than just what’s written here. I know there are people out there who struggle more than I do and I do hope they have people to support and listen to them. For me I would love to be more open about it (I do have some people who I can be which I’m so grateful for) but once I feel judged for being a bit different I guess I then feel like I have to change who I am and hide part of myself if that makes sense. Then I feel awkward because I’m overly aware of my behaviour and what I say in case I come across anxious or they say something more about it.

I hope mental health and anxiety becomes better understood and less judged in the future. I know we’ve made a lot of progress on this since I was younger but I do think there’s still stigma out there and judgement and the view that it can just be fixed. I believe I will always have anxiety or be an anxious person but I hope to keep learning how to cope with it better and that I find ways so that it doesn’t limit me in life - that doesn’t mean it just disappears though.

Just some of my thoughts on the topic, probably a lot of waffle but I enjoy making sense of the thoughts in mind, goodnight world and stay safe.

** I should have mentioned that I have had counselling a few times over the years and I’ve always found this incredibly helpful and for me it’s offered a lot of support and allowed me to explore my feelings and life in more depth and understand and accept myself more.

[lockdownuk]

Lockdown Diary Part 9

A personal account during the lockdown in the UK due to the Covid-19 outbreak.

23/03/2020 8:30pm Boris Johnson, UK Prime Minister, gives a live address to the nation to, effectively, put the country on lockdown to stem the spread of the deadly coronavirus strain, Covid-19.

Many of us have been self-isolating for days but this latest development within the UK in reaction to the pandemic feels very serious and very scary. I decided to keep a simple diary and where better but online.

Day 241: Shit day at work. To cut a long story short, I could complete a task Sueanne gave to me and then I got it in the ear, including a snotty email ay 5:40pm. Pissed off.

Day 242: Had a meeting with Sueanne (our weekly 1-2-1 actually) and she was alright. I feel much better tonight. Last night I didn’t even have an appetitie - unheard of! Going to make up for that tonight, pie and loads of veg! A much better day. Ridiculously, I believe yesterday was all my own fault - I take work for granted sometimes and I let myself down by ignoring the urgency of a task just because it was Sueanne asking me to do it and she was a peer. She is now my boss, and I should respect that.

Day 243: So-so day at work. It’s strange how used to work I am after over six months on furlough. It’s been less than two months back but all the highs and lows amd frustrations are commonplace. Most importantly, it being Thursday, I cannot wait for tomorrow eveninga dn to kick back, drink and smoke. Spoke to dad this morning, he’s same as...that’s always good to know. Sugar levels have been a fucking roller coaster today, and it has really fucked me off! No salad at lunch due to them being so fucking high when I got back from my walk. It ended up being my tea. Sarted watching The Undoing...it’s OK. 

Day 244: Glad it is Friday. Just cooking a (very hot) chicken madras, cracked open my first beer. Gonna eat, drink, smoke and watch a good film.

Day 245: Gold was the film I watched last night, with Matthew McConaughey and it was a good choice. I then watch a Kevin Hart stand up show on Netflix...very Eddie Murphy, very funny. I did a 12 km walk today...fucking felt it in my legs. Walked the footpath from Stoke Doyle road to Benefield road for the first time. I liked it and it comes out between Lytham Park and Wakerley Close....I posted on FB about the fact that when I move to Oundle, Clifton Drive was the last street heading out of town. Saw Becks on the walk down Benefield road, She mentioned she’s tired of lockdown. I replied that I’m tired of the virus!

Day 246: Up at 1pm, nice long walk, ordered new slippers and waterproof jacket (my Craghopper is bust again).

Day 247: I screwed up at work today, went for a (ridiculously) late lunch right when I was meant to be at an online meeting that Sueanne had reminded me about in the morning. There’s mitigation but, when push comes to shove, I fucked up and now Sueanne’s on the warpath - one more slip up and it’ll be an offical disciplinary matter. 

Day 248: Suzanne wants me to troubleshoot a ticket she has in her queue, some database request for a Cork guy. It’s a test and it’s fucking me off.

I did testing for a network change tonight...8 till 11:15pm.

Elliot and Aaron cleaned the windows today. It was nice to see them.

Rita sent a couple of emails recently. Dad’s ear is all clear but Paul has got testicular cancer.

Day 249: New waterproof jacket arrived today. It’s very nice, bargain for £25 odd. Also picked up slippers from M&S food hall in Corby so, while over their, did a shop at Tesco’s...£109 mainly booze.

By the time I was back, I ended up doing my evening walk at 9.30pm!

Day 250: Leigh from Oundle Chronicle has got back to me. She (he?) has selected the photos that are going to be in the article and wants me to write a sentence on each - where they were taken and what inspited me to do so. Whether that means the stuff I wrote before is not going to be used, or not, I dunno! New slippers are OK and the new jacket is still impressing me.

Day 251: Typing on Day 252. Usual Friday, beers, meatballs, pizza, long chat with Fog. I should mention that, as we approach the end of Lockdown2 in England, Boris and his government have laid out a three tier structure for how the second lockdown will be eased. It’s caused confusion and consternation across the board. None of it affects me, still isolating like I was on day 1. Day 252: Totally forgot about my diary entry yesterday! Up at 1pm, nice long walk, nipped rong Elliots to pay for my windows, had a chat with him, Artron and Camilla - it’s so nice to socialise! Gonna make fish pie and supp a few ales. Day 253: The weekend is over way too quickly. It’s 7.30pm on Sunday as I type and I wish it wasn’t. I wish it was 7.30pm on Friday. Day 254: In a meeting, a working Zoom, with Andy Ashler in the US re: qfiniti, which Sueanne pissed me off about earlier in te day (RCI diary updated), but the meeting went well. I am desparately trying to buy an iPad on Black Monday. As usual with tech, I cannot make my mind up which to buy! Day 255: I haven’t bought an iPad....I’ll wait for the 10.2″ iPad to come down in price. I had more involvement with Andy Ashler and in the US with the Qfiniti project at work. I’m really enjoying it, it’s very technical...although I didn’t finish ‘til 6pm because of it. The Oundle Chronicle is out and an article about me and my pics is on the back page. Leigh, the editor, sent it to me electronically. It’s good. I am chuffed!  Day 256: I booked some holidays today, making sure that I didn’t include any days off in the week December 14-18 (SB’s off). So, this coming Friday (4th Dec), Next Weds-Fri and Monday 21st. I know I have only been back from Furlough a couple of months but I am more than ready for some kick-back time.  1-2-1 with SB today, it was a relaxed affair, most espcially becaus eof my success thus far with the Qfiniti project - that being said, I got pretty much nowhere with it today.  Ordered a couple of long sleeved Ts and a fleeced hoody from a shop called Doubletwo today, well cheap in the sale. I saw half a dozen joggers on the Milton Road blind bend tonight, oblivious to any other potential path user. I posted about it (in my own, sarcastic way) on the Oundle Chatter FB group. It was met how I’d expected plus some direct digs so I deleted it. Cowardly but, I figure, I don’t get my point across, the vast majority of joggers really don’t think they are doing anything wrong by bulldozing there way around town and, lastly, I couldn’t be bothered with the flak, and its tennis like back-and-forth!

Day 257: Got tomorrow off so worked late tying up loose ends, including the qfiniti project - fucking nuts really, making sure no one asks any questions of SB or the team, in terms of my work load, for just one day off! Still, just had tea, cracked open a beer and am watching Shaun of the Dead. Nice.

Day 258: The main thing I did today is walk. It was about 12km but felt much longer ‘cos it was wintry, pissing down, windy and slippery as fuck. And I really enjoyed it! Badge messaged me today to ask how I am and, in replying, I mentioned that I think I am becoming addicted to walking...it wasn’t a throwaway comment. Just cooked up a chilli (which I think I have ruined with a Knorr beef stock pot), and will tuck in with beers, smokes and telly. While it’s been a day off, this Friday evening will be as all others are at the moment, late, drunken and solitary fun - no doubt.

Day 259: Typing on day 260. That chilli last night was actually OK. Plus I ‘invented’ a meatball wrap - moving on from the TikTok ham and cheese wrap you fold into the toaster, I tried the same with meatballs but no fucking way could I fold it into the toaster slot (pissed up kitchen shenanigans), so I wrapped it in tin foil and heated it in the oven, Fucking delicious. I watched Shaun of the Dead. I think it’s the first time since its release and I couldn’t help thinking “zombies just aren’t like that [in real life]” Wtf?

Day 260: I was quite sensible (for a Saturday) last night, in bed by 2am, up at my alarm this morning, 10:30am. Nice long walk, taking in a new path up by Biggin Grange and took plenty of pics that turned out really good. Btw, posh lost yesterday at Portsmouth (with 2000 fans there) and they lost midweek and last weekend in the FA Cup to Chorley, at home. 

Day 261: It’s freezing today...actually 0 degrees. This house is so fucking cold, even with the heating on.

Day 262: Typing on day 263. Last day of work for 5 days. Beers are in order. And a sausage casserole. Day 263: I completely forgot to do a diary entry yesterday....concentrating on starting my work break off on the right foot, which I did. As a result, I didn’t get up until 1pm. So, to stop that sort of day wasting, no beers tonight. Just got back from a shop (£90 in Tesco’s), trying to sort out Romiley’s Christmas present, then something to eat (more sausage casserole) and a early, sober night.

Day 264: So, after abstinence last night, I was up before 11am and did a walk that included the track from Benefield Road to Monson Way past Park Wood. It was fucking hard work due to mud. I have lost coumd the amount of times I nearly slipped right over. Throw into that a hypo, the 12-13km walk was tough. Sorted out Romiley’s present (guitar stand, music stand and guitar exercises book). Took soime nice photos today as well which I’ve prepared and shared. No booze today/tonight either. Some break, a younger me would say!

Day 265: Friday, and I am typing with a beer, balti on the hob and I am just gonna choose a film and roll a single skinner. I am knackered. Up at 10am, cleaned the hall and stairs after a 10km walk. Also, I spoke with dad who is, as always, fine.

Time to make up for the last two sober nights.

Day 266: I am typing this on day 267. So drunk last night I left nearll a full can of beer and went to bed in my jogging bottoms and t-shirt. I have had a day off from any exercise at all which felt very odd. A few beers and watched Snatch. Day 267: While I was nowhere near drunk last night, due to sleeping in late (2pm) I was up ‘til 3am watching TikTok so today I struggled out of bed at just before 1pm. Watch the start of the season’s final GP (Verstappen won from pole and it was boring af), back on the exercising including a 9km walk. Back to work tomorrow which I feel totally conflicted about! Posh won yesterday at home to Rochdale (with the allowed 2000 fans) 4-1 including a 17 minute first half hatrick from Jonson Clarke-Harris.

Day 268: Back to work - Sueanne’s off and it’s the first day I’ve been at work with Jon in charge which involves a daily ‘SUMO’ (whatever that acronym stands for?) at 9.30am every day. I am still involved with te qfiniti upgrade project which seems to have taken a step backwards in the 3 days I had off, so I was working until gone 9.30pm! I have decided to do a quiz, hopefully for Christmas, whereby I don’t want the actual answers (to 25 particular questions, all with a common theme in the answer), merely an omitted question!  

Day 269: Stand Up Meeting Online. SUMO. Ian Bird told me. I might struggle with double Y for my quiz. Work was OK, more Qfiniti stuff. Posh drew away to MK 1-1. Posh were 0-1 up but Lincs lost at home. I can’t undertsand why that pleases me so....oh, yeah I can Steve Dee.

Day 270: Struggling to order Dad and Rita booze for Christmas without it being a Morrison’s delivery that I can do through Amazon Prime. That would be OK but it’s just a bit clinical! Meanwhile, now I am paying for Prime, and they are showing some Premiership games (for example, tonight I watched Liverpool v. Spurs (2-1), I really have to contact Sky - I am paying £71pm atm! Sam posted pic of her Christmas tree but mentioned how she’s finding it hard to get in the spirit - Paul has testicular cancer and the outlook is bleak - fuck know’s what she’s going through with all that, trying to shield Romiley from the worst without lying!

[words-writ-in-starlight]

FIC PROMPTS. YOU KNOW THE THING. ÉTIENNE CHASING CHELSEA AROUND THE WORLD, AND ALL THE DESPERATE MEETINGS ALONG THE WAY. OR ANYTHING WITH CHELSEA, AT ALL.

I BET YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT ABOUT THIS ASK! THINK AGAIN MOTHERFUCKERS, I COME WITH CHELSEA ANGST!

over hill, over dale, over valley and vale

There’s a lot to be said for living inFairyland, in Chelsea’s opinion.  DukeTorquill is very nice—partly, she suspects, because he views all of Sir Daye’sstrays as a sort of motley crew of grandchildren—even if his wife is strangeand distant even in her kindness.  Pixiesare a vastly more interesting pest than mice, the Hobs in the kitchen are alltoo game to allow or even encourageChelsea to steal snacks whenever she’s interested, and for the first time inher life, Chelsea has friends near her own age. Quentin, and through Quentin Raj, and Karen, and sometimes evenCassandra or Helen.  Not many friends,and spread across seven or eight years in age, but there are nights whenChelsea feels almost dizzy with the embarrassment of riches.

Then there are days like this one, whereChelsea wishes Fairyland had left her well alone until the day she died ahappily ignorant human death.

Chelsea sucked in a breath and it tasted like fire, and ittasted like smoke, and it tasted like screaming, and then—yes, God, yes, thank you, a doorout of this hell, she knew where it would take her, it would take her toSeattle—

She stumbled into ice and snow, and there was a voice shoutingfor her to listen, for her to breathe, just for a moment, and then—

The stars overhead were unfamiliar, and there was an invisiblefist around her spine, around her heart, holding her in place, and her skin wasbeing sanded away to reveal something new and strange, and there was still somuch screaming—anything to be out of this place where everything hurt and shewas a prisoner, anything, anywhere would be better, anywhere but—

There was a man with green eyes and a startled expression, andthen there was fire, and then—

Chelsea’s eyes snap open, and sheflinches back so hard her head cracks into the stone wall.  Her hands fly out, trying to ward off theflames, grabbing for the intangible somethingthat makes up the world, but—

Hands lowering slowly, Chelsea blinks,gulping in a vast breath, then another, and another, as she feels her heartrace.  Right.  Of course. She’s at Shadowed Hills, the dim shapes around her focusing into herroom as her eyes remember what seeing feels like.  There are her books, and her desk, and herwardrobe.

There’s no glittering door in front ofher.

It’s a good thing.  It’s safety. It’s the surest sign in the world she’ll never be swept away again.

It makes Chelsea’s gut twist up with fearuntil she’s sure she’s about to be sick.

Chelsea pulls her legs up to her chestand wraps both arms tight around them, like a little kid afraid of thedark.  Chelsea had never been afraid ofthe dark—even as a child, she had been able to see through the dim,light-polluted Berkley night with ease, and it had felt safe and comforting,nothing like the punishing whipcrack of sunrise.  She thinks she might be learning to be afraidnow, despite her fine new night vision.

At very least, her time in Duchess Riordan’scare taught her well and truly to be afraid of being alone.

“I want my dad,” she whispers into herknees.

It’s a strange impulse.  Her dad—Etienne—is still nearly astranger.  She doesn’t know him, notreally.  He’s a knight, for God’s sake, he fights with a sword.  But—

But she also knows him better than she’sever known anyone, because the first time she met him, he caught her shakingshoulders in his hands and said that he would never leave her again, and shehad looked into his eyes and known hewas telling the truth.

It went like this.

Chelsea was sure she was going to die,alone in a strange world, surrounded by people who didn’t even care enough tohate her.  She wonders, now, if SirDaye—Toby, which Chelsea is still adjusting to—knows how utterly fortunate sheis, that most of her enemies hate herwith every fiber of her being.  It wasterrifying, gut-wrenching, to know that she was going to die, her body left onthe heather or thrown over the cliffs, and no one who cared would ever know,and no one who knew would ever care, except that their crowbar to pry open thewalls of the world had finally given out.

And worse than that, she was going to diein pain, because the blinding painthat had started in her head was lancing down her neck, burning along hernerves like it was trying to chew through her bones.  The longer she held open the gate, the moreit hurt—and she couldn’t do anything else, she couldn’t, because there was an unbreakable grip around her spineand she couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything but try to standhere and not die.

When the fight started, she could barelysee past the white-static haze drifting over her vision, popping here and therewith black starbursts.  There wasscreaming, barely distinguishable from the noise in Chelsea’s ears.  It had started as a pitchy hum, then aringing, and now it was as if she was standing in a high wind, just an endlessroaring that ebbed every once in a while to remind her that her heart reallywas beating that fast.

Someone was rushing toward her.  Fine. Chelsea couldn’t see, couldn’t move, just gasped out a wheezing, sobbingbreath and tried to straighten under the weight of the pain.  The gate, the gate, she had to hold up thegate—

“Chelsea!”

That was what had finally gotten herattention, brought her back into her body from the elsewhere she had started todrift toward.  If Riordan knew her name,Chelsea had never seen any evidence of that fact.  The only people who had shouted her name werethe other changeling, and the man with her, and this was neither of them.

Turning her head hurt more than anythingelse Chelsea had ever done.

There was a man moving toward her, movingfast, and he looked like he’d been beaten to hell and back but he bulledthrough one of the invisible soldiers without so much as a pause.

“Chelsea!” he repeated, more sharply, andthen he was in front of her.  He wastall, and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and sharply pointed ears and eyes asbright as freshly minted pennies. “Chelsea, breathe,” he said. There was a strange accent clinging to his deep voice, but his wordswere kind, and he caught her shoulder when she wavered on her feet.

“Who—are—you,” Chelsea forced out, oneword at a time, and his face twisted into something between grief and blind,homicidal rage.

“My name is Etienne,” he said, and oh,then his hands were brushing her hair out of her face, careful and unsure, butthe touch left a small path of painlessness, for a brief moment.  “I’m—I’m your father.”

“It hurts,” Chelsea gasped, feeling tearsgather in her eyes again.  The ragesettled more fully onto his face.  “It—Ithurts.”

“I know it does, Chelsea,” the man—her father—said.  “I’m going to help you hold open thegate.  Just look at me.  You’re doing wonderfully.”

“I don’t want to keep it open anymore,”she said, tipping over fully into crying. “It hurts, I—I don’t want to die, I don’t--”

“You are not going to die,” her father said fiercely, cupping her face inhis hands and catching her eyes with his own. Her eyes, his eyes.  It was funny,to a hysterical part of Chelsea’s brain, but laughing was one too many thingsto consider doing right now.  “I am goingto get you out of this, Chelsea.  Youhave my word.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Chelsea begged,and she knew she was begging, and she didn’t care, because fuck, at least if he stayed, she wouldn’t die alone.  “Please, please, I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”  Her father was still cradling her face inboth hands, and he looked every inch the knight of the Fair Folk, even throughthe bruises and blood—wild, and terrible, and honest.  “Chelsea, you can do this.  I am going to get you out of this, but weneed that gate back to the mortal world to do it.  Chelsea—Chelsea, look at me, open your eyes.”

Were they closed?  Chelsea forced them open, and it took far toolong for his face to resolve.  All shecould see was his eyes, bright as copper, and vicious with determination.

“Listen to me, Chelsea,” he said, wipingthe tears from her face with his thumbs. “I am so sorry, that I wasn’t there for you.  We should have had all these years together,and we didn’t, and I’m sorry.  But I giveyou my word, on oak and ash and thornand rowan and anything else you want me to swear on, that I am not leaving younow.  Do you believe me?”

And God save her—oak and ash and thornand rowan save her—she did.

“Yes,” she whispered.  Her voice sounded like a child’s when shespoke again.  “Daddy?  What do I do?”

“You breathe,” he said, sounding close totears himself.  “And you look at me.”

And he had somehow, through some miracleof magic she didn’t think even Etienne could explain, talked her throughkeeping the gate open, even when her legs tried to fold up under her and shestopped being able to speak through the pain. He had held her up, keeping his voice steady, and she had clung to himas best she could without losing her grasp on the gate, and then when she hadbeen snatched away again—

She knows now what it had cost Etienne tofollow her, to chase her through cities and countries and realms when, at hisstrongest, he found it tiring to go from Shadowed Hills to Toby’s house.  The magic burn had been brutal, powerdampeners or not.  But he had stayed onher heels every step of the way, he had stayed on his feet when she wascollapsing, he had held her hand when they were close enough and hugged her closein the Snow Kingdoms and told her where they were.  Within an hour, he had gone from a strangerto her dad, the man who would doanything in the world to keep her safe.

So maybe it makes sense, now, thatChelsea wants him.

Her mom—her mom is wonderful.  Bridget Ames loves her daughter witheverything she has and more than a few things she doesn’t, and Chelsea knowsthis.

Her mom also didn’t understand why herbeautiful baby girl screamed and sobbed every day at dawn, and even if sheknows the reason now, she’ll never understand.  Her mom would do anything for her, but shecould never have hung onto Chelsea’s hand and panted out “Welcome toTir-na-Nog,” just so that Chelsea wouldn’t be lost anymore.

But she’s seventeen damn years old, goingon eternity, and she’s going to take some deep breaths and get herself undercontrol rather than running to her parents.

The shaking has started to ease out of herhands, finally, when her door opens—just a crack.

If it was at home—if Chelsea was how shewas, at her old home—she wouldn’t have been able to make out the face of theperson standing there in this darkness. The Summerlands might be comparable to light-polluted California intheir perpetual twilight, but any room meant for sleeping is dark, heavy curtains or else no windowsat all, and Chelsea’s is the same.  Now,though, she blinks away the last haze clinging to her lashes and whispers,“Daddy?”

“I—I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says,like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “I only—Chelsea, are you all right?”

And she doesn’t know what gave her away,if he can see the salt tracks on her cheeks or hear the faint rasp in hervoice, or maybe he just knows, butit’s the middle of the day and she can’t lie to him.

“Can I have a hug?” Chelsea breathes, andshe knows she sounds like a child afraid of the dark and doesn’t care.

Chelsea doesn’t care because there’s abeat where Etienne seems taken off-guard, but then he says, “Of course.”  And he crosses the room in a handful of quicksteps to hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, next to her bed before hevisibly steels himself and settles down next to her to pull her into a hug, andhe’s nervous and unsure of his welcome, just like he was when he brushed herhair from her face, but his arms are strong and he holds onto her like she’sthe most precious thing he’s ever touched. Chelsea presses her face into his shoulder without thinking twice,wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing in the faint scent of cedarthat clings to him even though he hasn’t had his magic in weeks, and herfather’s grip goes from cautious to firm the moment he’s sure of what shewants, and it’s—

Chelsea finds herself bursting into tearsagain without really knowing why.

Etienne makes a faint noise, like he’s ata loss for what to do, but he’s a damn knight,her father, and he knows how to rally and come through when he’s needed.  He comforts differently from her mother—doesn’trub her back or rock back and forth, just holds her tight with one arm and strokesher hair with the other hand, tucking her head under his jaw while she burrowsinto his shoulder.  He doesn’t sayanything, either, and somehow it’s perfect.

She’s heard stories of the Fair Folk allher life, but none of them ever mentioned how brutally hard Faerie took change.  She’salways been fae enough for that.  

She doesn’t know how to explain why she’scrying, can’t put her fingers on the words to say why she’s shaking apart half-wayinto her father’s lap, it’s all too much and too strange and some deep part ofher that’s woken up lately clings pettily to the way things used to be andmutters that change is for mortals.  And her father, Etienne who kept ShadowedHills standing when the Duke went mad with change,doesn’t ask her to explain, just holds her and strokes her hair and waits forher to cry herself out.

It takes a while.  When Chelsea’s tears finally ebb until she’snot shuddering anymore, she realizes that he’s humming, something sweet and alittle sad in the back of his throat. Not a lullaby, but maybe a ballad.  And she keeps her head pressed against hisshoulder, tucks her face into the curve of his throat, and lets the sound of itresonate into her bones while she breathes through the last of the tears.

“Sorry,” Chelsea whispers into her father’sshoulder.

“It’s quite all right,” Etienne says,loosening his grip on her slightly to let her sit away from him.  Then he cups her face in his hands, like hedid in Annwn, and wipes away her tears with his thumbs, looking into her eyeswith a worried expression.  In the dimlight spilling in through the hallway, his eyes are too shadowed to show thebright penny-copper, but he can probably see it in hers.  “Are you well, Chelsea?  Did you have a nightmare?”

Chelsea nods, and self-consciousness isstarting to set in, at last, because this might be her father, her Daddy, buthe was also a perfect stranger two months ago. Two months ago, he’d probably never let a teenager sob all over him inhis life.  

“I didn’t mean to—sorry,” she says again,weakly, reaching up between Etienne’s hands to rub at her eyes.  He lets go of her at once, to give her thespace to collect herself, and Chelsea wishes idly that she wasn’t such ablotchy crier.  Her mother cries with thecollected elegance of a princess. Chelsea’s face flushes red in patches and her eyes go bloodshot and shealways manages to look hopelessly frazzled. Being a pureblood just means it doesn’t last as long as it used to.

Etienne’s frown deepens, minutely.  “Don’t be. What was your nightmare about?”

“Fire,” Chelsea says, and her voicewavers.  She clears her throat and saysagain, more steadily, “Fire.  And someother places.”

Etienne reaches out, hesitant, and tucksa wayward lock of hair back from her face, and says, “Do you want something hotto drink?”

The question is so—not what Chelsea expected that she blinks at him for a moment.  “Something hot to drink?” she echoes, blank.

He smiles faintly.  “Yes. I used to drink tea when I had nightmares as a child.  Do you want something hot to drink?”  She blinks at him one or two more times forgood measure, against the gritty feeling of having cried too hard for too long,and Etienne adds, “I’m sure that someone is awake in the kitchen, and if not, Iknow where everything is.  You like hotchocolate.”

He says the last somewhere between aquestion and a statement.  Like he knowsit’s the truth but isn’t sure he’s allowedto know it.

“I—look like a mess,” Chelsea says.  “I always look like a mess after I cry.”

Etienne’s smile widens a little, takingon some of that wondering edge she’s getting used to seeing on him.  “You get that from me, I’m afraid.”

“You are not an ugly crier.”

“You would lose that bet, my love,” hesays dryly, and stands up from her bed.  Thenhe holds out a hand to her, and—

Her father’s hand is warm and Chelseafeels like a kid, standing up next to him. They’re almost of a height—Chelsea is probably due a few more inches,which will put them dead even—but she’s in pajama pants with little frogs onthem and he’s still wearing livery, fine fae cloth that looks expensive evenafter she wept all over it.  The stone iscold on her feet before she steps into her slippers.  It’s a strange, out-of-place sense memory, ofbeing a little girl holding her mother’s hand after a bad dream, but it’sfamiliar and safe and soothing.

Etienne has callouses on his palm thatcan’t be from anything but a sword, but the strong, sure grip on her hand as heleads her down the hall hits that same sense memory.  Chelsea relaxes into it, more easily than shewould have dreamed, into this feeling of being a kid shuffling after her parentand trying not to yawn every time she’s faced with a bright light.  Few people are awake at this hour, and thosethat are mostly consist of Etienne’s knights, who smile at her a littleindulgently and give him a polite nod, and then they’re at the kitchen, andEtienne is placing Chelsea on a stool while he boils water in a saucepan.

He doesn’t talk while he does it, andChelsea doesn’t ask any questions.  She’stoo busy watching the apparently intricate process of making hot chocolate on astove.  It makes some intuitive sense,she guesses.  Etienne’s exact age is somethingshe’ll have to ask about someday, but he probably predates Swiss Miss hot cocoapackets and definitely predates the microwave.  He can use one—Chelsea saw him with her own eyes,at Tamed Lightning—but apparently for the time being he prefers to meltchocolate into milk the old-fashioned way. There’s a lot more stirring and careful heat management than Chelsea isused to, when it comes to making anything short of a meal.

God, can Etienne cook?  He seems reasonably confident, adding a bitof cinnamon and something else that smells strange and exotic to the chocolate,but Chelsea has literally never seen him make anything more complicated thancoffee.  The Hobs that usually populatethe kitchen are happy to feed anyone who comes through, but, as a rule, aren’tcharitable to strangers cooking in their space. Etienne is lucky there aren’t any here, or they definitely would havechased him off before he could even turn on the stove.

Chelsea is so absorbed in watching thehypnotic swirl of the hot chocolate that it startles her, when Etienne liftsthe saucepan away and neatly pours some into a mug.

“It’s been a while since I made hot chocolate,”he says, with that trace of rueful humor Chelsea has started to recognize.  He sets the blue mug on the table in front ofher stool and it smells sweetly of chocolate and spices, cinnamon and thatother darker spice she can’t quite put her finger on.  The porcelain isn’t quite hot enough to burnwhen she wraps her hands around it.  “Butthe principle is still simple enough.”

“Just like riding a bike,” she says,staring at the hot chocolate like she’s expecting it to disappear.  Etienne makes a noise that she’s starting toknow as his I understood that human idiombut you’ll never make me admit it noise, and she smiles down at her mug.  “Daddy,” she says.  “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Etienne says quietly.

Chelsea takes a sip of the hot chocolateand it’s—fucking incredible, actually. Chelsea’s always had a sweet tooth, the kind of kid who stole sugarpackets when her mother’s back was turned, and the hot chocolate is so thickand sweet that it washes away the sour taste of tears with a single swallow.  When she lowers the cup, she realizes thatEtienne has the remainder of the hot chocolate in a smaller mug, his hippropped against the counter next to her, not quite selling casual but very nearly hitting the mark on comfortable.

“You were there in my dream,” she says,before she can talk herself out of it. Etienne looks up at her, over the edge of his cup.  “I fell through the Snow Kingdoms, and Icould hear your voice.  You were tellingme to breathe, and that it would be okay.”

It seems to take Etienne so off-guardthat he’s left fumbling for words.  Inthe warm golden light of the kitchen, his eyes are so bright they lookpolished, and when he blinks quickly, twice, something glitters for a moment onhis lashes before he rallies, taking another sip of his hot chocolate as if tofortify himself.

“Chelsea,” he says, voice still quiet, asif they’re still in her room.  “I—I hopeyou know that I did not mean to leave you, as a baby.  I would have given anything, to be able tospend those years with you, and your mother. You are—you are the greatest gift I could ever have dreamed of, and nowthat I have the option, I intend to do everything in my power to be at yourside for as long as you want me there. For the rest of your life, if you wish.”

“For the rest of forever?” Chelsea asks,and her voice sounds thin and wistful. Forever might be her birthright, now, as a pureblood, but it’s a longtime to the girl who grew up half human.

“Until the last oak and ash crumble, andthe rowan and thorn never grow again,” Etienne swears, and he sounds so seriousthat she thinks it must be a vow. Chelsea nods, and takes a few more long swallows of her hot chocolate.

“This is really good, Daddy,” shemurmurs.  “What did you put in it?”

“Cloves,” Etienne says immediately.  “I’m afraid my culinary talents are—limited,but no one ever accused me of being inept with spices.  I could--” He pauses, and then bulls on like a good knight.  “I could teach you how to make it someday, ifyou’d like.”

“Yeah,”Chelsea says.  “Yeah, I’d love that.”

[joonipertree]

Between Smoke and Troye Sivan Songs (there’s love)

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader x Yoongi

Summary: You, Hoseok and Yoongi getting high and making out while listening to Troye Sivan because Troye Sivan songs are the songs you listen to when you're getting high.

(This is gender neutral for all my guys and nonbinary pals..if there's a mistake and misgendering then let me know please)

Words: 3.9k

Tags: Use of hash, characters being High, making out, fluff, things get hot and steamy.

(this is on AO3 as well) 

It was late, it was always late when you decided to ask your boyfriends the same question every 2 months or so.

“Can we?”

It was always your job to get the joints, to ask your friends who asked their friends and roll it up for you and get high with you, even though you were never allowed to get high outside of what you and your boyfriends did. But Yoongi never finds out about it, or never says anything at least.

It was his rule, that they could only smoke every 2 months in the safety of their own home. He wasn’t necessarily against it but you understood his thought process, they were idols and them doing it even once every two months was risky. That and the fact that smoking was bad for you and also the fact that both you and him had mental health issues that could worsen with being under the influence of things like weed or hash, for that matter.

Often times what the three of you used was hash, especially in 2014 and 2015 when all of you were too broke for weed, weed was expensive. Hoseok was the one who normally paid for it now, since he owned watches worth 70k. It was ridiculous and they were ridiculous for buying expensive shit for you but it was always soft things, like sweaters and matching necklaces that none of you ever took off.

Hoseok was the one to check the time, eyes heavy lidded as he smiled in an emotionally exhausted way. Going on tour took a toll on both of them and it was no surprise when Yoongi and Hoseok came home and attached themselves to you for dear life.

Yoongi never said it but he was clingy as fuck and loved the attention. The only time it showed was when they were high or he was too tired to care.

You were currently on his lap, face buried into his neck with his hand through your hair as you purred quietly.

“Yeah okay, it’s been a little more than 2 months too and my shoulders hurt from the tension. I might break.”

Hoseok earned a glare from the eldest. You were obviously the youngest of the three, only by a year off of Hoseok though.

“Use it for recreational purposes, not as a coping mechanism Hob-ah.”

That’s what the man said but both of his partners knew that if he were to do it right now, it was to help him loosen up after the pressure of being the perfect person constantly in the view of cameras and thousands of people.

You didn’t say much, pointing at the pastel coloured bag that was bought from Paris by the ever loving Hoseok. It was most likely a thousand dollars, maybe even more but you didn’t think about it now. Yoongi had gotten you speakers and a digital camera since you had gotten into photography again and your old camera was practically dead.

Hoseok was the one to lean forward and grab it, letting you rummage through it before taking out a small box that had both your lighter and joints in them.

You had three in total. But one was always shared at a time which was something you rather liked.

“This whole place is gonna smell gross for a few days.” Hoseok said with a wrinkled nose. The place was indeed their apartment that they were planning on staying in for the next few days to hang out and exist besides one another.

“It’s better than doing outside and getting photographed and our careers ruined.” Yoongi said in a matter of fact tone and it all but made you feel guilty. You got them into this position and he was right, it was a risk. They were risking their whole careers on it.

But then again, both men were adults and had a right to their bodies and what they do with their time. They knew the consequences and took precautions and had rules. They weren’t stupid and if either of them wanted to stop they would, they were old enough to know when to say no.

“Can we just do it, please.” Hoseok groaned, “ high Yoongi is so much more chill.”

Yoongi smacked his leg at that.

“Ooh, I’ll get the new speakers you got me.” You said before kissing him on the cheek as a thank you and running to get the item from your bedroom.

“Music is important for the ambiance.” You spoke while coming back, shaking the speaker in your hand.

Hoseok and Yoongi rolled their eyes, having heard that a dozen times.

They agreed though.

You connected it to your phone and decided on your Troye Sivan playlist.

The first song being Youth.

It played soothingly as you sat back on Yoongi’s lap and held the lighter near the joint.

“Don’t light it while you’re on my lap. Don’t want ashes on me.” The man grimaced but smiled at your pout, letting you kiss his soft marshmallow lips before you got off of him and sat between the two rappers.

You lit it and took the first drag, the bitter taste overwhelming you as you waited for the smoke to cool down before inhaling it into your lungs.Your throat burned.

Releasing a puff of smoke, you handed the joint to Hoseok and let him take a long drag, a hand on your thigh that moved up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Ease was playing in the background.

Hoseok had you on his lap, eyes starry and mouth on you neck as he marked it over and over again. You would let out soft moans, head hazy but clear and slow. It was always running, your mind. It was always thinking and making shit up and just doing and doing and doing. It finally wasn’t. It was finally silent and compliant and you giggled at the relief you had from the world.

Hoseok giggled against your neck as well, heart shaped smile pressed against your skin.

The bubble around the three of you was in smoke, you staring at your boyfriends with a look of awe as the dimly lit room made them look dark and otherworldly, with their expression relaxed and sensual.

Sensual.

What a funny word.

“Baby.” Yoongi mumbled from besides you, his eyes droopy and dark.

You turned your head to find him move in close to you before kissing you. His marshmallow lips against your own. His big hands holding yours. And you swore to god, they never felt bigger. They engulfed you and made you feel small. And you were small, compared to the both of them. You were their baby, their little angel. You were theirs as they were yours and all three of you ate that up and kept it warm in your chest.

Seventeen started to play.

Hoseok took the lighter and relit the joint, now the second one, before inhaling it and sighing in relief as he looked at the ceiling. His neck was exposed then and you couldn’t help but have the urge to bite and suck on it so that’s what you did,

He chuckled and patted your head as you did, not looking away from the ceiling.

Soon, Hobi’s vision was impaired by cat like eyes and all he could think about was how Yoongi would be a panther if anything. And if he was a deer, Hoseok would gladly let Yoongi eat him.

As the older moved closer, Hoseok moaned softly as you sucked on a particularly sensitive place on his neck.

All Yoongi could see was a dazed look and an open mouth that looked pretty and warm. He leaned in and gave it a soft kiss, before deepening it and tasting the smoke on his tongue and feeling lightheaded and good. He felt so so good. Good and ever present and needy for more.

They stayed like that, Hoseok letting his tongue come into Yoongi’s mouth, sucking on his boyfriend’s lower lip and giggling softly at the way you gave his neck kitten licks.

Yoongi lost his balance at one point, not having the sense of mind to keep himself straight, but he simply slid back into his place and rested his cheek on Hobi’s shoulder while looking at you devour his neck.

Yoongi laughed at that, an airy sound that made both yours and Hoseok’s heart stutter.

“Yoongi-yah~” You whined, wiggling in Hoseok’s lap causing the man to give a tiny and not so hard spank on your butt.

“Yes, love?” Yoongi answered while soothing the place where Hobi very lightly slapped.

“I wan’- wanna kiss.” Your lisp showed loud and clear and both your boyfriends melted at it.

Bite began to play.

Yoongi did as you asked, moving forward wobbly as he gazed at you with nothing but open affection. And it hit differently then for some reason, maybe because you were high or because you only really noticed that stare in special moments. Hoseok said that Yoongi would always look at you like that. They both would.

The gaze made you even more needy so you whimpered and whined.

“Kissies.” You said while making grabby hands at him.

The kiss was wet and tasted like hash and it felt good and warm and fuzzy.

You let out tiny sounds, small and cute and it only increased when Hoseok began playing with your chest, hand under your shirt as his thumb ran over your nipple.

“Baby angel.” Yoongi mumbled against your lips.

“You-yours.” You whispered, arching your back against Hoseok’s hand. Big. Big. Both of them were so Big and you were so tiny and it made you wanna burrow yourself between them.

Your hips began to move, rubbing against Hoseok’s thigh. It sparked waves of pleasure into your body, blinding you through the fogginess in your head.

“Want us, huh?” Hoseok asked, jaw sticking out as his eyes darkened, “want both of us? Want us to ruin you, hm?”

You nodded,

Hoseok stayed still, chuckling lowly and not responding.

Fucking tease.

He lit the joint again, holding it between his middle and index finger before holding it in front of Yoongi’s lips. The man took a drag from it and you pawed at his chest, eyes wide and glassy as you asked in a small voice.

“Want.”

Yoongi took a hold of your chin, opened your mouth with his thumb and kissed you deep, pushing the smoke into your mouth and into your lungs. A puff of grey air exited from your nose, shrouding the man’s face with it. You had kept your eyes slightly open just to see it happen.

It’s then that you felt arms enclosed around you and felt Yoongi press closer against you.

Hoseok was hugging both of you at the same time, face pressed against Yoongi’s shoulder before he started to mumble out a river of words. It was slow, his words were slow and drawn out. It was either him or you because everything around you was slow and relaxed and easy.

“I love you guys, I love you guys so so much. You make me so happy. Like a lot. I don’t know what my life would be without either of you. What the fuck are these emotions, I love you. I hope we always stay together and get married. Somehow. I dunno. Everything is so heteronormative.”

Hoseok was not really one for words. He would hug and give a lot of kisses, he was affectionate in that tone but words were something he stayed away from unless he was saying I love you and even those I love yous were precious and well articulated and full of emphasis. They weren’t thrown around lightly.

It seemed that the ache of the tour and the people and the constant hustle finally got to him. He finally cracked.

You guys sat like that for quite some time, pressed up against each other until Hoseok got hungry. You stumbled off his lap and nearly fell on Yoongi as the man got up and went to the kitchen.

“Do we have shrimp chips? I want that. Ooooh, we have fried chicken too. Who brought fried chicken? Oh yeah, I did. Okay so...okay.”

Yoongi lit the butt of the joint again, inhaling it before holding it out and letting you have some. You held onto his wrist while you did so, feeling like a baby being fed their milk.

Hoseok staggered back to the couch, using his leg to put distance between his partners’ legs so they could move and he could sit in the middle.

“Here we are~”

He placed the food on the table clumsily, snatching the bag of chips and munching on its contents. You moved forward and took the chicken, Yoongi followed.

It was quiet for a while, the only sound being the three people on the couch eating fried chicken and shrimp chips in the middle of an expensive apartment while high and sleepy and the music playing from the speakers.

Yoongi only ate a few chicken pieces before he promptly fell to the side with his hands between his legs. You giggled, there was a lot of that throughout.

Dance to this began playing and both Hosoek and you wiggled in your seats and got up in excitement. Yoongi groaned in dismay but looked at the two of you with fond eyes as you began dancing goofily. You weren’t a dancer, not at all and compared to Hoseok, it looked like you could barely walk but it didn’t matter. Hobi was just as goofy, pop and locking with no sense of rhythm whatsoever.

Hoseok then took your hand and started spinning both of you around, you shrieking in joy and surprise before running around in circles with him. You two bumped hips, causing you to almost fall on the floor. You two tried to pick each other up. Hobi succeeded but you failed miserably. He spun you around like that, while carrying you and laughing. You two smiled and giggled and shouted. You two sloppily sang along to the words with no coordination. You two. You two. You two. While the third looked fondly over you, his cheeks pressed against the couch cushion, eyes almost closed.

DKLA had begun to play but you had skipped to your phone after being pulled from having Hoseok sweep you off your feet. You rummaged through the playlist before grinning and playing a certain song.

Just Dance.

Hosoek had practically yelled and began singing it in a trot voice instantly. You joined him, moving your hands around and moving from one leg to the other.

When a certain verse came, Hoseok looked directly at you and began singing in a deep voice, changing the lyrics.

“You’re my perfect baby.

My whole world, baby.

A small little baby

Don’t know what else to say, baby.”

By this point you were on the floor, cackling and hitting your thigh hard from your uncontrolled laughter.

Seesaw was the next song and both of you squealed.

Hoseok began singing it loudly, causing Yoongi to cover his ears but he still looked, smiling and smiling and never stopping his gums from showing.

You did the choreo and it was almost perfect considering how many times you’ve seen him do it.

Hoseok began doing the dance as well, much better than you but still as ridiculous.

The song was shrieked and both of you began spinning around, not bothering to urge Yoongi to get up because that never worked out before anyways.

You practically smacked Hobi in the face at one point but that didn’t stop you from seesawing. While seesawing, Hoseok accidently bumped into you and you went flying to the floor.

“Oh fuck, sorry baby.” Hobi said but he was laughing, heart shaped smile out in full force.

You began laughing, loud and bold and free.

You only paused when giggling was heard.

But it wasn’t coming from you or Hoseok or from outside, which would be creepy cause you lived high up, it was coming from a singular Min Yoongi (another Min Yoongi being there would be concerning. If you, the reader, sees two Min Yoongis or even one Min Yoongi then please be concerned because Min Yoongi cannot be with you in the first place).

Both of you stared at him, watching his eyes stay screwed shut as his nose wrinkled and his gums showed. Soft tinkling laughter could be heard coming from his mouth and it was certain that he was giggling.

He was smiling the whole time they were fucking around  really, a big grin that was unrestrained and honest and so real. It was bright and shining and anyone would fall in love with it. WIth him.

They fell in love with him every time he smiled. And he smiled a lot because of them.

What a great day to be alive.

Hoseok was the one to launch himself onto the poor unsuspecting man. You got up from the floor and proceeded to do the same. The two of you covered his face in kisses, giggling along with him as he kicked his feet and became even louder. The two of you showered the third in kisses, finally feeling at peace. Feeling like a whole.

You were practically on top of him, squishing him and all Yoongi did was laugh and try to kiss you two back but you guys were too quick and sneaky. It was rather sloppy though, some kisses landing on his eyebrow or the corner of his nose or his hairline. But it was okay since every part of his face deserved love.

You stopped when Hobi’s nose bumped against yours.

You two sat up holding your nose in pain, Yoongi letting out peels of unforgettable laughter that had him holding his stomach.

Hoseok and you looked at each other before resuming your attack on him.

It was five minutes later that all three of you calmed down, still in a haze and very exhausted at this point.

“Bed.” Yoongi mumbled, being the most exhausted, having taken out his energy in giggling in glee and how much their kisses tickled.

You were the one to crawl up and start walking with weak knees. When you saw that neither of your boyfriends were standing, you pulled at both of their arms and almost fell back because of it. To prevent any accidents, Hoseok stood up, rubbing his eyes and yawning while pulling Yoongi along with him. The oldest was practically asleep at this point but he didn’t forget to take the lighter and the last joint to their room as they trudged towards it.

You could all sleep and have wonderful, ash filled dreams but your favourite part of these types of nights were the lazy talks that happened while taking slow drags from the last joint of the 2 months. They were your favourite because of the conversations that followed lying in a bed and smoking away the remnants of your stresses.

It had been a while, the three of you talking about random things, smoking and singing along to the songs on your phone. The speakers had been forgotten.

Bloom played.

“I’m a bit scared.” Yoongi had whispered, giving the stick to Hoseok.

Hoseok murmured back a “me too.”

You were in the middle of the both of them, eyes wide and glassy with your mouth parted slightly. You were a bit out of it, leaning against Yoongi’s shoulder when you heard his words. He patted the side of your head.

“It’s just that. We’re so big now. BTS is so big now.” He moved his hands apart to make his point, becoming more expressive with his body.

“But we’re so-we’re so small. And I’m scared that people will find out how small and insignificant we are. We’re just tryna make music but what if it doesn’t reach the expectations of others?”

Hoseok looked shocked for a second, holding up his hand.

“Same, Hyung.”

Yoongi gave him a high five.

“Well,” you murmured, still very much in a trance, “ you guys do make good music and work hard. And you’re significant. You help people feel better and make them accept themselves and feel more comfortable about being human. You guys are important.”

Hoseok and Yoongi sighed from next to you, leaning against you to make a sandwich of sorts.

“I’m just scared. Always. Of losing you two. Cause you’re so big and I’m so small. You make a difference in other people’s lives and I-I don’t. You matter and change others and I’m just me, being one of the people you change. How you’ve stayed with me for so many years is beyond me.”

Hoseok kissed the top of your head and Yoongi laced his fingers with your own.

“You make a difference in our lives. You matter to us. And you’re special and sweet and cute and adorable and just...you’re you.” Yoongi muttered.

Hoseok nodded along to his words and you were emotional, tears welling up  in your eyes.

“Cute and adorable mean the same thing.” You laughed wetly.

“Do they? I don’t know, man. I’m too high for this. I’m too sleepy.”

Hoseok held up the joint in front of your mouth and you let him hold it as you took another smoke.

“Do you ever- do you ever feel like we would be together in another universe.”

“Probably. Maybe you’re a fan in one of those universes.”

“That’s possible. I’ll still matter though, right?”

“Well jesus christ, obviously. You’re a person, you matter with or without us.”

You giggled, leaning forward and kissing his cheek.

“I’d be the best fan for you.”

“You better be.”

Hoseok was even more out of it then you were at this point, he finally put the burnt out stub in the ashtray next to the bed and sunk down to lay down on the bed properly.

You and Yoongi followed.

Heaven began playing.

You spoke more, about everything and anything and nothing. About fears and your childhood and your love for each other. Along with that, came soft slow kisses.

And what a perfect way to exist. To exist between the two men you love, high and listening to Troye Sivan.

Ths songs kept changing

From For Him to Lost Boy to Happy Little Pill to Talk Me down that sobered the environment and caused the three of you to have a serious conversation about mental health and heartache and dark thoughts. There was Wild and I’m so tired and Fools and There for you.

It was perfect. To be in between smoke and Troye Sivan songs and slow kisses and giggles and deep conversations and lame jokes and to find that there’s love there. The most perfect kind of love.

With time, your words became slurred and low. All three of you were exhausted at that point, eyes slowly falling closed as your hush murmurs turned into incoherent mumbling. Hoseok kissed your forehead softly and Yoongi put an arm around your waist. They both moved close to you, legs becoming tangled.

There were very soft and almost indecipherable ‘I love you’s said by them that were swimming in your mind as dreams overtook you.

Strawberries and cigarettes was playing and before the song could end, all three of you were fast asleep.

And love was still there, in between your shared breathes and soft snores.

[thescrapbookingscientist]

Biweekly Media Roundup

- The Sandman (TV) - I suppose Sandman was a bit of a grower for me, as while I did enjoy my first watch quite a bit, it was only a few weeks later after engaging in some fan content and revisiting it that I really appreciated it. I standby that it’s not flawless but I was less bothered by expectations the second time around and was able to appreciate the cinematography and overall themes a lot more. Dream is a great character in both concept and portrayal, so easy to root for and simultaneously so fun to bully. I do really hope Netflix doesn’t screw it over and actually greenlights a season 2 soon, I’m really interested in seeing how the rest of the Endless are portrayed given how interesting the ones we got were. Anyway Episode 6 deserves all the awards, we love Death and Hob here.

- Do Revenge (Movie) - Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed with this one - I heard quite a bit of people hyping it up as a fun callback to 90′s and 00′s teen comedies, but I can’t say I found it particularly interesting or funny.  I wanted to like it- I was getting Jennifer’s Body vibes at first - but there were just too many extraneous characters, not enough comedy, and too little impactful or memorable moments overall. I don’t know, I don’t want to be too mean as I don’t think it was completely inept, there were some interesting costume designs and plot twists, but I can’t say I got much out of watching it or would ever be interested in seeing it again.

- Holes (Movie) - Yearly rewatch of Holes with my sister, man is this movie so good, just textbook clever writing in how well it ties everything together and makes every little detail meaningful. Also, what a unique concept and setting.

- Shadow’s House (Anime) - So we come to a close on Shadow’s House season 2 and man, do I hope the Japanese viewership was high enough to warrant a season 3 because this show is so underrated and underappreciated here in the west. I do kind of get why - the genre mixing of an engaging horror mystery and slower paced slice-of-life esque shenanigans make it hard to recommend to fans of one or the other, as the horror fans will likely find the occasional slow of pacing for interpersonal stuff annoying to the pace of the mystery while cutesy fans could definitely be turned off by some of the more horrific imagery and concepts. I don’t mind as much personally as I find both the characters and their relationships charming as well as the mystery and horror elements super well done, but even I felt the pacing drag a bit between each major revelation. It reminds me a lot of Princess Tutu - a genuinely great anime full of both whimsy and dark elements that is super creative in concept but quite hard to sell people on thanks to it’s child friendly slow buildup. I might wait a bit to see if a season 3 will be announced before reading the manga, but I absolutely will be returning to the series at some point, as I cannot stress enough how impressed I am with the concept and execution of the mystery and the slow reveal of the Shadow Family.

- Mob Psycho 100 (Anime) - Yup yup. Congrats to Reigen for sweeping all those twitter polls btw. The Tumblr Sexyman Poll will go down in history forever.

- Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure (Anime) - They Yassified Dio. Also I know all Jojo outfits are ridiculous but seriously, wtf is pink boy wearing. 

- Star Trek: Lower Decks (TV) - Hey Lower Decks is back sweet! Still love the whole cast as well as just the concept of a show about the lives of the one-off/lower ranking background crew members rather than the higher ranking officers. The show can get pretty creative with it’s episode ideas and settings which I definitely appreciate, but to be honest I’ll never get tired of seeing the cast watch some crazy alien shit go down only to casually respond with “ugg not this shit again” and then cutting to them having to deal with the collateral after someone else fixed the issue. Not that the cast doesn’t get plenty of heroic  moments to shine, there’s just a great comedy in seeing them treat cursed mind controlling death masks and killer robot outbreaks with the same level of concern as a typical tax accountant filing a report. 

- Made in Abyss (Anime) - Okay we are 6 episodes into the 3rd season and it’s gotten a little better, more focus on lore and plot rather than. the other stuff it was doing. Hope it can stick to that so I don’t feel weird about watching it. 

- Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint (Webnovel) - Rather than binging this I’m slowly making my way through the audiobook. Honestly my attention kinda waned during a fairly early arc due to it’s reliance on the audience being familiar with korean history but now that that’s through it’s starting to get pretty engaging again. It will probably be awhile before I’m finished but I’m glad to have it.

Listening to: Right Where You Left Me by Taylor Swift, House of Memories by Panic! At The Disco, Know Your Name by Mary Lambert, Cut To The Feeling by Carly Rae Jepsen, Reprobate Romance by Blacklisted Me, The Bones by Maren Morris and Hozier, When He Sees Me by Kimiko Glenn, Unholy by Sam Smith, People Watching by Conan Gray, Meet Me In The Woods by Lord Huron