#illness is just. tiresome. exhausting. i am exhausted

[blackkatmagic]

Ah yes, the only two possible types of writers: neurotypical or ADHD.

[lillianofliterature]

If your requests are open, and you are comfortable with it, could you maybe please do a King Thranduil x reader one-shot where reader has cancer and it is like angsty?

the toll of sickness | thranduil x reader

a/n: Anon, I am sincerely sorry for the long wait, but I wanted to provide all the angsty venting and comfort I could for you in this! Thank you for your request! I wanted to do this right by you. I hope this helps soothe whatever parts of you need soothing today. I don’t know anon’s/anyone’s specific diagnosis or symptoms, so I’m doing my best to remain respectful and widely general with the topic of cancer. I took inspiration from my own experiences with the mental/emotional toll of long-term chronic illness to supply a plot to resolve, I hope that’s okay (and still relatable). <3

The reader is implied feminine in this as they are referred to as lady/queen, but otherwise, I did my best to keep it gender-neutral with descriptions. 

This could also be interpreted as a reader with chronic illness.

DO NOT REPOST MY WORK. GIF EDIT IS MINE.

summary: after a long day of tiresome treatments and the heaviness of your thoughts, you retreat to your chambers to seek the comfort of your husband’s arms.

warnings: mentions of cancer (the reader has cancer), mentions of cancer treatments and symptoms (including needles), medical exhaustion, nonsexual nudity and nonsexual bathing, open discussions of symptoms, fear of death

word count: 6.1k

music:  As Long As We Both Shall Live by Bear McCreary

elvish translations: melamin = my love, melda = my dear/beloved

“I think we will conclude here for today, my lady.” 

The head healer’s voice drew your wayward attention back to his prim features. His thin lips spread into a smile as he gently unstrapped the tight leather band above your inner elbow, releasing the tension from your skin. The long syringe with its glass barrel was gently pulled from the blue vein that the pressure had highlighted. You rubbed your arm subconsciously as he set aside the supplies for cleaning, hoping the motion would rid your flesh of the awful sensation of being probed. 

You blinked away your muddled thoughts. Briefly, you worried that perhaps he had been talking to you long before you’d heard his assessment to end the treatments for the evening. If you had, you were grateful to find no resentment in his gaze for your absentminded silence. 

He softly closed his collection of books that had been displayed around a table on the wall adjacent to your cushioned cot in the infirmary. With a bottle of herbal salve, he applied a generous portion to the inner curve of your elbow, satiating any irritation from his needles. The cool gel of the aloe soothed the itchy redness, while the lavender masked the sterile scent of the medications and intensely bitter herbs.  

You glanced up from the healer’s gentle efforts, trying on your best smile. “Thank you for your diligence today, Sudryl. It is very much appreciated.” 

He bowed his head as he clasped your hand between his palms, “It is always a pleasure to tend to you, my queen. We will resume tomorrow morning if it suits your schedule?”

“My schedule is always free for your remedies. Thranduil has made sure to take over many of my duties so we may focus on my treatment.”

Sudryl smiled once more as he helped you stand from the cot, draping your silken robe over your bare arms as he did so. “The king is very wise, your majesty. I know you detest this period of healing you’re undergoing, but you mustn't mistake rest for idleness. Your people desire greatly for your full recovery, myself included. In order to achieve that, your rest is crucial.”

You didn’t know what to say. Rest was crucial, you knew that. As were the innumerable treatments and remedies being applied and adjusted every day. 

But didn’t anyone understand that you were tired of all of this? Exhausted by more than just the cancer and its seemingly endless repercussions that it presented almost daily. Worn down by more than just needles and salves and bitter syrups that lingered in your throat.

You missed feeling well-rested when you woke up in the mornings after a long sleep—you missed having the energy to spend your days fulfilling your duties as a queen, as a servant to her people. You missed the days in which every activity was not dictated or measured by searing pain or groggy fatigue. You were tired of wrestling with your body just to exist comfortably. 

But it’s your duty to get better, they keep telling you. 

It’s what everyone’s hoping for, your majesty. 

Do your best to rest and eat well, my lady. 

Don’t give up hope, Queen (Y/n). You are blessed among our kin!

The people have been petitioning their prayers to the Valar fervently, your grace.

They were supposed to be words of encouragement spoken to invigorate your fighting spirit, to ignite that spark of determination that was starting to flicker these last few months. But these endless strains of hope and enlightenment had started to weigh heavily upon your shoulders like a milkmaid’s yoke, and with every well-intentioned word and chorus of song another stone was dropped into the buckets you carried.

The pressure to recover for the sake of others was beginning to feel like too much—the toll of the sickness itself was enough for one to worry about, was it not? Not only did you feel this fearsome desperation to recover for your own sake, for your own life, but also the need of a thousand other voices begging for a show of strength you didn’t feel tangible anymore. 

The summoning of one of your servants outside the infirmary doors reminded you that the hour to retire for supper was nearing presently. You felt your posture deflate as it dawned on you that you couldn’t yet retire for the day. Although your extravagant evening meals were one of the few constants that motivated you to follow your days through until nightfall, your hunger had dispersed in the last few days. Being seated at a stiff table dressed with rich delicacies and savory wines sounded nothing short of torture at the moment, even with the promise of dessert. 

The servant curtseyed in the broad doorway as Sudryl led you across the room. You couldn’t help but tense as your legs tremored from the sudden activity. A long exhale slipped through your pursed lips.

“My queen,” She rose gracefully, her hands folding together at her waist. “Your supper with the king is nearly prepared. He will be present in the dining hall shortly as soon as his meeting has concluded. I was advised to escort you there safely.”

Clutching onto Sudryl’s forearm, you hesitated to address the messenger. You couldn’t help the expression of distaste that twisted your face. The thought of food was not the only thing that churned your stomach at that moment; the prospect of being walked through your own palace as though you were an invalid, incapable of making it there of your own merit, as though every pair of eyes in this forest need offer you their due pity, bothered you even more than the risk of losing your supper to the toilet. 

Knowing you couldn’t send her away under Sudryl’s watchful eye (for surely there would be further inquiries as a result of such an unnecessary dismissal), you managed to nod in thanks to her before turning to him. The head healer’s smile was brimming with empathy. You tried not to feel offended by his pitying compassion. He leaned forward and pecked your cheek reverently, bidding you a respectful farewell until the morning. 

You turned from him and followed the servant into the winding halls. Gaze following the eroded pathway of the massive tree roots beneath your sore feet, you bided the seconds until you were both too far to be noticed by any superior voices that might challenge your decision-making. When your footsteps halted, she turned to face you.

Her brows raised, she asked, “My lady? Is something wrong?”

“No, no. I’m alright,” You waved her worries aside with the vague gesture of your hand. “But I can manage the walk to the dining hall from here.”

Her brows drew together in an expression of confusion. You straightened your back—had she seen through your polite fib? Was it that obvious you had no intentions of eating this evening? Or was just she not used to being given conflicting commands between two monarchs?

“—On my own. I can make it there on my own.”

Her lips parted in protest as she recalled what you assumed were very clear orders from your husband only minutes prior. Stretching your hand out to gently touch her shoulder, you reassured her it would be alright. “I will explain to the king myself that I demanded to be left alone. No trouble will come to you, I promise. You will not lose your position.” 

“But my lady, I—it is my duty is to ensure your safe arrival. Are you sure you don’t—?”

The irritation that swelled within you wasn’t her fault, you hastily reminded yourself. You bit back the frustrated sigh you wanted to release, tightening your polite smile. Reasoning with another person about what you wanted to do and why you wanted to do it was the last thing you presently wanted to deal with. Desperate to detach yourself from her and anyone else lingering about, you decided to be straightforward. No beating around the bush. 

“I value your persistence, young one, but I would very much like to retire early tonight. You may inform my husband that I’ll be taking my meal in our chambers if you must.”

“Understood, your majesty. I shall inform the king. Have a good evening.” She dipped into an impulsive curtsy, quickly trailing back to the chancellery to relay your decision. 

You didn’t even wait for her to pass beyond the long hall ahead before you turned in the opposite direction. Your private chambers weren’t too far from the infirmary, thankfully. However, it still took some resolve on your behalf to encourage your depleted energy through corridors and foyers all the way back to your comfortable bed. The silver silk of your robe billowed around your feet with every step, giving your eyes something other than walls of stone and root to follow.

You were sure your husband wouldn’t be taking the present news about your wellbeing all that agreeably. You could see it clearly in your mind—the disheveled, anxious worry in his eyes that he masked behind a wall of solemn regality. But you could always see what he was thinking. He wouldn’t like the fact that your treatments were taking more and more of a toll on your already wearisome state. He would like it even less when he found out you would soon be dismissing supper altogether. 

His concern wasn’t for himself, of course. It was for you—it was always for you.

He wanted desperately for you to be able to enjoy your meals in the glittering brilliance of the dining hall, unperturbed by fatigue and nausea. He wanted you to be able to take those strolls through the forest gardens that you adored so much without the sore discomfort in your bones. He wanted you to relish in your life and its unrivaled importance. And most of all, he wanted desperately to take this lingering sickness away; he wished he had been born with a skill for healing like some of his kin.

But all he could give you were the promises of an unsure future and the enlistment of his most skilled associates and all relevant resources that could be found about your condition. And some part of you—some sad, twisted part of you—felt a rush of guilt that so much commotion and worry was being circulated about the kingdom on your behalf. And that guilt only made the whole affair all the more frustrating and maddening. These days, everything inflamed your anger. This whole tumultuous ordeal seemed to be unraveling more than just your physical state. 

You knew it was ridiculous to feel responsible in some way for what was happening to you. You hadn’t chosen this, you hadn’t brought it on yourself—you most certainly didn’t deserve it. No one with cancer ever does. But reasoning with your inner turmoil was like wrestling a wild boar in the mud; there was never any true resolve without the cost of more anxieties, more wounds, more gashes in your soul. And the more you tried to gain a grip on yourself, the less grounded you became, the more it all slipped through your fingers. 

The click of the door was a chime of resolve as you leaned against the tall wooden frame from within the calm confines of your spacious bedroom. Sliding out of your supple leather flats and letting your robe slump to your elbows, you took the first deep breath you had been able to control since earlier that morning. The king-sized bed frame creaked subtly as you lowered yourself onto the fluffed silken duvet. Ever so gradually, you felt the weight of the vertical world begin to reprieve from your muscles like steam rushing upwards from a boiling pot. 

Rest wasn’t a cure for what ailed you, no, but Valar above, sometimes it felt like it. 

Since your diagnosis—the terrifying sickness devouring your energy and livelihood from within your own body—nearly every day had been spent in the infirmary or the healer’s sanctuary, remedies administered by the hour, conversations turning tiresome and sour. It had begun to feel like your own home was a prison, the world beyond the palace unreachable, like every action was a strenuous transaction of vitality and exhaustion. Even just walking the gardens that lead into the forest had become inexplicably draining—it left you feeling as though you’d run to Mirkwood’s southern border and back rather than taking a few turns about the courtyard. 

But here, on the cloud-like comfort of your private chambers, there was some reprieve from it all. There were no endless strands of questions about your well-being and your comfort and opinions on the tedious details of your health here—only the distant rush of the waterfalls that crashed brazenly into the river moat outside the palace gates. You could hear the chirping of the early summer insects as dusk narrowed on the horizon beyond the open terrace. There was no sterile smell of concentrated alcohol or the pungent gnawing of tart herbs. Instead, there was a faint aroma of lilacs wafting in from the gardens and the scent of your husband’s musk lingering in your bed.

Closing your eyes and rolling onto your lesser-sore side, you sought out the imprint that his body might have left there that morning. But the duvet was creased flat and folded with a chill under your skin. It was curious futility to think his warmth might have lasted after so many long hours away, you knew that; the bed was always plumped and remade in the mornings by your gracious servants. A coldness ran through you, engulfing your skin in little bumps that felt like prickling needles. 

Too sore from your aches to unfurl the taut covers from the mattress and too comfortable to retrieve one of your husband’s many fur throws, you recoiled your arm and folded your limbs closer together, curling into a position that would magnify your own body heat. While quietly taking in the environment of your sanctuary, this small peaceful haven that almost made you forget the turmoil your body was enduring, you hardly noticed as you faded into a light slumber. Caught between the ebbing flow of consciousness as it bobbed around the sleepy release of your strained body, wading between thoughts and dreams.

Unaware of the passage of time as you laid there in groggy consciousness, you hardly felt the urge to stir from your position until you felt the back of someone’s hand on your cheek, the brushing aside of your askew (h/c) tendrils. Then you made out the quiet husk of a voice that hovered above you in the dark. 

In the dark? Sunset was still a couple of hours away! And after that, dusk would linger still until the light vanished beyond the mountains to the west. Why was it already so dark?

Hadn’t it only been a few fleeting minutes since you’d closed your eyes, listening to the cicadas and savoring the sweetness of the summer flora? Eyebrows pursed, you could hear yourself attempt to answer, but the meticulous reply you’d fabricated in your mind was delivered in heavy vowels that grouped together lazily. Your speech felt like treacle slipping off your tired tongue. 

A velvet chuckle reverberated in your perking ears. 

“Have I forgotten my native tongue or was that a very poor attempt at Sindarin?”

Thranduil.

Your nose scrunched up as you fought to drain the sleepiness that was working against you so fervently. Before you could stir the tired droopiness from your eyes with eager fists, two gentle hands cupped your cheeks and swept their thumbs over your closed eyes. The motion was akin to a gentle massage, spanning your sore eyelids and dusting across your cheekbones, a cradling of your vulnerable stillness that filled your chest with a fond fervor. The supple tenderness of his lips collided briefly with yours before parting all too quickly. 

“Mm?” Your vocabulary hadn’t quite refreshed itself, it seemed. “When d’dju geten?”

Another rumbling chuckle he didn’t bother trying to hide. You pictured his willowy frame standing primly in front of the tall gilded looking glass, unfastening his stuffier robes and tucking his powder–blonde hair behind his pointed ears, or perhaps even tying it back for the night as he often did. 

Stars, it felt like there were weights on your shoulders pulling you back against the duvet as you forced yourself to sit up, like the muscles beneath your skin were unraveling at the seams. You rubbed your eyes and shooed your disheveled hair from your peripheral vision, glancing around the dark room for your husband’s silhouette. A flicker of light plumed suddenly in the sconce near the vanity, illuminating his fair features. The match in his hand extinguished with a puff of air from his lips before his pale blue eyes found yours. 

“I only just came in,” he reassured you, “I’m afraid I underestimated how much wind some of our advisors have in their lungs, especially when provoked.”

Another votive flickered to life on the other side of the room, another match snuffed out under his breath. The sunlight outside had all but gone in the murky hours you had been asleep. Now that you could take in the mellow darkness of the evening without confusion, some part of you felt distressed about the sudden absence of natural light. The daylight, warm and golden, always brought you a sense of comfort. But now it was dark and grey and the light of the moon was cold, distant, and you hadn't had a chance to prepare yourself for it. Another chill ran across your skin as a more frigid breeze swept in from the open terrace. 

“Did Sudryl have a chance to share the news with you before retiring this evening?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder at you. His lips pursed when he saw your unmoving figure still sitting on the edge of the bed, your back draped in silks, facing away from him. Your slumped posture told him all he needed to know about how you were feeling after your treatments—the exhaustion was palpable in how slow your palm rose to cradle your own forehead, in how shaky you were as you forced yourself up from the bed and took hold of the bedpost.

He was near you in an instant, his strong hands taking gentle hold of your bowed shoulders. There he was, combing the stray hairs on your head down with doting affection, all while the same frustrations were building up inside of you as your sleepiness dissipated. 

“You needn’t rise for me, melamin, I am no guest.” He chided gently.

“I know, I just need a bath before we settle in for the night.” 

“You’re in no state to manage that tonight, (Y/n)—”

“Thranduil, I haven’t rinsed off the ointments. I smell like the forest—and not in a good way.”

“You smell like an herb garden, fresh and natural, as all things should be.”

“Pungent is more like it,” You quipped, catching the accent of bitter walnuts exuding from your thin robes. It was that old, damp, dingy sort of bitterness that made you want to expel the air from your lungs with a snort when you caught a whiff of it—not the pleasant sort of musk from the gardens.

He laughed again, this time with more relief behind his eyes. Even though he knew you were spent from the day’s strenuous activities, the presence of your humor provided him with some semblance of comfort. And as for your own weary senses, his smooth strain of laughter was more than a consolation for the muted anxiousness that the infirmary always inflicted. 

“Then let me help you.”

“Thranduil, I can do it mys—”

“I insist,” He offered decidedly, and you knew well enough from past experience that arguing with him on the matter would prove ineffective. 

He gently looped your arm through the curve of his elbow, placing a sweet kiss to your messy hair before turning along with you toward the adjoined bathing chamber. You leaned into him for support and begrudgingly admitted to yourself that he was right—there was no way you could withstand the exertion on your own, at least not tonight. Not while you felt this lethargic, not while your stress levels were causing such tension throughout your body, making everything denser, slower, sluggish.

Once he led you into the warmly lit haven of the spacious chamber, the steam of the hot spring pool seemed to draw you in on its own accord. The walls and their rugged shapes made the flickering yellowness of the torchlight spread longer shadows among its natural angles and divots. The far right wall was connected to the run-off of one of the many springs that stretched like veins throughout the mountain palace—and it was little cavern rooms like this one that reminded you that you were living in the majesty of a low-peaking mountain, not just nestled in the forested density of the Greenwood.

You knelt at the rim of the bathing pool on the soft stone edge, dragging your hand through the clear blue water. The natural warmth of the hot spring invigorated you with a sense of eagerness as you remembered just how soothing these glowing pools always were. A gentle touch to your shoulder lured your attention back to your husband, who with a fond smile, was waiting to help you unravel your robes and underthings. Taking his hand, you were pulled to stand in front of him with the gentlest limits of his strength. 

You hardly felt the pressure or the tugging of his lithe fingers as he helped you undress, his touch but a breeze across your sore skin. When you were naked and chilled from the exposure, he guided you into the blue waters and leaned over the pool’s edge to make sure you were steady on the outcropped seat of eroded stonework submerged in the water. As the bubbling warmth enveloped your flesh, your eyes fluttered shut with an involuntary sigh of relief. 

There were very rarely things that proved effective for your ceaseless pains—medicines and supplements only lasted so long or relieved so little, and sleep was growing more difficult to manage. But this—the heat bubbling up from the earth, sorted through sediment and mineral—was the most relief you found these days. 

When submerged in the hot spring bath, your entire body numbed to its own plague as your bones and muscles absorbed whatever benefits came from the terrain around you. You briefly wondered how you ever managed to get out the last time you soaked like this, with every inch of your flesh basking in the warmth that enveloped you.

You relaxed against the glossy stones, trying to quiet your mind of all the infernal anxieties pressing a weight against your chest. The noise of your thoughts made it difficult to focus fully on the soothing effects of the natural hot spring, tensing and loosening your muscles and posture between every harsh doubt.

With a fresh cloth he brandished from a side table, Thranduil dipped it into the warm bath and began gently scrubbing away the ground athelas mixture. He’d seated himself comfortably on the edge of the bath, submerging his calves into the pool to cradle you between them. The cloth strummed along your chest and stomach as he reached over and behind, where the herbs from Sudryl’s remedies had been infiltrating the cancerous sickness plaguing your organs. You hadn’t meant to show him how weak you felt, how tired you were, how desperately you needed this—but your head fell back to rest against his stomach despite this as the steam curled around you both, dampening your hair and foreheads. 

After your rinsing from the spout of a silver pitcher, he coaxed oils and lathered soaps across your flesh, your own fingers clasping onto the pale skin of his forearm or around his leg, refusing to cease contact with him. And although he generously and willingly offered his aide while the healing minerals of that glowing pool of steam soothed you, some venomous voice in the back of your mind tried to feed you strings of doubt and loathing.

He shouldn’t have to do this. He shouldn’t have had to become my caretaker.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to get sick—neither of us was. 

He deserves more than this mess I’ve given him. He deserves better than me.

You cleared your throat, trying to silence the growing guilt and shame before that stinging swell of tears could grow any more than they already were. 

“What was it you were going to tell me?” You asked after the first of his own sweet-scented oils was being lathered along your arms, turning you about to face him. “Earlier, you mentioned something about Sudryl?”

“Ah, that,” he nodded in remembrance, “I gather he didn’t mention anything about Lord Elrond to you today?”

“Lord Elrond?” You inquired, lifting your questioning gaze to meet his. “No—no, he didn’t. Has something happened? Something to do with our alliances? Or with that trade treaty we adjusted with Laketown in the spring—”

“No, melamin, nothing of diplomatic proportions—all is still amiable with our kin for the time being,” he reassured. When he glanced up at you, the tranquil hope glittering in his blue eyes soothed the curious worry growing in your mind. He almost seemed excited about something. It tugged the corners of your mouth into a brief smile. “I sent word to him a little more than a month ago now, I suppose, to see what he might be able to do about your condition, to inquire about whether his skill with healing might mend what ails you.”

You swallowed hard over the sudden discomfort of anxiety that rose again like bile in your throat at the mention of more treatment, more guests, more expectations for healing. More, more, more. 

“He is to arrive within a week of his latest correspondence, which came this morning. Preparations are being made for his arrival as we speak.” 

Unknowingly, your grip had tightened on your husband’s forearm, your nails digging shallow crescents into his skin. The sharp sensation drew his attention downward to your hands, his dark brows furrowing in concern. His fingers winding around yours brought your attention to your vice-like grip, which you promptly loosened. 

“What is it, (Y/n)? Does this news not please you?” 

The earnestness in his pale eyes pierced your heart, the guilt bubbling up in your mind again. You weren’t sure what worried you most. The prospect of more prodding, more treatments, more attempts that might lead to nowhere; the fuss being made across the realm about your condition, about this peculiar, harsh sickness that was so puzzling to even the brightest minds; or perhaps, most worrisome of all, was the fact that you were no longer able to manage the upkeep of a happy facade. So many people were hoping, praying, supporting, and tending to you. 

And somehow, you found that to be the most exhausting part of it all. Not only were you fighting for your own body, for comfort and life, but you were trying to uphold and appease every pair of eyes that was eagerly awaiting your miraculous recovery from something you didn’t even know how to fight. There were so many hopes to meet, so many hearts to comfort on your behalf, and your resolve was quietly crumbling.

Before you could think to soften your words in an attempt to save Thranduil’s optimism, your lips began to move, a sudden impulse of tears gathering in your eyes. “What if there is nothing even Lord Elrond can do to cure this?”

He paused, his eyes searching yours briefly before his damp fingers reached up to caress your cheek. How had he not seen the disparagement growing behind your gaze, darkening the lilt in your voice? Hidden behind humor and mischievous quips, but no less obvious. 

“If—if I do not show improvement, our people will lose their resolve. Everyone’s counting on me to get better, to show some store of strength I no longer have and I–I can’t will my body to right itself,” you bore to him, panicked and spent from months of effort, “I cannot give everyone the hope they're seeking from me."

“Oh, melamin,” his chin nestled over your ear as he murmured with such rich affection, pressing your face into the musky homeliness of his neck. 

“I know I should be grateful for their support, for their prayers and their offerings, but it’s becoming too much, Thranduil. I don’t have the strength for a kingdom’s worth of miracles.” 

“You do not owe anyone but yourself the grace of your strength. Had I known their encouragement had put pressure on you to perform, I would have silenced the lot of them.” 

Despite his sincerity, you panicked on. “What if I am never rid of it? What if this is my blight that I must war with for the rest of my life?”

He sombered then, drawing in a deep string of air into his lungs. You could see him wrestling with the reality of your honesty, with the questions you both had been too afraid to speak aloud before now. Gathering himself, he drew you nearer to him, clinging to you with a brief urgency that almost startled you. 

“Then we will rise together each day to face it. There will never be a single day that you will have to endure this on your own. Do you hear me? That is my promise to you—that my vow and my diligence will never waver where you are concerned.”

Your tears burned with his words and you worked to force them at bay, his sweetness drawing every sour fear and thought of guilt from your mind and onto your tongue. “I am so sorry for this life I have given you. You didn’t ask for this—you cannot be happy with me—with this-this terrible thing I’ve brought upon us. You deserve so much more, and I can no longer give it to you.”

“You’re apologizing—?” He questioned, his voice quiet in shock. 

Your eyes clamped shut, forcing the well of sorrows from your eyes to plummet. Gently, he pulled himself back, repositioning his hands on your upper arms as if to garner your absolute attention. 

“(Y/n), this life you have given me has been far more than I have ever deserved and could ever strive to. From the moment we met, you have enriched my life just by your existence alone, much less the many qualities and traits about you I have come to treasure beyond all fortune or success. You have given me everything, a dozen lifetimes over, in the mere centuries we have been together.”

“You cannot have wanted this,” you breathed out, hushed by your own shame. 

“No, I did not want you to suffer with something so abysmal, something so beyond my control. Of course I did not want for your pain…but if this is our future, if this is our path together, then I want every minute of it, and I will not settle for a second less. I would upheave the very crest of the world and drown mountains in flame if it meant saving you. And if that makes me selfish or ruthless, then I will be the standard at which devils compare their sins.”

His hands had gradually found their way up to your face, cradling your damp cheeks with a sincerity that made your lip quiver.

“Look at me,” he whispered. 

The sight of the tearful waterline reflected in his eyes drew a noise of curt regret from your lungs. Your sob pierced his heart, filling him with a desperation to amend the shame and anxiety plaguing your mind. 

“If you truly believe that you are at fault for this sickness, then in turn I must be held responsible for allowing it to happen in the first place. As your husband first, but also as your king.”

“No, no that’s not true! It’s not even reasonable of you to—”

“Then how can it be your fault? How could any of this be on your shoulders? There is no sense in blame, (Y/n). Not here, not with this.” 

There was a stillness after his words, a stillness that was meant for rumination, and sealed with his lips against your skin and hair. Your hands rose to rest against his chest, nestling them over the dip of his collarbone as you felt for comfort in the blur of your tears. His silence prompted an answer. 

“It’s not my fault,” you replied. 

“Say it again.”

“It isn’t my fault,” you echoed, meeting his gaze once more, “just as it isn’t yours.”

And as shocking as it was for you to realize it, you truly believed the words he encouraged from you. This sickness wasn’t your fault. Neither of you could have had any sway with fate or destiny, with whatever had brought this on. And perhaps, it just simply was, with no cause or fault at all. What mattered now was how kind you could be to yourself, how to take one moment of strife and find something in it to hold onto. Moments like this were one of those morsels between the ebbing aches of pain and grief that you could relish and devour again and again. 

Thranduil leaned forward, pressing his sweat-laced brow against yours. “Do not ever blame yourself, melamin. Do not let those foul words pass between your lips again.”

You nodded against him, pulling him nearer. “I promise.” 

In the long minutes that followed, there was the solace of quiet intimacy as he rinsed through your hair one final time, peppering you with kisses and caresses at every opportunity. He met you with a soft fluffy towel when he led you out of the bath, never allowing a breeze to nip at your damp skin. His touch was featherlight as he patted you dry from head to toe, scrunching your drenched tendrils of (h/c) hair without complaint. 

“I’m still so afraid,” you managed the courage to speak aloud, “What if–...what if this sickness claims my life?”

“You will not part this world without me, melda. Not a single breath will leave your lungs without my sharing it, not a single heartbeat will we not share,” he vowed, the absolute belief in his voice making the promise all the richer, “there isn’t a corner in this world or any other that you could wander to that I would not accompany you.”

Your silk nightgown slipped over your outstretched arms swiftly, sliding down your body and into place comfortably. He did up the lace of the collar with efficiency, not missing the chance to playfully tug you closer with the slightest bit of his strength. You planted yourself against his chest, the smile on your lips effortless with his own. The firm warmth of his arms wrapping around you had the same sort of pain-numbing effect as the hot spring, lulling every fretful thought to a close. His somber laugh reverberated again, this time through your bones, bringing an ethereal kind of peace with it. 

The pillows of your large four-poster bed were positioned, fluffed, and repositioned. You waited patiently, upon his insistence, as he untucked and pulled the puffy duvet back for you to crawl under. Once comfortably tucked beneath layers of silk and cotton, he assumed his place beside you, careful not to jostle the mattress as he settled, mindful that every movement enticed your discomfort. 

His body heat made you sleepy as you sank further into the covers, fogging your thoughts with a drowsy anticipation for the release of slumber. You’d waited for this moment all day—it had been the image that had pushed you through the hours of treatment and questions—the moment you could finally burrow against his warmth and drunken yourself with his scent. There was a slight stirring as he reached off to the side to retrieve something on the bedside table. 

The fluttering of pages caught your fading attention, pulling your heavy-eyed gaze toward the book in his grasp. “Would you like to continue where we left off?” 

You smiled tiredly against his chest, not recalling the events of the book he’d been reading to you for the last few nights. Oftentimes, the first few pages would strike vividly in your imagination, but as his lustrous tone carried on through paragraphs and chapters, the sleepy security that his presence enticed made it impossible to recall anything beyond the thrilling hum of his voice. In all actuality, you were quite sure he didn’t mind if you knew anything at all about the story he was reading aloud. It was enough to hold you and be held. 

TAGS:  @tessaem @izbelross @bloodblossoms73 @sunnysidesidra 

[edupunkn00b]

Hey hey Edu! I am having a day™️today and I have been thinking about why it is so hard for me to reread "What Might Have Been", but not "The Uses of Adversity"

Buckle up, there are spoilers for anyone who somehow has not read those masterpieces already

So, I think, I figured out my difficulty with WMHB is that at the core, I can barely cope with how much Remus spirals in that fic. The way he loses his grasp on himself more and more, the way his mind offers him another reality to deal with the how his life is getting out of order just- it did blindside me. Not because it's unrealistic or because you wrote it badly.

I think it just took me so off-guard after reading Happily Ever After where Remus, may have struggled but ended up helping Logan so often. Like, there is this underlying strength in his character that I adored. This hope and playfulness that never seized to show up.

And then he falls apart. It all falls apart and shatters. And I know that people do that. I know that characters do that and that it creates so much more interesting stories.

Later in different tidbits you show us how Remus was, versions of Remus and how he self-destructed before. You showed us better versions of himself, where he gets help earlier, chooses different paths, is able to choose different paths.

So it makes sense that he spirals, gets worse than ever before.

It just hurts so much because to me, it felt like he had it already. It felt like he was out of the woods. It felt like he had gotten better and was stronger than this. But the problem is that healing isn't linear. Sometimes you don't heal at all. Sometimes you just deal with the chipped state you're in.

And I think that was the thing that hurt. That Remus wasn't broken, but chipped. He seemed fine. He seemed to be doing well, to adjust, to grow. But he wasn't really broken, he was just chipped. He is chipped. And that is not something to be fixed but to be dealt with. And it's exhausting and tiresome if you don't know how to do it or have lost the motivation to do it.

But in TUoA we have Logan. And this version of Logan, who has suffered so much and is hurt and fearful and so very much in pain is less painful for me to see than WMHB Remus could ever be. Because that Logan has been broken. That Logan has been irreparably changed and will never be the same again.

And yet. And yet he gets the chance to become someone new. He gets the chance to be put back together in a new way. He gets to have Roman by his side, who looks at his broken pieces with love and care and is with him anyway.

And I think that hit less hard than what happened with Remus and feels more hopeful to me even though I understand that there is much more to come for Logan in that universe. But maybe, he'll be spared to have his son admitted to a mental hospital. Maybe he'll he spared to see his love fall apart because of something he couldn't have.

Maybe at least this portion of his life ends up being gentler than what WMHB would have given him.

Yeah.

I am very normal about your fics.

Kudos.

First of all, all the hugs in the world for you, Eir <3. You are beautiful inside and out and I hope you know that your stories touch me in so many of the same ways you're describing. (Most especially Life on Crow Avenue and Words Are Hard.) <3

I first read your note last night and had to sit with it because you're right, at the core of Remus' journey in What Might Have Been is the terrible truth that mental illness doesn't just go away. It can be managed to varying levels but it won't ever simply 'heal' like a cold or a broken leg. It's always there with us.

That was a difficult lesson for me to learn and one I'm probably still learning. I knew it intellectually but there have been times when life decided I needed to really learn it.

So many of us are those chipped cups, sitting on a shelf or serving some purpose. Just like those chipped cups, some of us break more easily than someone who has never been cracked and we do require extra care.

When I wrote Happily Ever After, I intended it to be a fairy tale. A fantasy, my fantasy, of what my life could have been like had I had friends like Janus and Roman in my life during my darkest times. Of how much stronger and better I could be if I'd had the support they gave him over the years.

I structured it like a fairy tale, took every chapter title from the first line of famous books. Logan started the story sad but unbroken, still surrounded by love and support. He ended the story discovering what I discovered about my self, ended the story with love for him and promising futures for his children. It was my dream fairy tale ending.

And it was completely unrealistic.

After sitting with the story for bit, I wanted to see how that might have actually happened, what a real ending to Logan's story might have been like, because if I could make Logan's fairy tale ending more realistic, I could make it realistic for me, too. That if in the more realistic version when Remus couldn't just bounce back again this time, if in even that version, he and Logan (and Janus and Roman and all of them) could still find a happy ending, I knew I could, too.

The Uses of Adversity is the same tale but backwards. What could possibly lead Logan to a happy ending when he started without Janus as a friend? The first part of TUoA, It Could Always Be Worse was very dark and was nearly even darker. I wasn't sure how it would end until I got to the last chapter. The original tags included an "author chose not to use Archive warnings" tag because that story nearly ended very differently.

Strangely, The Uses of Adversity, as straightforward as Logan and Roman's love story was, was much harder to write than WMHB or any of the other tales.

I hope that for every person who can't ever go back to WMHB, there's a person who reads it and can see that happy endings aren't just for fairy tales. That we can go through it all and still find a way to happiness in the end. That, chipped and broken and spiraling, there's always another chance for us to pick ourselves up or to allow ourselves be picked up, and keep on going toward a place of warmth and joy.

No matter what we've been through, it's never too late to build joyful connections with other people. It's never too late for a happy ending.

[sleepingasimdead]

To every person that has downplayed or accused me of "faking" my chronic illness;

I am not faking being ill, I am faking being okay. Every time you see me and think I am acting normal you are falling for the lie. I am constantly being betrayed by both my body and mind. I can't rest. Think about that, truly take time to digest the implications. A normal person can look forward to rest when they have had an exhausting day. Their exhaustion is a product of accomplishment, if not from progress in something then from showing restraint. I don't get that luxury. 'Exhausted' is not a state I can push myself to, it is my default. My bones are always heavy, it is always hard to concentrate, and there is no such thing as restraint when the smallest emotion can and often will cause my body to fail. I often hurt myself when cataplexy overcomes me. Mostly small things like clacking teeth, whiplash, and maybe a bumped head when my neck gives way. Often pulled limbs and flesh left tender from suddenly slamming against surfaces. Nothing long-term and no need to worry, usually more like a flickering than a total loss of control. Sometimes, more than I like to admit, I am left prone and useless. With bruised ribs, strained joints, and limbs positioned a little wrong. I know I will likely damage my body when I try to catch myself, but I do it anyway. Better that than risk not protecting my brain and face. Since as a "smart young woman", they are the only two things of value many believe I have. Either way, I am left with my cheek against the floor, eyes welling, and heart screaming. Seconds can feel like hours that way. I am constantly awaiting being foracbly rendered incapable. Whether it is being understood in conversation or left fighting just to stay upright, the question of, "is it about to happen?" occupies my mind more than any other. My functionality is drug-induced or non-existent. Every waking task feels Herculean only to be followed by the Sisyphean concept that is rest. I so rarely have anything to show for it beyond disappointment. Shame is an ever-present echo behind most aspects of my waking life. Not that my sleeping one is any better. When sleep offers no rest and you dream only in lucidity it wrends your concept of reality. My dreams are not colourless, sensationless, disjointed things. They don't always truly end when I wake either. I will wake with lingering sensations and their narratives often pick back up when next I try to sleep. I have experienced more through dreams and hallucinations at this point in my life than while waking and those experiences are most often violations. Can you be traumatized by things that aren't really happening? Why am I letting experiences I know were not real get to me? Two more questions I also find myself plagued by. But even without knowing the true depths of these things, I am a tragic burden to those around me. A walking embodiment of wasted academic and physical potential with the added addition of always having been a little odd socially. I am perpetually tired and desperate not to be tiresome. I know I am a burden so I try to minimize how much of one as best I can. I fake being in better health than I am, so I can't help but feel like your doubt is in part my fault. But I do it for your comfort, not mine, so when you dare disrespect me by implying I am a liar I can't help the resentment. Because we all know you can't handle being faced with what my illness is doing to me, as I am every day.

[frostyreturns]

Frosty Ruins Bros

This is one of those movies that you know even before it begins that it will devolve entirely into politics and that most of them wont even have anything to do with being gay. I was prepared for the worst, but I wasn't even prepared for this overly hamfisted political rambling to happen within the first minute of the movie. You do not even have the premise of the movie introduced before the writers have already complained about "cis straight white men." And less than two minutes into the movie they are already promoting the idea of gay books for kids.

But it's not all bad I do have to give the writers credit for honesty, early on there are some very mask off lines. For example a producer is trying to make a gay romcom (because everything has to be meta and self aware now) and says that love is love and gays are basically the same as straight couples and the gay character says that that was just propaganda to get straight people to tolerate and accept gays because in reality gay couples are absolutely nothing like straight couples.

They also admit it's an inherently more sexually deviant lifestyle and to mock the idea that gay couples are just like everyone else they do a joke where a gay couple calls their parents to tell them about introducing a third person into their sex lives like as though they were making a baby announcement. Credit where its due that was kinda funny, I think maybe we've gotten to the point where these people are so out of touch with reality they don't realize the message they are communicating. They've gotten so pushy and so comfortable that suddenly the propaganda of the past needs to be thrown out, because we've reached the period of subversion where their constant desire for representation and validation has superceded the need to cling to lies that helped them achieve that level of comfort. It's not enough that there's a gay person in every show...we need the gay person in every show to be a deranged overlypolitical sex lunatic and an unlikeable chode or else it's not accurate representation.

It's weird to see the main character playing a character who isn't an over the top cartoon, like he played in parks and rec, It's offputting. And he's not a good actor he's ill suited for this role, they even make a comment along this line by saying a gay guy playing a gay guy isn't acting…no shit, but they do it in a meta selfcongratulatory way because they actually cast gay men to play gay men. So they are essentially celebrating choosing gay people over actors...in a movie...and it shows because the acting is terrible. You get the impression he's being himself half the time and when he's not you can tell painfully clearly he's acting… his line deliveries seem forced and off tempo…it's like watching a hallmark movie if it was written by degenerate retards. It doesn't help that the main character isn't a person he's just a recepticle for the variety of ranting and political speeches that the writers want to make. Honestly it's like someone read a tumblr thread of the most incoherent unhinged gay people ranting and then thought how can i turn that into movie dialogue…and then quit halfway and said good enough.

Speaking of offputting a lot of what they expect to be comedy just comes off as empty and deeply sad. Like the part where he tries to have an anonymous meetup with a stranger but has to take a picture of his ass first and cuts himself shaving and freaks out because now "he can't shit or have sex"…am I supposed to be laughing. It's like a darker Judd Apatow movie but they took out the comedy the relatability and the redeeming qualities.

And the dialogue is what you would expect, it's incoherent nonsense, they do make an attempt to poke fun at themselves by having social justice arguments and debating who needs more representation displaying the ridiculousness of the ideas but even so it just comes off as annoying and tiresome. This movie is exhausting to listen to. If I wanted to hear someone complain that they say faggot in a movie from ten years ago I'd check myself for brain damage.

the movie is also just gross, they play romantic music while two dudes speedrun through a bunch of weird fetishes and do drugs. It's soft porn, it's as graphic as it can be without showing any actual sex. On that basis alone I highly recommend not watching it.

All of that aside the b plot that's just there to be backdrop for the "romance" is the opposite of interesting…not just uninteresting…it is as far from it as you can possibly be. Unless what you find interesting is a very unlikeable gay dude trying to produce a lincoln is gay exhibit in a gay museum. They spend half the movie complaining about gay representation not being good enough because it's too sanitized and hallmark but then use all the same cheesy cliches but just add in needless nauseating raunch. Like imagine American Pie but there's no jokes and everyone is in their mid 30's.

I can't even review the plot more than that because it's just so boring and pointless, it doesn't matter what happens because it's not interesting and you don't care...and it's very predictable.

The battle cry of the movie was that gays are not nice clean cut normal people like you or I and are actually messy obnoxious douchebags who lead hollow lives that are almost entirely fueled by degenerate, cold, mostly anonymous and awkward sex. To which I say...sure, duly noted. Now you might be thinking hey that's just your interpretation because you're a homophobe, to you I say that you give the movie too much credit, you assume the themes would be delivered with subtlety and would be open to interpretation...this is not the case. I know those are the themes because the characters in the movie told me over and over again that those were the themes.

It's not as bad as bottoms was but it's still one of the worst movies I've ever watched. After having watched it the accusations of "homophobia" being the only reason people didn't like this or want to see it sounds extra dishonest because it wasn't just a bad movie it was abysmal in every way possible. I feel like I need a shower after watching this.

F

[bubbleonice]

Chris Evans and Alba Baptista:

Request here is what’s the relationship like between this two and if there marriage has a future.

I am warned that readers are very sensitive about the subject about this marriage. Please keep in mind, I am a tarot reader who has been asked this question, and I am just delivering a message through my cards. For whatever reason if this reading is not to your liking, please just skip. Thank you❤️

Chris:

Angel of emerge: for the longest time Chris has been hiding. Hiding from his true self and true feelings. Not wanting people to know certain things. Keep secrets. It is now time for the real him to emerge. This is the true emergence of his true nature which until now he has denied to most of those around him. It took him some time to come to this difficult decision. But once he did come to this conclusion he was determinded.

Energy work: Healing his own energy is important. Too many are now trying to drain him for his energy and he needs to be aware of the importance of refilling and regaining his energy. This marriage has been a target for gossip and attention both of good and bad. The exposure of it has been exhausting.

It’s not an emergency: although it’s clear that things are in the midst of change, there’s no need of unnecassary drama. He has felt threatened and afraid and he doesn’t want to feel that anymore. There has been negativity and ill wills sent his way for a certain amount of time and it has been hurtful, depressing and tiresome. He wants to calm himself and reconnect to himself. There’s no real emergency, just a need to respond to the changes at hand gracefully.

Elevate: he is making the consious decision to raise the vibration of love. This is his decision more than anyone elses.

Children: He is definetely thinking about children and includes them in his future plans. He wants children. He wants to start a family.

Knight of pentacles: When he appears in a reading, commitment to a cause or relationship is in question. A step up from the Page of Pentacles, this cavalryman is just as dedicated but much more mature and experienced. In a love context, the upright Knight of Pentacles represents a new partner. This won’t be a whirl-wind relationship. The intention is for this to last.

9of swords: however this relationship has also caused Fear, anxiety, panic, negativity, intense dissatisfaction, stress, burden, overwhelmed, at breaking point, incapacity to cope with or confront life, mental pain and exposure to gossip and lies. He has felt defeated at times. Even hated.

Friendship: this marriage is not just based on love but also friendship. It’s a nurturing relationship on many levels.

Alba:

Angel of pleasure: she is reminding herself that it is ok to take pleasure in the things she does. It’s ok to enjoy the time being newly wed. It’s ok to be happy.

Giving and recieving: To balance out the negativity in life it is important for Alba to remember to send out love and light in order to recieve back love and light. Keep doing so and have faith.

Reach out: she has been putting up a defensive shield and believing that there has been enemy forces out there from which she must be protected from and withdraw. She needs to examine herself and her body posture. Is her arms folded tightly against her chest? Does she turn her body and eyes from those around her? Is she holding herself away from others? It is time for her to change that and start to reach out to the world again.

Action: She has the courage to express the unique loving colors of her soul.

Give your relationship a chance: when I said Chris was the one to take initative to this marriage is because I feel the cards here are telling me, Alba was scared all along. She was afraid of the reactions, the gossips, the hate, but she was asked over and over to give this relationship a chance.

The Emperor and the Queen of cups: here we have a powerful combo. The Emperor is the fourth card of the Major Arcana, and represents power, authority, and structure. The Emperor can also represent masculinity, and traditional gender roles. In combination with the tarot card Queen of Cups, The Emperor brings a sense of conviction and steadfastness to the reading. His energy encourages the individual to take control of their feelings and emotions, and to approach The Queen of Cups can represent the feminine aspect of intuition and emotion, and encourages the individual to trust their instincts and connect with their inner guidance. In combination with The Emperor, the Queen of Cups brings a sense of emotional intelligence and empathy to the reading. She encourages the individual to approach situations with compassion and understanding, and to connect with their emotions to make intuitive decisions.

This combo gives a hint about your actual state and close future, which is influenced by the arcane tarot forces of (A) Warmth and (B) Control. Nesting is your way of feeling secure. Coming home to candles and blankets is the ideal way for you to express your cozy personality and nurture your inner child. It is also a way of telling your past that just because you were once not able to feel safe, doesn’t mean it will be that way forever. This duo brings together two powerful forces – warmth and control – to create a balance that can lead to some serious success. Now, when it comes to the Queen of Cups specifically, we’re talking about unconditional love here. This gal loves openly and deeply without any reservations. And let me tell ya, that’s about as positive an energy as you can get in matters of the heart.

However we also got the 7 of wands: The Seven of Wands represents standing up for what you believe in and not wavering in those beliefs. When others put you in a position to argue your point, you rise to the occasion.

Passion: this marriage ia a magnetic and seductive one.

So question about: will this marriage have a future:

The empress reversed: Because of outside interference, this marriage will always be filled with Insecurity, lack of confidence or growth, overbearing tendencies, a rupture in peace, disharmony. You will let yourself be in the background of your life. You are letting others rule your decisions and emotions. Outsiders taking concerns and interfering.

King of swords: In a general context, the King of Swords represents structure, routine, self-discipline, power authority. can represent legal matters, law enforcement, military, police and judges. Maybe a divorce, maybe someone getting sued in time.

Strength reversed: Self-doubt, vulnerability, insecurity, lack of confidence, anxiety, raw energy, weakness, doubt, and disbelief. In the end, things will end too complicated to endure. Too much negativity.

I hope you enjoy this reading. And please keep in mind that this is done for entertainment purposes only. I use tarotcards and oracle cards actively in my readings, as well as my intuition. Energies come and go, what is relevant for today’s reading might change in a few weeks time. But some aspects will always remain constant and the same. Thank you.❤️

[ray-talks]

2/19/24

i had to go out to dinner today.

eating out is scary for me -- things tend to be higher calorie than home-cooked meals. it is also harder to purge in these situations; sometimes i can get away with it, or be able to once i get home. although, this doesn't always work, and today was like that. i attempted to when i arrived at home, but it was unsuccessful. this is irritating. i didn't eat an extreme amount, though, and restrained from eating more than necessary. usually -- i hate this, mind you -- i do crave food. today, however, i felt extremely annoyed at the idea of eating and didn't want to. i mean, i mentally don't want to eat, but my body does. it didn't entirely feel that way today.

my younger brother complained that he didn't eat breakfast or lunch. this made me angry -- because apparently only i can not eat all day -- and so i snapped at him for not eating, and then began to question him. he did admit that he had eaten today, just not proper meals. this made me feel a little better. i do find that when people say, "oh, i haven't eaten all day", they are being dishonest and have eaten snacks here and there. it still irks me, nevertheless, even when i know they were lying or being hyperbolic. my annoyance continued, because it is grating to be misgendered every day by my family. and, yes, they are aware that i am trans. all in all, it was a tiresome time. an irrelevant aside, is something else that has been getting under my skin, that being my parents constantly pestering me about my psychiatric medications. things such as, "have you taken them yet"; "don't forget to take them"; "you need to take them"; "i'm scared you'll get withdraws"; "just checking, are you sure you took them". it is an endless barrage. it might seem crazy what i'm about to say... these medications do not do very much to me. i am taking so many medications now, and i've taken many in the past, so why would these be any different? while i can't prove beyond a shadow of a doubt they do nothing at all, that there is a chance i could possibly get worse without them -- i am still very much mentally ill. it's all so bothersome. it makes me exhausted to constantly perform "getting better" and do all these useless things that do nothing, and i have zero interest in them. i apologize for complaining so much in this entry, but i am getting increasingly frustrated as of late.

i looked in the mirror and had the thought, "the current weight of my body is likely considered the most attractive weight for me to be". can't wait to ruin it by starving myself into the body of a sickly, emaciated victorian child (lol)! i wonder how common it is for someone with ana to not care about losing weight for the sake of appearance. sometimes i feel alienated from the ed community, as i don't relate to many experiences. i often hear people try to encourage others by saying how people will be jealous of you for your body, or that you should starve so your boyfriend will think you are beautiful. it is quite common that eds are spoken of as body-image issues. that does not apply to me at all. for me, it is all about control, to give myself a purpose/passion, and self-punishment, i suppose. i would be distressed at gaining weight, not necessarily because i would fear becoming societally unattractive, but because that does not align with my goals. i wonder if i would even be diagnosed with ana, regardless of how much i lose weight -- maybe i'd just be labelled with ednos. i guess, though, that i don't have to meet every criteria for ana to be diagnosed. it is irrelevant though, i would never want to be in a position of being diagnosed since i don't want help (lmao).

i think this is all i have to say for today. to all who read this, i wish you a good day.

[interstellarflowers]

Professor Parker Ch. 1| Professor, Peter Parker x Student, Reader

a/n this fic doesn’t follow the marvel cinematic universe but assume that peter has been what he’s been through with the exception that tony lived, and bruce is still bruce, sorry but i just can't deal with endgame hulk/bruce rn emotionally or mentally. im sorry nat is still dead but dw i'll actually treat it with respect unlike endgame like goddamn where was her funeral, am i right? the stages of grief thing they did was interesting though. im sorry i digress, this is set in nyc (because heyo im a new yorka) and the avengers/stark tower is still a thing, peter is fucking traumatized and has turned kind of cold as a result. this fic may contain a smut chapter in the future? not sure yet, where this fic goes depends on the feedback, thanks for reading also sorry im not the proudest of this first chapter so ill probably edit it but promise itll only improve from here just not in the best mental state rn

University life wasn’t exactly everything that you imagined it to be. There was hardly time to do anything that people claimed was good about coming to university. The parties, the epic heartbreaks, and romances, they were just nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was nothing particularly extravagant about your experience thus far. You went to class, studied, and went to your internship. Your internship was probably the most exciting thing about your life at the moment, you were lucky to be accepted into the Stark Industries student internship, the company paid college tuition and only required around twenty hours of lab work a week, you couldn’t complain. Of course, the exciting part of the whole ordeal was the name attached to it, “Stark,” not that you had ever met him, but it was nice to have a unique feature like that in such an impressive student body.

So here you were on the first day of your third year of university. You lived off-campus, about a five-minute walk from the Stark Tower, but a twenty-minute subway ride to your campus. However, having an 882 square foot space to yourself was really nothing you could truly complain about despite the distance. The studio apartment being yet another benefit reaped from Stark Industries. Thank you Tony Stark, the unseen benevolent God in your life.

Typically you would start your mornings off quietly and in no rush, a shower, a cup of coffee, maybe some studying before heading off to your campus, but your phone had other plans for you today. Instead of your alarm going off like it was supposed to, you were woken up by the sound of a particularly loud car horn, and oh how grateful you were for that. As soon as you were jolted awake you shifted to grab your phone and turned it over to see an alarming 8:40am glaring back at you.

Holy shit. You were late.

You scrambled out of bed nearly face planting several times in your hurry to get dressed and only barely ran out the door with everything you needed at 8:47am.

By the time you managed to get to the subway and clamor onto the right train it was already 8:55am. Out of breath and panicking, you considered your options. You could explain after class, you could shoot an email, there were a plethora of things you could do but none of them seemed to justify being late as a third-year to a level 500 class. You had googled all of your professors while registering for classes as was common practice. You couldn’t find a RateMyProfessor on Professor...Parker? You were pretty sure it was Professor Parker, but you do remember seeing on the STEM department page that he was currently a Ph.D. student, so you could only hope that as a fellow student he would be at least a little understanding towards your lateness.

You stood outside of the lecture hall huffing and trying to catch your breath at 9:32am, psyching yourself up, you pushed open the door to the class and attempted to go unnoticed. The class was in a lecture hall despite being only composed of around thirty students, so if you were lucky maybe nobody would even see-

“Ms.(y/l/n), I presume?.” Shit.

“Professor Parker?” Shit.

“You are aware that class starts at 9am, and not 9:30am, would this be correct Ms.(y/l/n)?”

“Yes, Professor, it’s just that I had an emergency.” The lying route. Not exactly the highlight of your academic career.

“I regret to inform you that I only take valid excuses Ms.(y/l/n), please take a seat, and next time, don’t bother disrupting class halfway through the lesson.” Fuck. You mustered a quiet “ok,” and a small nod before escorting yourself to the back of the room, thirty-something eyes following you until you sat down.

You couldn’t focus for the rest of the class, it was just too embarrassing, time moved forward but you couldn’t help but be stuck on what had just happened. For the first ten minutes after sitting down you felt like dropping out of the whole class out of sheer fucking humiliation. This was of course before you reminded yourself that this class was a requirement to graduate in your field of study. You quietly bargained with yourself before sighing quietly and settling on the conclusion that Professor Parker was just a dick. A dick who certainly didn’t deserve the satisfaction of you switching out of his class. If he wanted to be like that, you decided, you would simply return the favor.

“I know, Ms.(y/ln), why don’t you tell us DeBroglie’s equation?”

“With pleasure, Professor Parker.” Yeah, you’d return the favor alright.

“Ms.(y/l/n), you stay.” Fuck that. You looked the other way and feigned ignorance as you kept making your way towards the door. About to leave, the door shut on your face.

“What the fuck!” You jumped before turning around and you felt your face heat up.

“Ms.(y/l/n), please refrain from using profanities in my classroom.”

“I’m sorry Professor Parker. I was just startled.”

“Mhm,” he took his glasses off and laid them on his desk, “Just don’t do it in the future Ms.(y/l/n).”

“Of course. My name is (y/n), by the way, Professor Parker, you can just call me that, actually, I prefer that people refer to me by (y/n).”

“Rest assured, I’m aware of your name, Ms.(y/l/n). My name is Peter, but you can continue to call me Professor Parker.” You could have sworn that you saw a ghost of a smirk on his lips. He knew what he was fucking doing, asshole. You held back from rolling your eyes into the back of your head.

“Of course, Professor Parker.”

“As you know, Ms.(y/l/n), I did request that you stay after class.”

“Oh? I sincerely apologize Professor Parker, I really didn’t hear you.”

“I’m sure, Ms.(y/l/n).” Fucking. Dick.

“Well, what exactly did you want Professor Parker? I do have another class soon.” Professor Parker narrowed his eyes at you in obvious distaste before reaching behind himself into a bin underneath his desk and pulling out a stack of papers,

“These are the handouts you missed from the beginning of the class. Textbook requirements, syllabus...Crucial information to have if you care to succeed in my class Ms.(y/l/n).” So coldly, so maliciously, Professor Parker placed the stack into your arms.

“I take my work very seriously, Ms.(y/l/n), I do my part as your professor so I only have the simple request that my students do the same.” You nodded feeling your face heat up again.

“Of course, Professor Parker, it won’t happen again,” you said with a tightlipped smile.

“Mhm,” Professor Parker turned around and began shuffling around some paper and without giving you a second glance said, “You are dismissed.” You nodded and hurriedly made your way out of his classroom. Of course, you had lied. You didn’t have another class until late in the afternoon. So you called your coworker instead,

“Hey, Harvey.”

“(y/n).”

“Wow, okay, don’t get too excited.”

“Sorry, just woke up.”

“Tsk, the early bird gets the worm, Harvey.”

“I don’t want a worm.”

“Fuck you. I’m headed to the lab, can I expect you?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You had been working with Harvey for around four years now, he was quite the impressive specimen, having attended MIT and graduating Summa Cum Laude at age 20 was no easy feat, he was closer to Tony Stark than you would ever get, he was quite personable, and you couldn’t deny that he was quite good looking. You’d never tell him that though, he didn’t need another ego boost. Besides, you had some connections of your own.

“Hey, (y/n).”

“Banner!”

“Can we expect Harvey today?”

“Honestly, not sure.” You both knowingly smiled at each other before you made your way over to what he was working on,

“Do you ever get bored here?”

“With you and the other idiot always running around? How could I?” You laughed,

“No, seriously, like wouldn’t you rather be doing nerd shit with Tony or something? Isn’t it a little tiresome babysitting us?”

“Tiring? Maybe sometimes, but not nearly as tiring as doing ‘nerd shit’ with Tony. He’s exhausting,” Bruce smiled at his own joke, “I don’t mind playing babysitter at all kid.” He fiddled with the handle of a mug that read, “Don’t be so Na Cl,” which you had gotten him a year back as a joke, but he still used it.

You really loved Bruce for all he was. Since losing your family back in 2012 during the battle in NYC, you didn’t really have any familial figures. But since landing this internship you found yourself with a parental figure again, and you would never be able to put into words how much it meant to you, so you didn’t. Besides, you didn’t want him to feel pressured about it, especially after everything he had been through himself. Frying half your body and losing the love of your life in such a short span of time was really nothing less than horrifying. Yet, here he was, smiling, laughing...You loved him for it.

“First day of junior year? How was that?”

“Shit.”

“Huh?” Bruce stopped tinkering with the device in his hands and looked over at you, “I’ve never heard of a course being too hard for (y/n) (y/l/n), what is it? Aerospace? Quantum?”

“No, just one giant dick.”

“Pardon-”

“My professor, he’s a fucking asshole.”

“Ah, I see. If he’s really harassing you (y/n), I don’t mean to overstep, I really think we should alert administration, what’s his name?” Bruce took a sip of his coffee.

“Professor Parker,” Bruce choked on his coffee, “Oh my God, Bruce, are you okay?”

“Yeah-” he said, still coughing, “Just a little too strong.”

“Okay, are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce caught his breath, “What did he do kid?”

“He’s just a dick that’s all.”

“You sure you don’t want me to do something about it?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, I don’t know what you could do anyways. Thank you though.”

“Actually, you’d be surprised.”

Sitting at your desk stressing over school work at 3am, it was nothing out of the ordinary for you. Everything appeared ordinary. The ordinary cup of tea, the familiar glow of your computer, and a morning chill creeping through your window. It was all so breathtakingly normal until there was a rap on your window. You took an earbud out of your ear, certain you were just hearing things, you looked to your window. Holy shit.

You opened your window wide so that he could crawl in.

“(y/n)?”

“Mr.Spiderman.” Still too in shock to fully process the situation you started to take in the scene in front of you,

“Please, it’s just Spiderman.”

“Oh-Oh my God, what happened?” Head to toe the suit seemed to have blood seeping through, tears in the body of the suit revealed gashes and a bullet wound.

“Bad guys. I know this guy-said he knew a medical student close by, you are (y/n)? Right?”

“Y-Yeah, but I’m really just a student, I’m not really a prof-”

“This guy, he said you might as well be.”

“I don’t know Mr.Spiderman, really, maybe I could take you to the hospital though.”

“-Spiderman, it’s just Spiderman, listen, (y/n), you know I can’t go to a hospital, it would ruin this whole secret identity thing I got going on here, and this guy, he’s probably the smartest guy I know, so if he says you can handle it, you can.” You swallowed and nodded,

“Yeah-” you wring your hands together, “Yeah-Sorry, let me go get my first aid kit.”

[genshinfanboy]

Time To Take a break.

|Hello everyone. Somehow I got fans. That's pretty cool. I have two more people for myself indulgent one-shots. So the two requests I have please forgive me for a bit longer. Also it seems as if everyone is simping for Childe and wants angst for him. This one-shot will be for Diluc and a cryo user male reader. Kaeya will also like the reader for this one but his feelings won't be returned. Like always you may change the pronouns to fit your own. Spoiler warning for a bit in the manga. Please enjoy.

Diluc x Cryo Male reader x one-sided Kaeya.

----------------------------------------------------

(Y/N) was a traveler who hadn't been to his home in Monstadt for a few months. He was making his way home. Hoping to see Master Diluc and Master Kaeya. He knew Diluc his entire life. He was a bit younger than Diluc by two years. When they were kids no one could seperate them. His parents had worked at the Dawn Winery his whole life which is why he grew up in one of the servant quarters. Around the age of 15 he had become a helper around the manor. He got into a bit of a habit of calling Diluc and Kaeya master after that point. Diluc seems a bit annoyed because of the habit. When he turned 18 he left the Dawn Winery to be come an adventure. He made a promise to always visit Diluc and Kaeya whenever he came back to Monstadt. He would be lying if he said he didn't have feeling for Diluc. The older male always made his heart skip a beat. When Kaeya joined their duo with his teasing (Y/N) learned how to easily maintain his blush. He always admired how much Diluc did for their beloved Monstadt. He decided he was going to surprised the red haired male later and went to the knight's of Favonious headquarters. He smile and waved at the knights at the door. They exchanged greetings before (Y/N) went in to find Kaeya. He ran into Noel and greeted her. He asked if she had seen Kaeya anywhere. "Oh yes I think I saw Sir Kaeya heading towards the cathedral. Would you like me to go fetch him for you?" She asked with a smile. He shook his head no. "I'll go find him myself thank you for the information Noel. Remember to take care of yourself." (Y/N) said patting her head with a smile. She had leaned into the touch before waving bye. He started making his way up the stairs. Sure enough he had seen Kaeya infront of the statue of Barbados. He had something in his hands. (Y/N) walked behind him and covered Kaeya's visible eye. "Guess who?" He quickly said to make sure Kaeya doesn't think he's under attack. "Hmm if I had to guess it would be someone who I love to tease and grew up with. Oh but we aren't that close anymore because he decided to leave Monstadt. I had to find a new best friend." Kaeya said with a teasing tone. He gave a laugh. He's liked the other for awhile now but knew he had no chance compared to Diluc. If he could steal (Y/N) from his adoptive brother he'd do so in a heart beat. Kaeya removed the hand from his eye and turned around. He was still holding the other's hand. He brought it up to his lips and gave it a quick kiss. "What do I owe the pleasure of this meeting to?" He asked with his signature smirk. (Y/N) shook his head with a laugh at the action. "Your flirting won't work on me. You should know better by now. I have a few people sending me commissions in Monstadt. So I've returned home for a bit. What do you got?" He asked pointing to the small package. Kaeya listened intently. "I'm glad your home. Perhaps you could help me deal with something. People around town have noticed Diluc looking rather pale and not the best in health. Charles in particular has been worried that he's sick and overworking himself. I told him I'd take care of it. So I went to Barbara to get some medicine. Then I started thinking who I should send to give it to Diluc. If I went I'm sure we'd end up in a fight. It would also be much more interesting to send you." Kaeya explained. (Y/N) listened to Kaeya's request. He looked a little worried about Diluc. He overworked himself to the point of illness when his father passed. The younger male never wanted to see Diluc like that again. "Leave it to me Kaeya. I'll make sure He rests and gets better." (Y/N) said with a determined look. "I'm guessing you don't want your name mentioned Kaeya?" He got his hair messed up in response. "Always one step ahead of what I'm thinking (Y/N) I don't want to cause a conflict. Let me know when he is better." Kaeya said before walking off. Sometimes he wish the younger male would've fallen for him instead.

(Y/N) made his way to Angels Share to make sure Diluc wasn't working at the Tavern. He peaked his head in and saw Charles behind the counter. He gave a sigh of relief. "Hey Charles is Master Diluc at the Winery?" He asked with a smile. "From what I know he is. I wish he'd stay there. He is planning on coming in later. Everyone has tried telling him to stay home. He refused to listen to anyone though. You might be able to keep him down to rest. I asume that you're not going let him come here? At this point I'm sure who is more stubborn. You or Master Diluc." Charles said with a sigh. (Y/N) gave a small laugh. "We'll see if I can make him stay in bed." He said before waving bye. After a bit he had made it to Dawn Winery. He greeted several people he knew from when he worked there. He saw the head maid and asked where Diluc was. He was a bit relieved to hear that master Diluc was in his room but also worried because he was getting ready to do vigilante things. He informed her that he'd take care of him. He made his way upstairs to Diluc's room he knocked on the door. He wanted to make sure the older male wasn't in the middle of changing. "For the last time I am going and you can't stop me." Was heard from the other side. (Y/N) walked in. "You look awful Master Diluc. I will stop you if I have to. Charles told me that you were sick and I got worried. I wanted to check on you. Why are you pushing yourself so much?" The younger male said crossing his arms. Diluc looked surpised to see (Y/N) there. "I have too much to do. The Abyss Order has been super present. It's no time to worry about a small cold." Diluc stated not looking the other in the eyes. "Your body is just going to get weaker and weaker the more you continue like this Master Diluc. For one night would you be willing to leave the matters to the knights? I know you dont want to think about that idea but please do it for one night." The younger male asked. Diluc gave a sigh. He fixed his gloves and got ready to head out. "I'll be fine (Y/N) I am always fine. You're welcome to rest here if you'd like. Coming back from Liyue must've been tiresome. Also just call me Diluc. You've known me your entire life. There is no need to use master before my name." He stated before he ended in a coughing fit. He walked past the other heading towards the door after the fit was over. He was almost to the door when he felt two arms wrap around his torso holding him in place. "Diluc please I'm begging you. I don't want to see you collapse. I already had to see it once. I never want it to happen again. If you can't trust all of the knights at least trust Jean. One day is all I'm asking of you. We haven't seen each other in a year and I come back to find out that you are ill. I care too much about you to let you destroy yourself. I fell in love with you forever ago. If you don't return my feelings it's whatever but I will not stand by idly and watch you destroy yourself. If you won't rest willing then I'll use for if I have to. I know you're not one for physical interaction but holding you like this is the only way I can think of to get you to stay. " (Y/N) said holding onto him tightly. He saw Diluc turn his head to look at him and saw reluctance in his eyes. Diluc stood there for a moment thinking he was sure (Y/N) could feel his heart beat. "Fine one day." He muttered with a deep sigh.

(Y/N) gave a relieved smile. He let go of Diluc and watched him take his coat off. "Get your sleepwear on and I'll get you some water to take a bit of medicine." He said with a soft tone. He walked out to get some water for the other. Diluc felt his face heat up as he changed. He felt his exhaustion finally catching up with him. He didn't realize how tired his body was until then. He laid down to wait for (Y/N) to come back. He'll just sneak out later when the other was asleep. He waited a few minutes before his eyes started feeling really heavy. Before he knew it his was asleep. (Y/N) had decided to make Diluc some soup. He saw the relief in the servants eyes when he came downstairs grinning proudly. He wondered how long Diluc pushed himself for. He gave yet another sigh as he finished making the soup. He came back to Diluc's room and saw him asleep. He set the soup down on a table and walked over. He placed a hand on the other's forehead. He frowned the temperature was definitely higher than normal. The other was always warm compared to (Y/N). He wondered if it was because of their visions. He activated his cryo vision lightly in his hand on Diluc's head. He didn't want Diluc over heating. He was going to be taking care of the man he loved for hours. He knew Diluc pushed his body way to hard. He stayed by Diluc's side for hours taking care of him. He would tend to Diluc whenever he woke up in a feverish fit. Sometime in the middle of the night he fell asleep resting part of his body on the bed beside Diluc. The next morning Diluc woke up feeling groggy. He didn't remember much of yesterday. When he started waking up more He felt a bit more weight on his bed than usual. He quickly sat up in a panic before he saw his childhood friend next to him. Did the idiot not take care of his own needs? He started recollecting his thoughts from the day before and remembered that (Y/N) literally confessed to him. He also remembers a cooling sensation on his head at points when he was sleeping. He noticed his friend's vision and how close (Y/N)'s hand was to him. He cooled him down all night with his vision. His face matched his eyes and hair at this point. He felt shifting beside him and looked over worried. (Y/N) woke up looking around a bit disoriented for a second. Then he noticed Diluc sitting up. He instantly woke up. "Diluc how are you feeling?" He asked seeming worried. "I'm fine thanks to you. I have a question. Did you mean it when you said you loved me?" Diluc asked once again looking away from the younger male. He heard a bit of laughter and felt his heart sink a bit. Was that just a joke? He felt more weight right next to him. He glanced over to find the (H/C) haired male sitting next to him. "Of course I did. I can't believe you didn't notice from my years of obviously crushing on you since I was 15. When you became the Calvary captain I was swooning for you. Everyone else knew. Kaeya used to tease me about it constantly. When I left for Liyue I told you that there was something important I had to say when I returned. It was my feelings towards you. The question is do you feel the same about me and would you be mine?" He asked leaning slightly into Diluc's personal space. He just got a small nod. Which put the biggest grin on the younger male's he wrapped his arms around Diluc's shoulders and kissed his cheek. "Then would you rest a bit more for me?" He wanted to make sure Diluc recovered completely. He was fond of the dark blush on the older male's cheeks. It was definitely a rare sight to see and he loved it. He got a nod and hug in return.

|Thanks for reading.

[kevin-day-is-bi]

If you’re still doing your prompt requests could you do herongraystairs + 5??? Thank you so much 💖💖

Here you go! I went ahead and answered another ask with this same fic, so @autumnangel20, your ask for numbers 1 and 20 is answered here. 

Warning: This does contain smut. The smut is most probably not very historically accurate, but it’s harder than you’d think to write Victorian praise kinks. This contains some angst, some plot. 

Jem wondered, as he kept eating his toast, what he had done to deserve Will Herondale.

He wondered this often, some days in a 'how had he received this blessing' way and some days in a 'the Angel had it out for him and wanted him to suffer' type of way. 

Today was the first type, though by all usual methods of determination he should have been wondering the second. Will was even more boisterous than usual, rambling about all sorts of nonsense. Charlotte looked like she was regretting every decision that led her up to this moment as Will reenacted what Jem thought was supposed to be Will's own death via duck. 

All Jem could do was stare at Will as he reached one arm towards the sky, other hand pressing to his heart. While Jessamine looked annoyed, Jem was hyper focused on the enticing strip of skin that was Will's collarbone. 

"Oh, Angel above, Will." Charlotte set her fork down with a thunk. "Your toast has hardened, your tea is cold, just sit down and finish your breakfast." 

"I was showing my eventual brutal end at the hands of the ducks," Will said sullenly, as he got up and brushed himself off.

"Ducks don't have hands," Jem muttered, and Will gave him a betrayed look. Jessamine snickered. 

"And if you do not stop harping on about ducks, I shall have you killed before the ducks can." 

'Have him killed', Jem noted, not kill him herself. Jessamine's refusal to be a Shadowhunter had caused Charlotte more annoyance over the last three months than Will's antics, something that put out Will and made Jessamine oddly proud. 

Breakfast finished in silence, with the exception of Jem almost upsetting his tea when Will brushed his hand up high on Jem's thigh. Will gave him a smile with enough of a smirk in it for Jem to know it had not been accidental. 

When Will had left the room, speaking very loudly to an annoyed looking Sophie, Jessamine gave a great sigh. 

“How I wish I did not have to see him quite so often.” 

“Jessamine, be polite,” Charlotte said wearily, taking a slow sip from her tea. 

Jessamine humphed. Jem knew Will could be tiresome, but this knowledge was now slightly diluted by three months worth of memories of Will’s kisses. Instead of the usual exasperation and defence that anyone complaining about Will usually inspired in Jem, Jem felt surprisingly furious. Just because Jessamine was incapable of seeing Will as he truly was did not mean it was Will’s fault. Though Jem knew that it was. 

Jem stood and left the room without saying anything. He made his way back to his bedroom, determined to drown his annoyance in music. Vivaldi was always exceptional at catching Jem up and taking him to a place where there was no drug, no Law, nothing to make Will lash out and drink himself to oblivion. 

When he got to his room, Jem shut the door firmly, blocking out the sound of Will’s boisterous voice from downstairs.

…

Jem drew the bow across the strings slowly, drawing out the note. His hand trembled at the end, causing the note to become sharp. He cursed under his breath, continuing with the song. These last months, the yin fin had affected his strength more and more. His next few notes came out in a rush as he ford his hand to steady. 

Jem’s annoyance at the yin fin only heightened as he remembered Will’s mouth frantic against his own, Will having to initiate everything, them having to stop out of fear of Jem’s exhaustion or falling ill. And oh, Will. Will and his lashing out, Will and his drinking, Will and his pushing everyone away. Will was mercurial, in the exact sense of the world, one moment being kind and loving and gentle the next being all anger and sharp words and shoving Jem away. 

Jem let himself be lost in the music, let it wash away all his fears and worry and annoyance at the yin fen and Will and the Law. The Law, which made it illegal for them to do many of the things they do nearly every day. Jem gritted his teeth as the music slowed. He shut his eyes, trying to turn his thoughts to the music. Vivaldi, he thought. Not Will Herondale, not the Law, not yin fin. 

It almost worked. Peace and near contentment filled him, and he was nearing the end of the song when someone knocked on his door. He sighed through his nose and ceased his playing. 

“Yes?” 

The door opened and Will poked his head in. For all the grief Will had caused Jem, his heart still quickened and he still smiled when he saw Will. 

“That was an extremely melancholy song you were just playing.” 

Jem relaxed his grip on the violin and the hand holding his bow dropped to his side. Will took this as an invitation and strode into the room, collapsing with as much drama as was humanly possible onto Jem’s bed. Jem was momentarily diverted by the image of Will laying on his bed, shirt open and hair mussed, and had to instantly return to the conversation to avoid an unfortunate reaction. 

“I was practicing for your funeral,” He responded, leaning one hip against his desk. “For when the ducks finally get you.” 

Will laughed, and looked as though he was going to say something ridiculous. Instead, he propped himself up on his elbows. 

“James, I know you speak in jest, but I must know. Why were you playing something so very sad?” 

Jem sighed, and Will continued talking. 

“You are not feeling too bad today, I hope.” Will’s bright blue eyes peer up at him in the dimness of the room. 

“No, I am quite fine. Stronger than usual, in fact.”

“Then, you are not-” Will broke off, frowning. “You are not regretting…” 

He gestured vaguely, and Jem straightened. 

“No! No, I do not regret our joining.” Jem stopped, and looked out his window. The curtain was mostly drawn across it, but there was a sliver through which he could see the courtyard, and beyond it, Fleet Street. He remembered first coming to London, how dull and gray everything looked. How he had despised the cold and wet at first, how it had sent him into coughing fits and made him feel worse constantly. And how the tiny black haired boy, so full of acerbic words and vicious wit, had made those first days easier somehow. 

“Come now, Jem, old boy.” Will sprung off the bed. Jem jerked back to the moment and turned to raise an eyebrow at Will. “Come, I will not have you moping around.” 

“I am not moping-” 

Will lept into a fighting stance, fists up, and tossed his glorious black hair out of his eyes. 

“Fight me.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Sparring will take your mind off of what you were just now thinking, whatever it was.” Jem doubted that, seeing as what was largely on his mind was Will, and every time they sparred they ended tangled up together, mouths pressed in desperate, needy motions. Still, Will bobbed on his feet slightly, grinning wickedly. “So…fight me.” 

Jem set down his violin. 

“You just want me to pin you against the wall again.” 

“Last time was a fluke. I shall be pinning you against the wall this time.” 

Jem snorted. “Is that a challenge?” 

Will’s eyes flashed. Jem moved, bringing his arms up to block his face. Nothing had happened whatsoever on any patrols for a month, and Jem was beginning to fill with nervous energy. Normally his illness prohibited such fidgeting, but when he had nothing better to spend his energy on, he found himself aching for a fight. 

They circled each other, Jem determined not to make the first attack. He had almost lost patience when Will jabbed at him, swinging low and fast. With some surprise, Jem jumped back. He blocked the punch, striking at Will’s shoulder with his other hand. Will danced back before the hit could land. 

They continued this way for some time, one of them darting in for a hit then leaping back before one could land on themselves. Finally, Jem managed to catch hold on Will’s loose sleeve and pull him in close. They grappled, both hitting lighter than was strictly necessary. At one point, they toppled onto the bed, wrestling for control. Jem ended up pinning Will, and his feeling of victory was slightly lessened by the sight of Will beneath him, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, eyes bright. 

“It appears you did end up pinning me after all, though not against a wall.” Will’s voice was a little too casual, and his gaze was largely fixed on Jem’s lips. There was so little space between them and Will was breathing hard and then Jem was kissing him, unable to do anything else. 

Will kissed back instantly, body arching under Jem. Jem sat up and yanked his shirt off, unable to even feel the fury he usually did upon seeing his skinny form. All he could think about was getting his lips back on Will’s. He went to place his hands next to Will’s head, but Will placed a hand against his chest. 

“You pinning me was actually quite nice.”

Jem’s surprise melted into satisfaction and he once again placed his hands on Will’s wrists. Will made a soft noise under him as Jem squeezed. Very, very quickly, Jem was intensely dissatisfied with kissing. He transferred his grip to one hand, the other going to unbutton Will’s shirt. He got it undone and lightly pinched one of Will’s nipples, almost as an afterthought. Will made a noise in the back of his throat and his eyes fluttered shut. Interesting, Jem thought, and experimented with placing his mouth where his fingers were. He was rewarded with a little whimper. 

Jem, almost without thinking, brought his now free hand down to unbutton Will’s pants. As he went to shove them down, he stopped. Sat up. Let go of Will’s hands. This was far as they had gone before. Through some unspoken agreement, they had restrained their activities to kissing. Jem met Will’s eyes. Will nodded, then breathed an additional “Oh, yes.” 

Jem slid down the bed, keeping his eyes firmly on Will’s. 

“Tell me when to stop.” Will made a breathless noise of assent and Jem frowned. “William. I’m serious. Tell me when to stop.” 

“I will. I swear on the Angel.” 

With that, Jem pulled Will’s trousers off of him. He was taken aback momentarily. Will was so much larger than he had thought. Will gave him a concerned look but Jem just lowered himself over Will again. One hand caught up Will’s wrists again, and the other began to stroke oh-so-slowly. Will made such delightful noises and Jem wondered why on earth they hadn’t done this before. 

Will’s noises became a little more desperate and Jem pulled back. Will protested, but Jem just spit in his hand. 

“Spread your legs.”

...

Will wailed, fingers spasming under Jem’s grip. Jem thrust in again. Will began to whimper as Jem sped up. Jem braced his hand on Will’s knee, other hand still firmly pinning Will’s wrists to the bed. Will’s cheeks were flushed, and his mouth was open as he panted. 

“You look,” Jem gritted out, in between thrusts. “So gorgeous right now.” 

Will’s eyes snapped open. He looked shocked, and slightly taken aback. Jem experimented again. 

“With your mouth open so wide, you’re just begging to suck on something.” 

Will whimpered, and Jem swore he saw Will’s cock twitch. Jem smiled lightly and made a mental note to keep talking. But first…

He sped up, thrusting in as deep as he could go and squeezing Will’s wrists. Will made soft little noises, feet bracing against the bed. 

“You look so good, all fucked out like this.” 

Will moaned at that, full and unabashed, Jem felt himself racing to the edge fast, so he reached a hand between them and squeezed Will’s cock. Will came instantly, and Jem pulled out and came across Will’s stomach from the feeling of Will’s convulsing around him. Will cried out, back arching and legs spasming wide. 

Jem shoved himself off and rolled to the side. Will took the moment to breathe and stop the trembling in his limbs. Jem chuckled, more a sharp exhale of breath than an actual laugh. They lay next to each other for a moment, catching their breath and laying in the afterglow. 

“You’re really quite good at that.” 

Jem looked over at Will, examining his profile in the firelight. 

“Which bit?” 

Will waved a hand, though the motion was more of a flop than a graceful movement. 

“Just-” Will’s sighed out a breath. “All of it.” 

Jem snorted lightly, rubbing a hand down Will’s arm gently. He had worried that it would be awkward, that there would be fumbling and limbs sticking out and Will pitying Jem’s lack of skills. But the second Jem had gotten Will under him, all that fear had melted away. Hearing Will mumble soft little ‘please’s and ‘oh, Jem’s felt more natural than anything he had ever done in his entire life. 

“Hey, Carstairs?” 

Jem blinked back to the present, smiling at the ‘Carstairs’. 

“Yes?”

“Just to clarify.” There was a little hitch in his voice. “Did we just sleep together?”

...

Hope you liked it :) Sorry it took so long to answer!

[chaoticsweetprincess]

The Best Things in Life Are Free

Written by: Jennica Shane Rocha

November 19, 2020

We, humans, were living in this world temporarily. I keep wondering every day I went to school, I see people keep rushing and busy with their daily routine. While riding on a Jeepney, I encounter different kinds of people. Some were students, some were employees, some were factory workers, some were engineers, nurses, and some were just ordinary passengers. I wonder if they were able to enjoy their life. It seems their daily routine was so exhausting.

Just like me, a college student, project here, assignment there, research here, and task there. When I am at home, I can’t seem to find time to relax for myself. There’s a bunch of activities that needs to study and finish. I find it weary every day. I wake up early and rushing to school, at the same time, as going home with all the heavy traffic is bursting me out. Sometimes I find it very tiring anymore what I want is to do is to relax and have a break of my own.

By the way, what is the purpose of all these sacrifices since after graduation, I couldn’t be a millionaire? Obviously, after graduation, I will look for a job to work. This never-ending tiresome seems like a curse. I want to be free! When I hear the word free, I thought it means the freedom you always wanted to be. You are free to try crazy stuff; you are free to choose the path you want to take. If I had a magic lamp like Aladdin, I would wish the Genie to make me a millionaire so that I will have this leisure life ahead.

 All of this was just my wildest perception yesterday, not until I come to my senses the importance of life is. There was a time in my life that I discover that I had this borne illness. I was diagnosed with SLE or Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. It an autoimmune disease in which the body’s immune system attacks on its own. I couldn’t forget my first attack when I experienced a stroke in where I couldn’t move my own body and my face.

At that moment, I feel I was going to die. I keep asking myself why? I’m way too young to die. There are so many things I need to do in my life, and it was that the point of my life that I realized that money can't save us all. I really thought money could buy anything in this world but it isn’t. What are the best things in life that are free? Free from any diseases. Since then, my perception of life has changed. For me, simple talk makes me happy, I feel satisfaction every time I chit chat with someone, laugh with someone. 

It makes me feel alive. At home, I am annoyed with my mother's murmurs, but this not at all. I find it natural, I might be afraid if I couldn’t hear it anymore. Friends, Families, Relatives, Smiles, Laughter, Tears, Joy, Memories, and Experiences are the things in this world that even money can't buy happiness. What is more important that we know to be contented to have a greater and wonderful meaningful life.

[nicolewrites]

coming home - i

It's Sylvain's birthday and I probably should have been nice to him, but instead, I wrote this.

This started as a one-shot, but when I hit 4 000 words, I reconsidered. The first part is long and covers the Academy Phase, the second part is much shorter and covers the 5-years of war, and the last part is long and covers the War Phase.

Rating: T+ Genre: Angst, Friendship Characters: [Sylvain Jose Gautier & Ingrid Brandl Galatea], Glenn Fraldarius Words: 6,230

“I am alone in a house of ghosts and monsters, he had written.” / a character study in three parts

AO3

one - ruin and bone

As a child, Sylvain had always considered Fhirdiad his home. He had spent much of his youth there, running about with Felix and Dimitri and Ingrid and Glenn. Fhirdiad had been a place of warmth and happy memories. His mother would smile there, when in the company of the queen or the king or the Duke and Duchess Fraldarius.

Margravate Gautier never quite felt like home. The house was large and dark and it was always frigid cold. There was always grim news coming from the northern border with Sreng and his father would disappear into his study for days on end if an issue came up. Castle Gautier meant tutors and tiptoeing and etiquette lessons.

It also meant Miklan.

It meant stealing his mother’s make-up to hide bruises and hoping that the servants would know well enough to keep their mouths shut, lest the Margrave or Margravine find out the truth. It meant locking himself in his room or learning the quickest ways to run from one room to another if Miklan was angry and looking for a fight.

It meant almost freezing to death in the bottom of a well, only to be saved by a horrified Glenn Fraldarius and a traumatized young Felix. Ingrid and her youngest older brother had been searching for him too, but Glenn just put an arm around Sylvain and kept him away from all the questions.

Sylvain loved Glenn. He never asked questions and he knew just enough white magic to make the aches go away. That day, he had shoved a bowl of steaming soup, cooked by Ingrid’s brother, into his hands and had stubbornly sat with him until Sylvain had eaten the whole bowl and half of a second one. Glenn made Ingrid and Felix stop staring and sent Ingrid’s brother to retrieve the Margrave and Duke Fraldarius.

“I’ll kill him,” Glenn had promised in the same cool, steely tone that Felix would adopt years later.

Glenn had only been two years older than Sylvain, but that made him only just over a year younger than Miklan. But, Sylvain loved Glenn. He had no love for Miklan and he certainly didn’t want to send Felix’s older brother in to deal with his messes.

“No, you can’t,” he had argued.

Glenn had stared him down. “Then tell me what he does to you so I can teach you to really fight and to deal with him on your own.”

So Glenn taught Sylvain to use an axe because Miklan used a lance. Margrave Gautier had been training both of his sons to wield lances because it was the weapon of a cavalier and a soldier. Glenn used swords mostly, but he pressed an axe into Sylvain’s hands and taught him to use the brute strength of an axe to overwhelm the reach and precision of a lance. He would be in trouble against a sword, but he could break a lance with a cleverly placed blow from an axe.

Miklan beat the shit out of him the moment that the Fraldarius and Galatea families had left the Margravate. He had broken a training lance over Sylvain’s back and left him curled uselessly on the floor of the Gautier training grounds. Sylvain had contemplated waiting to die there, but his father had stumbled upon him shortly after.

He expected pity or anger towards his brother. He had not expected the cool gaze of a detached nobleman assessing him.

“You are the heir of House Gautier. Do not wallow and do not falter. I will not tolerate your failure again.”

Six months later, Sylvain had been out with a young woman in town and had returned late at night. He had walked past his father’s study and caught the sound of a brutal beating. He hadn’t had to look through the cracked door to know that his father was doling out discipline upon Miklan.

Dinner the next day had been unbearable where his father had eaten calmly at the table while his mother tried to keep a fluttering conversation up with the Margrave and with Sylvain since Miklan had been confined to his room by healers until he was better rested.

There was a book on Crests and a treaty of government on Sylvain’s desk that night. He burned the book on Crests in his fireplace and wrote to Glenn that night.

I am alone in a house of ghosts and monsters, he had written. He expected no reply from Glenn. The Fraldarius heir wasn’t one for sentimental feelings and connections.

Duke Fraldarius invited Sylvain and the Margravine to Duchy Fraldarius the next week and Sylvain got to leave Margravate Gautier. Duchy Fraldarius was further south than Gautier, so it was warmer, and the company was pleasant. After a week of sparring with Felix and Glenn, Sylvain began to feel a little better.

Then he had learned of Glenn’s engagement. He supposed it wasn’t entirely impractical. Ingrid was a young, Crest-bearing woman and Glenn was the heir to a rich noble house. When Ingrid had come to visit with her two oldest brothers the next day, she had worn a dress for the first time in a long time and she had blushed when Glenn had taken her hand. Sylvain suddenly didn’t feel welcome at Duchy Fraldarius as the Duke and Count Galatea negotiated. Duchess Fraldarius and his mother tried to keep the children busy, but there had been an air of somberness over the house for a few days.

He wrote to Dimitri and the prince gave him an out, welcoming him and all of the others to come to Fhirdiad. On the ride there, Ingrid had chattered on about Pegasus Knights and how much she adored the flying steeds and Sylvain had found himself with a startling amount of patience to discuss the topic, even once Glenn and Felix had long exhausted the subject of conversation.

Sylvain liked to watch Ingrid wave her hands and point as she told him stories and her hopes about one day becoming a knight herself. Count Galatea’s expression had grown firm, but Sylvain had ignored Ingrid’s father and had asked her about other flying creatures, besides the pegasus, who would make good steeds.

Glenn had grabbed him by his collar when they made camp for the night on the way to Fhirdiad. “Don’t forget who’s marrying her, Gautier.” The Fraldarius heir’s voice had been flat and more reminiscent of the way that he spoke to Miklan.

Curiosity had sparked in Sylvain’s stomach at the idea that Glenn, who was the ideal, prominent knight, was jealous of Sylvain’s easy conversations with Ingrid. Ingrid who obviously preferred Glenn and tolerated Sylvain. It made the bitter knot in his own stomach lessen. He loved Glenn, but he never denied the fact that he was jealous of Glenn for many things.

He rode with Felix the next day, talking about Dimitri and the new sword Felix had gotten for his birthday. Glenn had ridden back with Ingrid, but Sylvain never found himself able to escape the scrutiny of Ingrid’s gaze for the rest of the trip.

Fhirdiad was nice. It was a breath of fresh air to spar with Dimitri, even if the prince’s strikes carried twice as much strength as Glenn’s because at least Dimitri used a lance and Sylvain was able to pick up an axe to notch a single hit before he was soundly defeated. It had grown tiresome getting beaten by both sword-wielding Fraldarius brothers and it wasn’t particularly pleasant to attempt to fight Ingrid. She was quicker than him anyway, so he mostly just continued to lose. But, at least he got a hit in on Dimitri who was brute strength and efficiency, much like someone else Sylvain knew.

-

A year later, Glenn was inducted into the royal order of knights and accompanied the Royal Family to Duscur. Dimitri came back alone save for Dedue, a Duscur boy who was loyal to the death. Felix lashed out and Ingrid withdrew and Sylvain used the opportunity to leave Margravate Gautier. He couldn’t say anything useful to Felix, so he just let the young Fraldarius heir beat his anger out against Sylvain’s poorly constructed axe and lance posture.

He visited Galatea and did something that neither the Count or any of Ingrid’s four brothers had succeeded in. He got Ingrid to open her door even if it was just so that she could punch him in the shoulder and then rest her head against his chest while she cried and cried and cried.

The Margrave–Sylvain had long since tired of calling him Father–summoned him home and not even Ingrid’s need for comfort could have the Count convinced to defy his father’s wishes.

-

Sylvain withstood three more of his brother’s attempts on his life before his father finally stepped in. Sylvain was sent out with the Margravine for a day trip into town. He went, happily, engaging his mother in pleasant conversation and showing off his silver tongue by charming four young women for the sheer purpose of drawing a smile out of the woman who had grown tired and more reserved as time went on. She had scolded him endlessly for his flirting, but at least she had smiled.

By the time they returned to Castle Gautier, Miklan was gone, disowned and removed. His things were gone by three days later, as was the portrait of him that hung in the eastern wing, and Sylvain didn’t see his parents interact for a week after that. His mother wouldn’t even speak to him.

He took a different girl to bed every night for three weeks until his father called him to his study and backhanded him across the face. The Gautier ring cut his lip and Sylvain tasted blood. He wondered how many times the ring had struck Miklan and he voiced the question stupidly. The Margrave had sent him away, insisting cruelly that he was to clean up his act and spend the next week at a fort near the Sreng border.

-

Margravine Gautier died six weeks after Miklan was disowned. She died of stress-induced illness, his father told the people. Her grief over the betrayal of her eldest son had been her undoing. Sylvain had seen the blood in his mother’s private quarters. Illness didn’t lead to bloodstains in a bathing chamber that would never truly go away.

Sylvain’s friends gathered in Margravate Gautier a week later for the funeral. Dimitri did not attend. Rufus was loathe to let the young prince leave Fhirdiad, so his regards came via a letter handed to him by Rodrigue Fraldarius.

Felix had hugged him once for a very brief amount of time and had told Sylvain that he was never allowed to speak of it again. The lump in his throat would ensure that. Ingrid, on the other hand, had taken his hand the day she arrived and had held it almost the entire time she was visiting. Felix and Ingrid and he sat in his chambers and Sylvain cried and Felix listened and Ingrid held both of their hands. Ingrid had lost her mother when she was small and she had lost a fiancé in Glenn. Felix had lost his brother and his closest companion when Glenn died. Sylvain had lost a friend in Glenn and his mother.

He didn’t want to think what Miklan was to him.

Two weeks later, Margrave Gautier tried to enroll Sylvain at the Officer’s Academy, but Sylvain managed to deflect his father for another two years so that he could attend with his friends. He put the diplomacy skills he had been amassing to work and was pleasantly surprised when his father agreed.

-

The rooms in the dorms of the Officer’s Academy were small and simple and very different from the arched ceilings of the palace in Fhirdiad, or the large windows of the Fraldarius Estate, or the grand presentation of Castle Gautier.

Sylvain’s room was at the end of the hallway and his neighbour was Dimitri. Felix was on Dimitri’s other side, but Ingrid was at the far end of the hallway, as far away from him as she could be.

Sylvain was still unpacking on the first night when Ingrid showed up in his room. Apparently Felix was at the training grounds and Dimitri was off with Claude, heir to House Riegan, and Edelgard, the Imperial Princess. Sylvain had broken out a strategy game that he had brought to keep them occupied and it seemed to do the trick.

Ingrid played with the end of her braid when she had a particularly tough move ahead of her, so Sylvain would move his pieces so that hers were more pressured until she had to make a mistake. Ingrid was smart, but Sylvain had a distinct advantage in years of practice in reading body language. She was annoyed when she lost, but she had thanked him for the distraction anyways.

-

Mercedes was tricky. She was elegant and calm and stunningly beautiful, but she seemed just clueless enough to brush off his every attempt at flattery. Sylvain could have sworn that he was in love with her from the moment he met her, but Mercedes was sharper and more insightful than he had bargained for.

They took tea together in the garden one day and she had called out his wandering eye to where a group of female Golden Deer students were sitting and stealing glances at him with less than coy smiles.

“You haven’t got the slightest idea what sincerity is, do you?” Mercedes asked calmly, as easily as if she had just asked his favourite colour.

Sylvain stared at her.

“All these girls who follow you around, parading your adoration, and yet you throw them away like they don’t even have feelings.”

Mercedes was right. She knew it, he knew it, and he had no room to argue. Sylvain sipped his tea and flashed her a winning smile.

“I don’t know,” he tried anyways, “I like to think that they’ve worn themselves out from the pleasantness of my company. Wouldn’t want anyone to get bored, would I?”

Mercedes nibbled on a cookie and studied him. She looked into his soul in a way no one ever had before. Maybe it was because she had a few years on him and had grown up in a church, but there was something so deceptively assuring and non-threatening about her. Sylvain had seen her magic in action and he knew she had studied at the School of Sorcery with Annette.

“One day you’ll run out of stories to spin and places to run away to,” she said calmly and Sylvain wondered if she knew he had hidden in both Ashe and Dimitri’s rooms at separate times that week.

-

Felix locked himself in his room when his father arrived at Garreg Mach. When Sylvain heard the news, he had wanted to do the same. Instead, he had tilted his chin, flattened his frown into a neutral expression, and looked to the Professor for orders.

Ashe and Annette and Mercedes were all watching him curiously. Even Dedue and Dimitri seemed intrigued to observe Sylvain’s reaction to the news that Duke Fraldarius had brought south the monastery from Margravate Gautier. Only Felix and Ingrid understood the true gravity of the situation and Felix was hidden away, so it was only Ingrid.

Ingrid, who twisted her fingers through his under the table in the classroom as the Professor instructed and created a plan of action. Ingrid, who refused to relent her grip on his hand the more and more uncomfortable Sylvain got through the planning process. Ingrid, who, despite his protests, brought two trays of food to his room that night and ate with him in private.

Ingrid quizzed him for his Cavalier certification exam and made him challenge her for her Pegasus Knight certification exam. Sylvain was pretty sure he would have failed the exam, but when he walked into it, Ingrid’s voice echoed through his head and guided him through each of the questions.

Ferdinand passed the exam at the same time as Sylvain and had gone on a long-winded tangent to express his delight at being certified in a “truly noble” class. Sylvain had looked at the mare that he’d ridden to pass the test and the training lance in his hand and had felt distinctly sick to his stomach.

-

He would have been perfectly content sitting alone in his room once they returned to the monastery, but that’s where people would be looking for him, so he avoided the dorms and instead sequestered himself in the Knight’s Hall.

So far, Dedue was the only one who had found him and hadn’t bothered to try and make Sylvain talk. He had simply recommended that he clean the blood from his face and hands and stop clutching the shaft of the Lance of Ruin hard enough to break. Sylvain had replied that he didn’t have Dimitri’s penchant for breaking weapons, but he had followed the rest of Dedue’s advice.

He poked the fire poker into the dying embers of the fire and inhaled a breath of hot air as the log turned over. For a minute, the poker felt like a weapon in his hand and he vividly recalled the way his lance had cut through his brother’s flesh.

Miklan’s dying snarl echoed in his brain almost loud enough to drown out the person calling his name, but Sylvain looked back and saw Hilda Valentine Goneril standing at the edge of the training pit in the hall. She had a hand on her hip and her head was cocked to the side.

“Hello Hilda,” he greeted, trying to keep his tone pleasant.

“You don’t have to be nice, Sylvain,” she pointed out flatly, striding towards him.

He slid over on the couch to make room for her, but Hilda leaned in, sitting on the arm of the couch and draping her legs over his lap. Sylvain placed a hand on her calf and massaged it gently. The horrible, self-destructive part of his brain wanted him to pull her in and ruin their friendship, but he managed to keep just enough hold on himself to refrain from doing so.

“What are you doing here?”

“Claude said you’d be here,” she answered, avoiding the question.

“Why would he care?”

“He doesn’t really,” she agreed. “But, apparently Dimitri cares and Claude thought sending me here might be a better idea than throwing you to the Lions.”

“Mmm,” Sylvain conceded. “Are you here to comfort me?”

Hilda shifted, leaning forward so that she fell into his lap. She pressed his shoulders back against the back of the couch and straddled him. Her breath was warm on his face and she smelled pleasant. She traced a finger down his throat and Sylvain’s heart thudded in his chest.

“I was thinking more of a distraction. You and I are both good at this part, aren’t we?”

He kissed her. She kissed him back, practically buzzing against him, but then she pulled back, something unreadable glimmering in her bright pink eyes.

“What now?” she asked him breathily.

Sylvain thought about kissing her and carrying her back to his room, but he liked Hilda. He didn’t really want to run her off because she was being playful and distracting him from bad things going on.

He kept one hand on her back, keeping her balance, but he dropped his other hand to his side. “Not that I don’t love a good distraction,” he began.

Hilda laughed and kissed him again, sliding his hand to her waist with one of her own hands. “You and me both.”

He leaned back and grinned at her. “I rather think you could destroy me right now, Miss Goneril,” Sylvain said, changing tactics.

Hilda removed his hands from her waist and climbed off his lap, her mood shifting. “I like you, Sylvain. Definitely not like this, but it’s no good to see you spiralling.” She straightened her hair and her blouse and skirt before giving him a last, somewhat shrewd look. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to be destroyed right now. Ingrid and Felix are looking for you.”

Hilda left then, leaving Sylvain to stare at smouldering embers and feel guilty about not talking to his childhood friends.

-

Dorothea sat down next to him at the feast and plucked the goblet from his hand, taking a drink. She wrinkled her nose at the taste of the wine and handed it back to him. Sylvain sipped from it and waited for her to say something.

“If Claude is going to smuggle wine in, he should have at least made it good wine,” Dorothea said dryly.

Sylvain swirled the wine in the goblet. “It’s a Derdriu wine. I think he’s obligated to only drink this wine, if anything.

“I suppose you don’t grow enough grapes to make wine way up north, do you?”

Sylvain thought about the heavy blankets of snow that had a tendency of cutting harvest season short back at the Margravate. “No,” he agreed. “We’re much more of a hard liquor type of place.”

Dorothea swiped his cup again and drank. He wasn’t going to tell her off for doing it, so she knew she could get away with it. Dorothea was good enough company. She wasn’t a member of his own house, celebrating their victory at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and she was awfully pretty.

“Any interest in sticking around longer?” he asked.

Dorothea raised an eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me?”

He laughed. “From one like-minded individual to another, we should get out of here before Ferdinand has the gall to try and approach you again.”

She leaned in close enough that he could smell her perfume. It was something floral and oddly familiar. She pressed her lips practically against his ear when she spoke.

“Oh Sylvain, you know me so well.” She leaned back, smirking at him, and Sylvain caught the briefest moment where her eyes strayed to something over his shoulder.

He glanced back and saw Ingrid watching the two of them with an unreadable expression on her face. He made eye contact with her and raised an eyebrow. Ingrid looked down and guilt prickled suddenly in his stomach.

“Shall we?” Dorothea asked, standing up from the table.

He followed her out of the dining hall towards the fishing pond. Dorothea headed out onto the pier and adjusted her skirt before sitting down on the end, dangling her feet above the water. Sylvain sat next to her. His heels were only about an inch above the water, so he was careful not to dunk his feet.

“Sometimes I don’t know how you nobles do it,” Dorothea said. “You deal with all the pomp and circumstance with a stupid, vapid smile on your face even if you actively hate each other.”

Sylvain was a bit surprised at her sudden bitterness, but he knew well enough that Dorothea didn’t have an excellent opinion on the nobility, especially those from the Empire. “It takes practice,” he replied calmly.

She snorted a laugh. “Right. It’s still strange to see the House Leaders getting along. One petty disagreement and we could be launched right into a war.”

Sylvain thought about Dimitri. His friend was undeniably different from how he had been before the Tragedy of Duscur, but he had seemed much more put together and composed in the time they had been at the Officer’s Academy.

“I don’t know,” he said, “it feels like we’re all some big, mostly messed up family here.”

Dorothea tilted her head towards him. “Got a lot of experience with messed up families?”

He paused, feeling uncomfortable and she dropped her gaze away, biting her lip.

“Sorry, that’s probably not a good subject.”

He shrugged. “My brother is dead.”

“I meant your mother,” she mumbled. Sylvain tensed and Dorothea touched his knee gently. “Ingrid told me.”

“Oh,” he mumbled blankly.

Dorothea looked guilty. “I just wanted to know about Glenn and somehow we talked about a lot more than that. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sylvain said quickly. “It’s not exactly a well-kept secret, after all. Besides, it’s nice to know that Ingrid has some friends who are both female and not Felix, Dimitri, or myself.” He thought about what she had said. “So how much do you know about Glenn?”

“He was Felix’s brother, Ingrid’s fiancé, and yours and Dimitri’s friend. And he died in Duscur.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain agreed. “He taught me to wield an axe and he was a hell of a brother.” He smiled faintly. “Only time I really felt like I was at home was when all of us and our crazinesses were in Fhirdiad.”

“What about here? You’re all, mostly, here now,” Dorothea pointed out.

Sylvain slid his hand into hers and squeezed it. “Yeah,” he agreed. “This is pretty close.”

-

Remire Village burned around him. There was blood on his lance and he couldn’t hear anything over the buzzing in his ears. A terrified villager sprinted past him and Sylvain stared at the burning home.

A woman sat on the floor, rocking back and forth while holding the body of the young man that Sylvain had cut down. He had been sick, with whatever Remire illness had taken much of the village, but the way the woman held him was the way a mother held her son.

Sylvain felt sick.

Someone grabbed his elbow and pulled him away from the house. He blinked and found himself staring into Felix’s face. His friend’s expression was set grimly as he started hauling Sylvain away from the house. Annette slipped past them and moved into the house to try and draw the mother away from the flames.

Sylvain let Felix guide him away from the burning homes without resistance. They stopped when the reached the outskirts of the village where refugees were gathering with the Church forces that had accompanied the Blue Lions on their mission.

Sylvain glanced back at the burning village. “I killed her son,” he said slowly. His knuckles clenched around the Lance of Ruin and he could practically feel the Crest of Gautier burning in his blood.

“If not you, someone else would have. She would have been dead by then anyway. You saved her life,” Felix replied pointedly.

Sylvain dimly thought about his mother and her reaction to Miklan’s banishment. His stomach turned and he lunged for the nearest bushes. He emptied his lunch into the bushes and his body kept heaving until there was nothing to come up.

A warm hand brushed the back of his neck, pushing his hair out of his face and Sylvain closed his eyes. He shuddered faintly and felt slim fingers run through his hair over his scalp, trying to reassure him. When his body finally finished convulsing, he cracked open his eyes to see Ingrid kneeling beside him.

Her green eyes were wide with worry and Sylvain felt a dull ache in his stomach. He wiped at his mouth and accepted the water she offered him.

“You okay?” she whispered gently.

They were crouched in the bushes where no one would see them and the selfish, vain part of Sylvain appreciated Ingrid’s attempts to remain incognito.

“Is there a word for a parent who outlives their child?” he asked suddenly.

Ingrid blinked and her hand stilled where it was still combing through his hair. “Sylvain,” she murmured, sounding sad.

He pulled away and stood up. There were calls from the centre of the formation for people to regroup and begin heading out. He strode out of the bushes and walked away from the burned-out homes that the refugees of Remire village could no longer call home.

-

For all his posturing and flirting and wooing, Sylvain hated Ethereal Moon. The White Heron Cup had had Flayn barely beat out Dorothea to win certification in the Dancer Class for the Blue Lions and it meant that all the Blue Lions were dancing on their toes around each other as hidden affections bubbled.

Sylvain didn’t invite anyone to the ball. He was invited by seven different girls and he turned them all down with a cruel smile and a playful wink for good measure. One took it well and rebounded to ask after Ferdinand, but the other six didn’t. Apparently two of them went straight to Ingrid, complaining about him so then Sylvain had dealt with a very angry Ingrid for an entire week.

At the ball, he danced with Mercedes and Dorothea and even stole a dance with Hilda, though she made it a point to step on his toes as often as possible, just to spite him. Lysithea gave him one dance and Annette gave him two. Flayn turned him down, wary of Seteth, and Marianne looked at him like he was crazy when he asked.

When he finally escaped the dance floor, he looked around for Felix, only to see that Annette had somehow managed to wrangle the grumpy Fraldarius heir onto the dancefloor. Dimitri was dancing with Mercedes and Ingrid was nowhere to be seen.

Sylvain grabbed a goblet of wine from the teacher’s table and slipped out of the hall, heading in the direction of the Cathedral. He walked partway on to the bridge and leaned against the railing, looking up and admiring the night sky above him.

He wasn’t alone for long as he soon heard the click of a woman’s heels against the stone. He turned his head and saw Ingrid wobbling towards him on her shoes. She had wobbled all night, but Dorothea had been firm in insisting that she wear the heels because they apparently matched her dress uniform.

“Hey Ing,” he greeted.

She walked up next to him and leaned against the railing, inhaling deeply. “It’s stuffy in there,” she mumbled.

“Yeah,” Sylvain agreed and sipped from his stolen goblet.

He tipped it towards Ingrid and she raised an eyebrow at him, but she took it and sipped from it anyways.

They stood in silence for a minute, just staring out over the bridge at the sky and the land that stretched beneath it.

“Shouldn’t you be in there dancing with every girl you lay your eyes on?” Ingrid asked quietly after a pause.

Sylvain chuckled. “Funnily enough, I’m not sure there are many more girls who would want to dance with me. I may be running out of hearts to steal.”

“Good!” Ingrid exclaimed. ‘Maybe that means I can stop cleaning up after you.”

He leaned away from her, pressing a hand to his heart. “I’m hurt, Ing, you don’t like dealing with all of my problems?”

His response came out more jaded than he had intended for it to and Ingrid turned her curious green eyes on him. Whatever makeup Annette and Mercedes had forced her into had accentuated her natural cheekbones and outlined her vivid eyes. Sylvain couldn’t look away from them, even if he desperately wanted to curl up and hide all of his vulnerabilities from her.

“Sylvain,” she began gently.

He finally broke eye contact and looked up at the twinkling stars. “Never thought I’d be the guy without a girl to meet at the Goddess Tower tonight,” he joked, trying to deflect.

Ingrid’s hand curled on his forearm and he knew he wasn’t getting out of this conversation so easily. “Sylvain,” she repeated, stern this time.

He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t reply. He glanced at her again which was almost a mistake. She was closer now and he could see the sparkle of eye makeup on her eyelids and a pale pink lipstick on her lips that gave her just the tiniest bit of complimentary colour and easily drew his gaze.

When he didn’t say anything, she seemed to finally get the hint, dropping his arm and leaning back a tiny bit. Sylvain’s heart thudded as she moved away and he told himself it was a good thing.

Ingrid was Ingrid. The horrible, self-deprecating part of him wanted to ruin her and ruin everything they had as friends for the sake of one kiss, but the fifteen-year-old boy who had listened to her talk about Pegasus Knights for hours clung stubbornly to the way things were and he let her move away.

He was already ruined. There was no need to destroy her too.

-

It was almost three in the morning when Sylvain entered the dining hall. To his surprise, something smelled burnt. He followed the scent, curiously, to the kitchen. A tray of blackened blobs that were probably supposed to be cookies sat on one of the counters and Sylvain heard a faint sniff.

He followed the noise and saw Annette sitting on the kitchen floor with her arms around her knees, looking absolutely miserable.

“Annette?” he questioned.

She jolted at the sound of his voice and her head snapped up towards him. “Oh! Uh, hi, Sylvain.”

He glanced at the burnt cookies. “Were you trying to bake?”

Annette shrugged half-heartedly. “I’m nowhere near as good as Mercedes or Ashe, but I wanted to do something for the Professor.” She tucked her chin against her chest and sighed. “My father has been gone for most of my life, but I have my mom, so I don’t really know what it’s like to really lose a parent, but I figured that cookies would never hurt anyone, would they?”

Sylvain fell silent. He remembered the cooks at Castle Gautier trying to tempt him out of his room with treats after his mother died. He remembered bribing Ingrid to open her door with food after Glenn had died.

Annette’s head snapped up. “Oh! No, Sylvain, I’m so sorry!” she gushed suddenly.

He faked a smile, shaking her head. “Nah, it’s alright Annette. My mom died years ago. It’s not fresh.”

She bit her lip, but she didn’t look like she was about to burst into tears again. Sylvain tapped a knuckle on the counter that held Annette’s very burnt cookies.

“We should get rid of these and get to bed,” he suggested.

Annette shifted on the floor. “I can do it. I made the mess.”

Sylvain picked up the tray of blackened cookies and headed for the bin where the kitchen staff discarded leftover food and scraps. “We’ll go faster if we do it together,” he pointed out. “That way we’ll both get back to bed faster and we’ll be sharper for our axe training tomorrow.”

Annette laughed faintly and stood up, brushing off her skirt. “Okay,” she relented.

They worked quietly for a few minutes, cleaning up the mess Annette had made in the kitchen. Finally, once the last bowl was washed, dried, and put away, she turned to him.

“You didn’t have to do that, Sylvain.”

“I was here,” he said casually. “Besides, maybe I can use this as leverage to get you to come to tea with me tomorrow,” he added, his tone almost straying to his falsified flirtatious one.

Annette shook her head. “I’m studying with Lysithea tomorrow after we have the axe seminar.”

Sylvain flashed her a grin. “What a coincidence, I’ve got to brush up on my Reason. I’ll bring the treats if you bring the tea.”

-

The Professor’s hair turned green. Dimitri broke. Edelgard marched on Garreg Mach. The Professor and Archbishop disappeared. The war began.

-

Sylvain sat on his bed in his dorm room and stared at the half-packed room around him. The monastery was being evacuated and most of the Kingdom natives were leaving the next day. He and Felix would be travelling north together towards their homes.

Sylvain didn’t want to leave the monastery. For the first time in a long time, this was a place that felt like home. He didn’t want to go back to Gautier and it’s cold walls and empty house and what would inevitably be discussions of war and slaughter and more violence.

Someone knocked on the doorframe and he looked up. Ingrid was standing there, still wearing bits of her Pegasus Knight armour and looking as exhausted as he felt. Sylvain didn’t say anything, but he slid over on his bed so that she could sit next to him. She walked over and practically collapsed next to him.

“I don’t want to go,” he said quietly.

Ingrid took his hand, twining their fingers together. Neither of them wanted to talk about the way that Felix and Dimitri had blown up at each other after the battle. Something in Dimitri was very broken and losing the Professor seemed only to have aggravated that part and Felix never knew when to let sleeping beasts slumber.

“We’ll be okay,” she said firmly.

Sylvain tipped his head so it rested against hers. “There’s nothing in that house for me, Ingrid.”

“You’ll be okay,” she corrected herself, but her voice cracked.

Sylvain’s eyes burned with tears and he shut his eyes, focusing on Ingrid’s hand in his. “How do we keep going from here?”

“With our heads up and blades sharp,” she said quietly, quoting something Glenn had said to them a long time ago.

“Right,” he agreed weakly. “Keep fighting until they’re nothing but ruin and bone.”

Ruin and bone, he thought to himself. I’ve been nothing but since the day I was born.

[avengerscompound]

The Little Guy

The Big Guy:  A Bruce Banner Fanfic

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bruce Banner x F!Reader

Word Count:  2341

Warnings:  Slight Angst, Fluff, Pregnancy, Smut (F|M, Vaginal sex)

Synopsis:  Meeting the big green guy wasn’t exactly a normal day, you didn’t expect it to you leading a life on the run and keeping your child’s nature from the world.

The Little Guy

Bruce Banner scrambled back from you, the woman whose arms were just a moment ago wrapped around him.  You were a stranger but somehow you seemed familiar to him.  The last thing he remembered was being holed up in an apartment building in Florida.

Then… then… a swat team had bashed down his door.

He looked around panicked.  “Who are you?”

You both said the words at the same time and it startled him even more.  He looked around at the wide open field he was in.  It was bordered by forest and a cabin stood at one end and at the other, an old barn with brightly colored childish pictures painted down the side.

He looked down at himself.  He was naked and a chain of daisies hung around his neck.  Nothing was adding up.  He looked back up at you and saw the same confusion on your face.  “Where am I?  How long was he…?  Oh god, did he hurt you?  Are you okay?  What did he do?”  He said coming a little closer to you.

You stumbled back from him.  “You - you’re naked.”  You stuttered.

Bruce looked down at himself and quickly grabbed the oversized pair of pants that had pooled around his ankles and pulled them up covering himself awkwardly.  He looked down at himself again.  The pants were handmade, and a lot of care had been taken in the stitching.  The daisy chain still hung from his neck.  It was clear that daintier fingers than the other guy’s would have been needed to make it.  He looked over at the barn again taking in the simple artwork that reached high up on the wall and suddenly everything clicked in place.  “Have I been living here?”

“Who are you?”  You asked again, still cowering from him.  “What happened to Hulk?”

“That’s … I’m the Hulk,”  Bruce said, looking you up and down.  “Well, I mean, I’m not … did he hurt you?  What’s going on?  How long has it been?”

“How can you be Hulk?”  You yelled.  Bruce startled and backed away from you a bit more.

“It … I was doing these tests.  I made a miscalculation.   He’s the result.”  Bruce explained hoping you’d stop panicking soon because he really needed to panic right now.  “Please, when he’s in control I … I’m not anywhere.”

You shook your head.  “I don’t know.  You’ve been here with me for two months.”

“What’s the date?”  He asked you.  “And where’s here?”

You took a couple of deep steadying breaths, calming yourself.  You had just seen the giant green man you had been getting to know transform before your eyes into this much smaller white man.  If you could get used to the Hulk being around, you could get used to this.  “Come inside. I think there should be some clothes that fit you.  My dad and uncles come up here a lot.”

After you have given him a change of clothes and make him tea you sit down and fill him in.  You tell him the when and the where.  You tell him how you met the Hulk.  How you’d become friends.  That you were just planning on going back home because you needed to work.

He, in turn, tells you about the experiments that made him what he is.  How the government had come for him.  How they wanted to use him as a weapon.

“I can’t believe he was in charge for almost 4 months.  It’s usually something that goes away when I sleep.”  Bruce said, shaking his head.  “You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

“Do I look hurt?”  You asked.  The question had become a little tiresome and this whole situation was making you feel a little frayed at the edges.

“No.  But, that’s out of character.  I just - I can’t get my head around…”  He said shaking his head.  “You said he talked to you?”

“Yes.  We were friends.  Well, he’s kind of like a little kid.  But he’d come when there was cooking.  We played little games together.  He liked to paint and one time he sat still and let me paint his skin like it was a canvas.”  You explained.

Bruce shook his head again and he ran his hands through his hair.  “I don’t know what to do.  Or where to go.  All my stuff was in Florida.”

You sat back in your chair and rubbed your temples.  “We’re pretty far from Florida.”

“I know.”  Bruce lamented.

You didn’t say anything for a while.  “I’m completely cut off here.  You can stay but I don’t know what you would do for money.  And other people in my family come up here.”

“I know.  That’s - that’s not fair to you.  I’ll try and figure something out.  If I had a phone maybe… I don’t know.”  He said looking at his hands.

You sighed and there was a silence again for a few moments.  “You can come and stay with me.  I don’t know.  If you’re really wanted.  I live in the city.  But I have a loft and it’s big.  There’s a rooftop garden.  You can stay.  Figure out your next move.”

He looked at you like a hopeful puppy.  All that was missing was the wagging tail.  “Really?  You wouldn’t mind?”

“No.  That’s okay.  I don’t know you, but I knew him.  I’ll trust you because I trust him.”  You answered.

Bruce shook his head like he was trying to clear it.  “That was not something I thought I’d ever hear in my lifetime.  I really don’t understand anything that’s happening right now.”

You and Bruce made the long drive back into the city with only two stops. You got fuel and grabbed some gas station snacks and the crappy egg salad sandwiches they sold and then stopped at the next rest stop to eat them.  It was one of those ones that always seem like the place hill people select their next victims in b grade horror movies.  You’d stretched and eaten by the side of the road before moving on your way.

By the time you arrived home, it was past midnight and you were both exhausted but you knew a whole lot more about each other.  This small soft-spoken man was the opposite of the Hulk in so many ways but it was strange because you could still see him in there.

You led him up to your loft.  It was a large industrial style space that was broken into two.  The first part was your living room, gallery, kitchen, and studio.  There were racks of finished paintings standing on one side of the room and racks of empty canvases on the other.   Several of your favorite paintings hung on the wall and there were a few unfinished pieces next to crates of paints and brushes in the corner.  A large couch sat in the middle of the room with a coffee table covered in stacks of sketchbooks and piles of pencils and charcoal.  The room on the other end of the loft was your bedroom on the left and a bathroom with an old clawfoot tub on the right.

“The couch folds out.”  You said pointing to it.  “I’ll get you some blankets.  I might have some of my exes clothes here.  He was bigger than you.  If you tell me your size I can duck out and get you some more clothes.”

“You don’t need to do that,”  Bruce said meekly, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.  “You’ve already done enough.”

You waved him off.  “You can’t just wear ill-fitting clothes the whole time.  I sewed for Hulk, I can shop for you.  I have to go out anyway buy some food.”  You grabbed some blankets, sheets, pillows, and towels and brought them back to him in a stack.  “Here you go.  The bathrooms through there.”  You said, pointing.  “I’m just going to get ready to sleep and crash after that make yourself at home.

The following day you made good on your promise going out and picking up groceries and clothes.  When you get home you try to get your life back on track.  Returning to your art as Bruce tries to figure out what to make his next move.

That took a lot longer than you both thought.  He had money but accessing it meant the government would be able to track him.  He had friends and people in the deep web but he wasn’t sure which of them had sold him out.

You would tell him it was fine but to begin with it kind of wasn’t.  It was hard working with him always around.  It was hard to relax.  Letting a strange man stay with you occasionally felt like the stupidest thing you could possibly have done.  But as days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months it became fine.  He helped out around the apartment, cleaning, filing your paintings.  He worked in the garden.  He fixed those little niggling issues that had been plaguing the place.  He helped you with some IT things, setting up a website to organize clients to come through and to sell paintings online.  He kept saying these things weren’t his expertise but he did them without being asked anyway.

He started doing science in a corner you let him set up for himself.  Often just checking his own blood.  Not that he exactly had a lab anymore.  You’d bought a few second-hand things for him on eBay.  You felt like you owed him for the things he had done for you, even though he said he’d done them because he owed you for what you’d done for him.

You missed the Hulk occasionally but there were times when you could see a green glint in his eyes or he’d smile a certain way and you could see him as clear as day.

On paper, you and Bruce Banner were so different.  He was quiet and analytical.  He liked logic and structure.  Science was his passion and put so much of himself into it.  Whereas you were chaotic and noisy.  You liked mess and sound.  You were an artist right down to your core.  Yet somehow you just worked well together.  Gradually you realized that this wasn’t just the feeling you had for your friends.  You were actually a little bit in love with him.

It was a Wednesday night and you were taking a bath.  You had a bath pillow behind your head and there were candles burning on the windowsill.  You had thrown a bath bomb in the water and now you sat soaking in the vanilla scented water that swirled, pink and blue around you.

There was a knock on the door and when you told him it was safe, Bruce came in holding two mugs in his hands.

“Made you tea.”  He said offering you a cup.

You took it and had a sip watching Bruce as he sat on the end of the tub.

“I made contact with a friend of an old colleague.  I haven’t said who I am exactly or where.  I think he might be able to help me with at least a part of my problem and if he’s gone, then the military might stop caring about me too.”  He said.

“I wish you wouldn’t call him a problem.”  You said putting your cup down on the corner of the bath.  

Bruce sighed.  “You don’t know what it’s like.  I lose time.  He destroys things.  I never know if I’ve hurt or killed people when I come back.”

You rubbed his leg, leaving a wet patch on his pants.  “I know.  But he’s not bad.  I think he’s trying to protect you.”

“He hates me,”  Bruce said.

You shrugged.  “If you say so.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment.  He just sat holding his tea and looking down into the colorful water.

“Why don’t you get in?”  You asked.

He looked at you startled.  “What?”

“Get in with me.”  You repeated.

He looked around the room and a deep blush crept into his cheeks.  “But…”

“I’ve seen you naked before.  And you’re comfortable enough to just be sitting there.  Why not?”  You asked.  It wasn’t a demand.  Just a suggestion.  He looked at you trying to assess if you were serious before putting his own mug down and getting up.

He stripped off his clothes turned away from you like he was trying to keep his modesty.

“You want me to close my eyes?”  You asked.

He shrugged a little and turned to face you pushing his pants down and quickly stepping into the water.  The water level rose right to the lip but didn’t spill over.  There was a moment where Bruce didn’t seem to know where he wanted to put his feet, but eventually, he nestled them in on each side of your hips.

“You don’t seem very relaxed.”  You teased.

“I just - you don’t think this is weird?”  He asked.

“I would have thought given how we met, nothing is really that weird.”  You answered relaxing back in the water.  He kept staring at you, his body stiff and uncomfortable looking.  “Bruce.  You didn’t have to get in you know.”

He didn’t say anything, he just kept staring.  “I like you too, you know?”

You looked him in the eye.  “I know.”

“It can’t happen.  I want it to.  But… I have such a thin hold and if he comes out…”  He said.

“What?  I’d show him my art and we’d do some painting together?  It’s not like my loft isn’t big enough to hold him.”  You shot back.  “I know him, Bruce.  Better than you do.”

Bruce sighed and looked you over.  For a moment you thought he was angry at you. He suddenly lunged forward making the water from the bath splash violently over the side and his mouth was on yours.  You wrapped your arms around him and sinking back into the water and smiling into the kiss.

// NEXT

[ajroyalty68]

Withdrawal Part Two

So, both because I can really only talk to a few people in my life about this and because no one is likely to read this, I’m gonna go ahead and rant for a minute.

When I was diagnosed with depression in my sophomore year of high school, I was prescribed (after trying five or six other meds first) Venlafaxine (brand name, Effexor). Right up front, my doctor shared that it had been nicknamed by health professionals “Side Effexor” and to let him know if I couldn’t handle the side effects that would happen. He didn’t say “might” happen, he said, “would”. The side effects did suck, but after trying so many other meds that either didn’t help at all or made my depression worse, I was willing to stick it out. 

A few years later my diagnosis was amended to bipolar depression, and although another medication (Oxcarbazepine), was added, the fact that the Effexor was still working for me led my psychologist to suggest I keep taking my original meds as well. At this point, I was warned about the near certainty of debilitating withdrawal if for any point I was to stop taking the Venlafaxine. 

Less than a year later, I lost my health insurance and found out that one month of medications would be over $1000 without it. The withdrawal was brutal, but since I was also dealing with another million (or so it seemed) life issues on top of it, I didn’t realize how much of my miserable condition was caused by withdrawal.

Fast forward to last week, when I made an inexcusably stupid mistake. Right after picking up my Effexor, I cleaned out my car in the Kroger parking lot. As you may have already guessed, my medication made it into the trash can by accident. I attempted to get a new prescription (knowing that I would have to pay the cash price) but was basically ignored by my current primary care physician (don’t worry, I already have an appointment with a new PCP, this isn’t the first time they’ve made it hard for me to get medical help and I’m sick of it) and was unable to get a new refill.

Long story short, I knew I was about to go through withdrawal again, but having been through that sort of situation while my life was already falling apart a little bit, I figured it would be a lot easier now that I had a good support system and was honestly discussing my problems with my best friend (my grandma). And that is helping. A LOT. I cannot express how grateful I am to her and my current situation. 

But here comes the withdrawal portion of the rant. I’m basically just going to list complaints about my withdrawal symptoms and the rest of the post may be even more tiresome and incomprehensible than the beginning. You have been warned.

I am always cold. I have always been like this, and I’m used to it. But when I am huddled under a couple of thick blankets wearing a jacket using my dog as a heater and I’m still shivering so hard I have trouble answering my grandma because my teeth are chattering, that’s a little much. And that’s just at home. Earlier today at work, while on the phone with another bookstore, they actually asked if our heater was out. Because they could hear my teeth chattering.

Now for the opposite. Something I didn’t have to deal with the first time I went through withdrawal with these meds: HOT FLASHES!... Or at least I don’t remember them happening before. As I mentioned, I’m always cold. And the highest the temperature has been here for the past several days is around 40 degrees Fahrenheit, so the shivering has been easy to pass off as nothing. But when I feel like I’m gonna pass out until I strip down to my bra and hang out in the garage for a bit, that’s a little harder to explain. NOTE: I have been able to resist stripping in my classes and at work, but sometimes it’s been difficult to hold out!

Another fun thing is the shaking. Not just the shivering, but when my hands shake so violently that I have to stop doing homework. To be fair, I have a natural tremor. I literally cannot remember life without one, and it’s noticeable enough that at least once a week a stranger will remark on it. I often hear, “Are you nervous? I don’t bite!” HAHA! YOU’RE SO FUNNY!

I’m sick to my stomach all the time. I haven’t been eating much (which doesn’t help the shaking) because I keep thinking I’ll throw up if I do. I finally realized today that it’s pretty much here to stay for the near future and eating neither helps nor harms the level of nausea, so I’ve just been making friends with Pepto Bismal to negligible results.

I CAN’T STOP SLEEPING. Yes, I’m exhausted, but I also keep having to huddle up in bed in an attempt to keep warm and fall asleep in the process. Again, not conducive to homework or personal life. Shout out to having a grandma who went through an addiction to prescription drugs and understands what I’m dealing with.

Finally, I feel INSANE because I know, as soon as I get a new prescription, I’ll be beelining it to Kroger to get more meds. I hate my dependency, but I find it incredibly difficult to be a productive member of society who can avoid suicide attempts without it. I am more than willing to try alternatives and would love to find a non-medicated method of dealing with my mental illness, but at this point in time, I know I’m not strong enough to deal with my chemical imbalances without prescription drugs.

Thank you, Tumblr for letting me rant, and I apologize to anyone who may actually read this.

[arihi]

NaNoWriMo #15: Othering

I am, if I had to be honest, feeling a bit uncharitable today - which means that I probably shouldn’t be writing this post, but I have a boatload of errands today and I’m taking this break to write this, so it’ll be shorter anyway. Let’s talk about how people, most often in online communities, step over the line that is celebrating one anothers’ differences and land in ‘invalidate others’ experiences because we don’t know how to distinguish pride in our own identities from a sense of superiority over others because we have the emotional maturity of a 12 year old’ territory. And how, at heart, everybody has the potential to be a bully.

We are all individuals and therefore focus more on our lives and what impacts us more than we sometimes do on the people around us, never mind people that we don’t see or know about. This is okay! This is good. You need to focus on yourself. If you avoid your issues by compulsively fixing other peoples’ problems or begin to define your self-worth by how you can serve others, that’s not great! I know somebody who has a lot of problems but avoids it by love-bombing and bending over backwards for acquaintances that they were not nearly as close to as they thought they were, and it was very off-putting to the people around them. Then they would loudly, passively aggressively talk about how all they did was try to help them and how ungrateful others could be and didn’t they know that they had problems too?? And that they were pushing those problems aside to be a GOOD FRIEND? Note: Nobody asked them to make those ‘sacrifices’. Being a good friend is more than trying to lavish others with praise and gifts. They viewed themselves as a martyr and never stopped to think about self-growth because the thought that they were in the wrong was inconceivable. It was extremely unflattering.

But, I digress, and that’s not even what I’m annoyed with today! And I am trying to choose my words carefully, because it can be a sensitive subject, and I’m not very good at thinking thoughts through so I don’t want to give off the wrong impression. Queer spaces, kinky spaces, neurodivergent spaces that are not the neurotypical cisheteronormative culture and society that we know and criticize? Have a problem. The problem is sometimes we come to these spaces online and we are invigorated. Queer folk, kinky folk, neurodivergent folk - we’ve all got something about us that isn’t the “standard” (and I know that’s not a great word, but something has gotta be short for the ‘neurotypical cisheteronormative culture and society that we live in’). it is unfortunately more common for people ‘outside’ the norm to not have experienced great things in life due to their differences. So when we are around communities built around these differences, and we see, maybe for the first time, a variety of others who are similar? Who have gone through these problems? When we see queer folk who have been cast aside by their blood families and made their own found families? When we see kinky nerds who are into the same weird things we are? When we see others who suffer from invisible illnesses and talk about struggles that we’ve also experienced?

God, we are EXCITED.

And this is why I’ll always say that for all the negativity social media brings, it’s still always going to be a net positive for me. It provides these opportunities to bring others together, to empathize with people you wouldn’t have otherwise known about, and on and on, you know the drill. These communities bring life to people. These communities have kept people alive. They’re great. We celebrate our different identities and begin to feel this warmth that maybe we didn’t have previously.

But then that sometimes swings too far to the other side and people who should rightly accept and take pride in themselves start to, how to put it...be giant raging dicks! They take their experiences, their hardships, and yeah - they’ve gone through a lot. But it becomes a sort of ‘I’ve been through a LOT and therefore things that I experience are more RAW, more PURE than you who has experienced NOTHING!’. Does that make sense? Let’s rephrase it. It comes out as “polygamy is inherently more loving and better that monogamy”. It comes out as “my 24/7 D/s relationship is deeper and we are more connected to one another than your vanilla relationship”. It comes out as queer spaces for some reason EATING themselves alive and fighting over ace/aro identities. Sometimes it comes out as people using neurodivergency as an excuse for their actions and blaming others for not understanding them, ignoring the fact that the people who have condemned their actions are ALSO neurodivergent. Your identity truly honestly does not get to justify every single one of your shitty actions, y’all. I’d say ‘be an adult’ here, but people, once again, have the emotional maturity of 12 year olds so apparently you can’t!!

I have this thought in my head that I still don’t think I can quite put into words. But it’s this feeling that you have pride in yourself and it’s okay to be proud of yourself - but that maybe for a long time, you did not have this pride. And maybe previously when you were kicked and pushed down by society, you developed a sense that what happened to you was wrong. And it was wrong. But now that you are proud of yourself, for the first time maybe ever, and you feel good about yourself - you start to conflate feeling good with being right. And you start to weirdly hold yourself as this rubric to which others should adhere to, and if they don’t well...it’s okay, but they’re not really experiencing life as well as you do. At least, that’s what I’m assuming people who do that shit are going through. You see it a lot - I’ll use the example here of nerd gamer boys. They may have been bullied as children, and that wasn’t great. But they start to take pride in their identity and now THEY’RE the ones on top, and now a lot of them whine about girls on streams or queer representation in games because it’s too political, or whatever the new controversy of the week is. What it really boils down to is that once there’s the opportunity to be in the in-group when so long you were not, so many people TAKE it and PLAY INTO it by becoming the bullies. By making more and more in-groups and excluding others because it feels weirdly nice to belong to a small group that judges all the others. Because that power and sense of belonging can be intoxicating.

This has already gotten a lot longer than I meant to. I guess it has really been weighing on my mind. And honestly I could write so much more about this. But this is a NaNoWriMo and I’m not in the habit of making this terribly long about a tiresome topic to talk about. So I’ll try to wrap up.

Just, you know. It’s weird. It’s weird that queer twitter can be SUCH a shithole and that lesbians have to mute the word ‘lesbians’ because there is so much dumb discourse on it, and it’s weird that queer communities get so wrapped up in their online spaces and their warped version of purity culture that they eat themselves alive, somehow oblivious to the fact that ‘standard’ society in real life only BENEFITS from these seeds of discord. It’s weird that kinky spaces talk about consent and how your kink is not my kink and that’s okay, and then turn around and judge other kinks because they have different risk profiles, or because those kinks are ‘too light’. It’s weird that neurodivergent spaces sometimes gatekeep one another with outdated definitions and diagnoses (that are ALSO outdated and are often only accurate to a white male patient!!!!!) and sometimes use their neurodivergency as hotkey excuses for their behaviors and never try to grow as individuals.

I’m someone who often says that I love individuals, but people are EXHAUSTING. And sometimes I feel that most days than others. But that’s also maybe my own version of othering those that I do not know personally and assigning them to the easy definition that is ‘a group that I do not want to get to know any more beyond pleasantries’ because it’s easier to group people into easy categories. And that might be on me.

But, god. People are SO, SO fucking exhausting.

[three-houses-text-files]

hanneman/manuela

c-a support + paired endings

c

Manuela: Ugh… Hanneman: Manuela… Isn't it a bit rude to sigh at someone the moment you see them enter the room? M: Hanneman, isn't it a bit rude to tell others how to behave? M: Besides, I could be sighing about any number of things more interesting than you. H: Goodness. You're unusually irritable today. Don't you imagine your attitude a bit...excessive? H: You snap at every little thing, your ill mood on display for one and all. H: It saddens me to see such behavior from one who should be setting a good example for the younger generation. M: Well, listen to the noble lecturing a lowly commoner to be on her best behavior. Oh. Wait. I meant to say "the former noble." H: I fail to understand how my birth is relevant to the topic at hand. I was merely trying to say that as a fellow adult— M: You're not done lecturing yet? Leave me alone and go pester someone else. Maybe leave everyone alone and go focus on your precious Crest research. H: I don't know what to say to you, Manuela. I was only speaking out of honest concern. M: Oh, was that a sigh I heard? Isn't it a bit rude to sigh at someone just because— H: Don’t be so childish! H: You are so sensitive to ill will from others, yet you let your own emotions run wild. H: Why is it that you cannot keep a handle on yourself? M: Keep a handle on— Well, I've never— What makes you think you're so much better? M: Just because you keep your emotions bottled up behind your stupid stony face, well, it doesn't mean everyone else has to do the same! M: Stop telling everyone how to behave, Hanneman. It will make you, and the rest of us, much happier. H: I will not stand for this insolence. It is high time someone taught you— M: Go on! If you think you can change me, I'd like to see you try! H: … M: Hah! Thought so! You wouldn't dare. H: Absolutely insufferable!

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b

H: Manuela. I would...like to apologize. The other day, I said some things to you that I am, well, not proud of in the least. M: Oh, no, Hanneman. It is I who should be apologizing. I behaved in just the most dreadful, dreadful manner. M: I was just lashing out at everything... You were right to call me out. Really, and I do very much mean this, I'm so sorry for my behavior. H: No, please, pay it no mind. Actually, I'm thankful for what you said during our conflict. M: Thankful? H: Yes. You made me realize that I have a somewhat meddlesome nature. H: Thanks to you, I believe I've found an area in which I can improve myself. M: I could say the same thing, you know. Your accusations... They really hit home. M: After I cooled down, I realized you were right. I really ought to try and keep my emotions a bit more under control. H: Well, that's good to hear. It seems this wasn't a fruitless clash for either of us. M: Indeed. There's nothing more depressing than a pointless fight, is there? M: Don't you wonder, though, just how many times we've had this same argument? M: We do always seem to be at one another's throats before we even realize it. M: I don't know how we manage to keep it up. H: Heh… You're not wrong. H: … M: Something the matter, Hanneman? H: Well, it's just... You don't smile like that very often. But when you do, it is quite charming. H: Perhaps your struggles in love are due to your reliance on false affection instead of your more natural charms. M: Well, thank you for the compliment. Even if you did have to spoil it with criticism. M: If you weren't so judgmental all the time, maybe you'd have had more luck in romance yourself! H: What? I— Manuela. As your friend, I was only trying to give you a useful bit of advice! M: And that so-called advice is exactly why I call you meddlesome and overbearing! H: There it is! Manuela begins to protest even when she knows the fault lies with herself! I tell you... M: And there's Hanneman, who said he was going to stop being so meddlesome! You and your…

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a

M: You keep doing things that aren't called for! It's driving me batty! H: You presuppose I am only thinking of you! M: Let's just not do this, shall we? I don't know why we always end up fighting. H: It can hardly be helped. You and I seem opposed to one another on a, let's call it, an instinctual level. M: Perhaps this could even be considered a form of fate. H: What an awkward fate to have. M: I’d like you a lot more if I just hated you. All this fighting and making up is just...exhausting. H: Agreed, yes. It does feel as if we have fallen into a rather tiresome bit of repetition. M: What a waste of effort. We're absolutely hopeless, the both of us... M: Hmm... Here's a thought. M: Couples who are similar to one another, share the same views and all that, they're pretty successful. M: But complete opposites work together too. Surprisingly well, sometimes. M: They compensate for each other's weaknesses, and they support one another... M: Then I look at how hard we work just to avoid screaming at each other, and I don't buy it. H: Hmm. Don't be so hasty to dismiss your own hypothesis! For instance... H: I am apt at cleaning, but have no talent for cookery. Whilst you loathe cleaning, but are a splendid chef. H: Would it not be an easier life if, rather than struggle through our weaker areas, we divided the work? M: Huh. I suppose our differences do have their advantages that way. H: Indeed. If we combine our abilities, housework would be conquered and dinner rendered delicious. H: There are other ways we could find to support one another, I would imagine. H: We might make a better pair than you think. You and I, together. M: Huh. You might be on to something. M: You and I could be pretty good together... Wait! Why are we talking about this?! M: Are you trying to propose marriage? With promises of clean floors?! M: You think I'm that easy of a catch?! Honestly! H: I— I did no such thing! You were the one who started discussion on the topic in the first place! M: Oh, so this is my fault now?! I never said a word about getting married! H: You were agreeing with me! If you have objections, then let's hear them!

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paired endings

After the war, Hanneman and Manuela held a grand wedding ceremony, to which all of their many students were invited. Later, after the church was transformed and rehabilitated under the supervision of the Empire, the Officers Academy finally reopened, with a renewed focus on accepting students regardless of status and offering classes on a wider variety of practical subjects. Hanneman and Manuela returned to work as teachers, almost as if nothing had changed, and filled the halls with their banter in the way only married couples can. (black eagles route)

After the war, Hanneman and Manuela held a grand wedding ceremony, to which all of their many students were invited. Later, as Garreg Mach came to be restored, the Officers Academy finally reopened, with a renewed focus on accepting students regardless of status. Manuela and Hanneman returned to work as teachers, almost as if nothing had changed, and filled the halls with their banter in the way only married couples can. Their relationship spawned a trend of romances among colleagues at the Officers Academy, but that is an entirely different story. (other)