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insomniumstella · 1 year ago

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spice & honey

bucky x baker!reader

summary: cinnamon buns and wickedly strong coffee must be the only reasons James Buchanan Barnes visits your bakery daily, despite the inconvenience of driving to a small town on the outskirts of Upstate New York. right?

warnings: first dates and crushes (absolutely classified as warnings), mead consumption, a curse word or two, soft!bucky

word count: 4,565

author's note: i've been watching Gilmore Girls a little too much lately (hence the little easter egg). on another note, autumn is my favourite season, so prepared to be sick of James attending harvest festivals and drinking apple cider 🍂🥧🎃

all the stories i've written

September 21st marks the official arrival of Autumn. Though the weather has been rather cheerful lately, today’s air is much crisper and heavier with the promise of looming rain. The streets of Eldermont remain far too green to your dismay, but Spice & Honey—the bakery you’ve owned for the past five years—is rich in shades of marigold and copper. A wide assortment of mugs, mostly in various shapes of pumpkins, and spiced teas, line the shelves, while the fresh jars of apple butter are neatly stacked alongside the register. Besides the usual treats, the glass display teems with seasonal favourite pumpkin tarts and apple cider donuts.

The everlasting chatter of customers and soft sounds of a vintage record you scored at a neighbour’s garage sale just last month saturate the space as you place the second batch of cinnamon rolls on the counter. The clock reads 10:57 AM, and though you’ve been attempting to conceal your excitement, Vivienne could sense it the second you stepped through the door, teasing you about the very special visitor who’s always in need of sugary buns and black coffee at exactly five past eleven.

James Buchanan Barnes is a regular customer, you often argue. The nervous babble, flustered movements, and beaming smiles convey otherwise. And so yes, you might have a little bit of a schoolgirl crush on the freakishly tall, muscular brunette who brings in the latest editions of The Culinary Canvas magazine each Monday and notices the smallest of changes in your recipes. Just maybe, you reluctantly ponder when your thoughts inadvertently wander to that charming grin and baby blue eyes every time you knead the dough for his adored treat — a dessert once reserved for Autumn suddenly available year around.

“Staring at the entrance won’t make time pass quicker,” Vivienne whispers, arranging butterscotch cupcakes by the pumpkin tarts.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whisper back, covering the pans with aluminum foil.

Perhaps hiding the pastries, a favourite amongst Spice & Honey shoppers, is not the best business decision, but Eldermont is merely a small town in Upstate New York. If it wasn’t located a thirty minute drive south of the Avengers compound, most people wouldn’t be aware of its presence in the first place. And besides, everybody in Eldermont is connected to everybody — the town holds no secrets, including the pastries you keep warm and frost fresh.

“The tall, dark, and handsome man,” she points out, “still has a few minutes. Perchance the preparations of Eldermont’s Annual Harvest Festival made it trickier to find parking.” Vivienne turns to you with a mirthful grin, the cupcakes resting perfectly positioned in the glass case. “You should invite him. Heard Brad brewed an incredible batch of apple cider mead this year.”

You sigh, snatching the golden tray out of her grasp. “I’m not asking Bucky out.”

“Ah! Bucky!” The woman’s grin widens. “Forgot his name for a second.” Shades of mischief dance in her tone as she marks Elijah’s, the eccentric owner of Marigold Meadows flower shop across the street, special order of fifty maple bacon BLTs as completed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that you mention Bucky at least seven times a day.”

“Seven’s oddly specific,” you note and swiftly, “also I do not,” disagree.

“Bucky smelled great today,” Vivienne mocks your voice, the grin you’ve come to love—and hate—remaining on her features. “Should I add apple to the cinnamon rolls? I wonder if Bucky would enjoy apple cinnamon rolls with brown butter and maple icing unless he’s a creature of habit. Maybe I should suggest a sprinkle of nutmeg in his coffee to test the waters first—“

“Vivienne,” you groan, yet she persists.

“What’s the worst that could happen? Bucky could say no. Bucky could also choose The Sugared Whisk. Bucky wouldn’t. I adore their croissants, but the coffee is terribly weak, and even their tea selection is mediocre. Indigo should include spiced teas. And sure, Luke's doesn't offer spiced teas, but Luke’s sells great coffee and danishes, except the danishes are only available on Wednesdays.” She recites a recent monologue of yours, and if you weren’t mortified, you’d actually be quite surprised at Vivienne’s ability to remember conversations as if they happened minutes ago.

The doorbell chimes before she has the chance to finish, and you’re highly unsure of whether it’s a saved by the bell kind of situation or if you’d rather the floor magically swallow you whole.

“Good morning.” James smiles, and it’s then that you decide you’d rather the floor split open because you’re awfully flustered by his entrance despite secretly anticipating the moment since the sun arose.

“Hiya, Bucky,” she returns the favour, secretly nudging your side. “Have you ever been to the annual Eldermont’s Harvest Festival?”

“Cannot say I have,” he chuckles, breaking eye contact between the two for just a second to glance at her.

Though you’d never admit it aloud, those eyes, baby blue on sunny days and resembling the ocean on the ones of rain, cross your mind more than a pair of eyes should. This infatuation borders on obsessive, you often contemplate. James Buchanan Barnes is an Avenger for heaven’s sake, and you’re almost sure a man of his maturity and composure wouldn’t agree to a date with a baker, a clutz one at that. It’s not that you’d want to, nevertheless. The two of you have a great thing together — you serve coffee, he survives on coffee, and if time allows, the lighthearted conversations you have bring colours to otherwise monotone days.

“The decorations, the food, the people are phenomenal.” You might have to assign the redhead to kneading duty if she’s heading to that territory. “This beauty right here could take you on a real good tour. Eldermont is gorgeous this time of year.” Enjoy kneading bread, Vivi.

“Is it?” James grins, his stare flicking between you and Vivienne.

“Drop dead,” she reiterates, “much like the women.”

“Vivienne,” you suddenly cut in, “the coffee station is out of paper cups. Could you bring some from the back?”

She gives you another grin, less mischievous and more understanding, nodding at Bucky before she disappears into the kitchen. The heavy wooden doors create a boisterous sound once they close, and you couldn’t be happier for a distraction because you cannot look at the brunette just yet. The bakery is sweltering, and your hands are sweaty, and, if it wasn’t evident you’ve been nurturing a crush on James, Vivienne practically plastered a HEAD BAKER IN LOVE WITH SERGEANT BARNES sign out front.

“The station’s out of cups?”

“Yes!” You glimpse behind the shoulder, deciding to keep the lie alive. “Spice & Honey gets busy during the afternoons, and we run out quickly.” The words leave your mouth rushed and a bit muttered, but the effort is there. “Black coffee and a cinnamon bun?”

“It’s a habit,” his smile is as charming as always. James hesitates for a beat, observing you locate the plastic to-go containers. “The festival Vivienne touched on, have you ever been?”

The atmosphere stills for an awkward second as you gawk at him. “Oh, sure,” you answer at last, praying her babbling wasn’t too obvious because you couldn’t fathom Bucky choosing The Sugared Whisk. “Every year since I was four. The festival’s great. Brad brews the best mead, and Johnny, the mayor, is comically strict about the decorations, so it’s all pumpkins, and string lights, and festive garlands,” you mumble, scrambling for the pan and cream cheese frosting. “I’ve even heard whispers of fireworks this year. It’s next Saturday if you want to drop by. Cassie bakes the best apple pies.”

“Better than yours?”

“I don’t serve apple pies,” averting your eyes to study the grinder seems like the best decision to avoid his piercing gaze.

“I’m sure they’d be the best if you did.” Bucky beams, leaning against the counter as he observes you make coffee.

“Thank you,” the expression of gratitude melts into somewhat of a question despite your best attempts at keeping your voice level, “but the pies I bake often turn out horribly wrong. The apples were overcooked, and the dough raw last time I tried.”

“How undercooked?”

“The trash can enjoyed most of it.”

James laughs at that, the sound of it hearty and endearing. “I’m sure it found the pie delicious.” If he’s flirting with you, you can’t tell, and you don’t exactly want to, for expectations are the fool’s hope. “If you’re not terribly busy during the festival,” he speaks after a protracted moment of doubt, “I’d love to take you up on that tour Vivienne mentioned.”

“Tour?” The man in front of you must almost all but hear your heart pounding rapidly inside your chest.

“The tour of mead, pies, and decorations.”

“Oh?” You tinker with a couple napkins, peering at him. “I’m not sure I could give you a real good tour, I’m barely a guide, believe me. I got lost in that new Target on Cedar Lane, and I cannot understand maps, and—“

“I’m asking you out on a date.” Bucky chuckles at your flustered visage, baby blues never once breaking the eye contact.

“Shit,” the curse word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and you silently reprimand yourself for the rash impulse of colourful words. “Alright.”

The sergeant titters at your sudden reaction, a shy smile dancing on his lips. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable. I just thought we might have something between us, chemistry of sorts, and that it might’ve been fun,” he briefly pauses, eyes wild and roaming around your face. “It’s just that Vivienne mentioned Eldermont being gorgeous in the fall, and it got me thinking that I’ve never truly experienced it, because the only thing I visit in this town is your bakery, not that it’s the only place worth visiting—“

“Bucky—“

“There are many stores I should probably check out, and Samuel’s birthday is in a couple of days, which is convenient. I wouldn’t describe Sam and I as the best of pals, but Steve likes him, so I should probably get him a gift.”

“Who’s Samuel?” You ask puzzled, but the flustered soldier standing before you continues to ramble.

“Something small to indicate I remembered but not necessarily care. Something that screams I’m not a total jerk, but you are for reminding the whole compound that your birthday’s on the twenty third. A wooden statue of a bird. Sam likes birds, particularly Redwing, though Redwing’s not technically a bird. A wooden bird statue would certainly insult him, so it’s settled — the plan is to visit Artists & Wood on Land.”

“The shop’s name is Woodland Artistry,” you correct with a gentle smile.

“Right!” James clicks his tongue, studying your softly amused features. “We should probably forget this conversation happened. It was a stupid idea too—“

“Yes,” you interject. “I mean no.” Surely, this scenario is a strange dream that wicked mind of yours created to punish you for the sins you assumably committed in every single one of your previous lives. It’s the only possible explanation for the sergeant’s flustered behaviour. “I would absolutely love to go on a date,” you say and pinch the flesh of your thigh for reassurance, but the scene remains as it was, “with you.”

Gently placing a twenty on the counter, James gleams at you. “I’ve never actually given you my number, have I?”

"No," you shake your head to indicate disagreement, pinching the flesh of your thighs once more. “Only the pleasure of our little chats,” the response makes you wince. The pleasure of our little chats? Something’s definitely wrong with me.

Chuckling, James grasps one of the pens you keep by the cash register and scribbles down a series of numbers on his receipt. "If I don't reply, Steve must be holding me hostage.”

"Duly noted," you grin, folding the piece of paper to tuck it into the back pocket of your denim shorts.

He stands there for a second as if absorbing the situation. “Good. It’s a date, then.” he smiles in the end, taking the coffee and the plastic box, and peeks at you behind his shoulder. “And keep the change, please. These treats of yours are more than worth it.”

A timid smile spreads across your lips at the compliment before you sink your teeth into the soft of your bottom lip, observing the soldier scramble out of the bakery, the phone in his flannel jacket ringing for attention.

“Next time,” the redhead appears beside you once James disappears out of sight with a final wave goodbye, “you should give the man coffee and buns on the house," Vivienne nudges you, "both of them."

A surge of warmth rushes to your cheeks at her innuendo. “It’s great you suddenly possessed the ability to teleport and all, but the dough back there won’t knead itself.”

“No,” she gasps, and you only laugh at her realisation, turning to help the next customer.

It’s a date.

The evening of Eldermont’s harvest festival is pleasant, neither too blazing nor cold, but despite the temperature and the appropriate sundress you’ve chosen for it, you’re on the verge of fainting. I cannot faint on our first date, you think and decide it’s the man next to you’s fault, really. The smell of his cologne is too addicting, the hints of pine and cinnamon in his aftershave too intoxicating. James is a gentleman, which you expected and appreciate, but it’s overwhelming, the way he holds your hand to lead you through crowds and attentively listens to your overdrawn stories about the origins of pumpkin carving. Heavens help me.

“Have you checked out the corn maze yet?” Brad asks cheerfully. He’s surrounded by large beverage urns and stacks of disposable drinkware. “Mary mentioned Elijah’s still in there,” he chuckles, pouring two paper cups full of steaming apple cider mead. “The fool must’ve gotten lost or something.”

“Must’ve,” you glance at him, the corner of your mouth quirking up into a half smile. “Happens every year.”

“The two of you should go,” Brad speaks once again before smiling at Bucky. “It’s a great first date activity.”

James chuckles, and you wonder if he regrets asking you on a date. The small town you call home is ludicrously close, and if Vivienne didn’t spill the beans to Mary as she promised, Mary must’ve spread the ‘rumours’ around herself. The town’s beloved bookshop owner is an incredible woman, but she loves to gossip, and you should’ve expected the second person after Vivienne to consistently insert themselves into your dating life to jump to conclusions. Though the situation isn’t precisely comfortable for you, it must be worse for James. Whilst he has never outright mentioned, the soldier has important reasons to stay under the radar. Bucky has witnessed a lot, horrors you’ve even heard about on the TV, and currently, every resident of Eldermont is aware that James Buchanan Barnes is on a date. With a local baker, nonetheless. Participating in acorn tossing and harvest bingo and conversing with Brad Monty about all kinds of sneaky activities couples get up to in the corn maze. You're certain that James is bound to vanish without a trace due to the town's antics if your diffident and often rather awkward behavior hasn't already scared him away. The anxious parts of your brain have even compiled a mental list of today's disasters:

Johnny wiped his sweaty hands on Bucky’s jacket, realising the blunder only to mumble “I love this jacket, Sergeant Barnes”, and pretending he wanted to initiate a hug before he disappeared.

Cassie offered you a sample of pecan pie, which you eagerly tasted due to Bucky’s “If I had to choose the second best pie after apple, it would be pecan” comment, and completely choked on.

Vivienne located you in the farmer’s market to say “hello”, and persuaded James to purchase a pair of beaded bracelets, the two of you had ridiculed moments earlier, for “every first date needs a souvenir to remember it by”.

James guided you to Mary’s bookstore because you conferred a series of rare hardbacks Mary hides in the back for special customers, and the older woman steered you towards a selection of intimacy guides.

Indigo, The Sugared Whisk owner, pleaded with James for Captain America’s number in the middle of a busy intersection and discussed his “timeless looks” for the next couple of minutes until a car almost struck the three of you.

Elijah phoned you in distress, panicking about “having to live out his best years in a smelly corn maze”, which disturbed the sergeant and resulted in an “Elijah will find the exit eventually” monologue on your side.

You accepted to take a photo of a tourist couple, accidentally dropping the wife’s phone and shattering the screen because James stood so close, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Thanks, Brad,” you fumble with your wallet, hastily placing a ten on the stand. “See you around.”

“Doll,” Bucky doesn’t move once you attempt to remove him from the nightmare that is the situation the two of you found yourselves in. It gives you a second to evaluate his expression, and much to your surprise, his features are as soft as ever. James is blushing, too. “I wanted to pay for that.”

“You paid for the apple pie,” the words slip past your lips mumbled because the only thing you can truly concentrate on is the fact James is blushing. Blushing as a result of Brad’s stories about couples so in love they simply cannot be bothered to locate the labyrinth’s exit before proving their emotions to the world. Couples that could be the two of you. Possibly. A sane person shouldn’t rush to assumptions unless they earned the sweetest nickname from a dream of a man. You’ve never paid much thought to whether you would enjoy being called a ‘doll’—you do, but you would probably adore every label he’d choose. The notion steers your head toward unexpected and dirty waters, and you couldn’t be happier for Brad’s decision to chime in.

“Cassie outdid herself this year,” he nods. “I’m most definitely going to dream about that blackberry pie tonight.”

“Yes,” James agrees never once breaking the eye contact with you. “The pies were delicious, and it was my pleasure to pay. It was me who demanded a tour.”

“You may pay for the maze then,” you smile at him, “but leave the ten — I’m not that great of a tour guide, and I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Dates should be fun,” James suddenly speaks. “We could’ve skipped the labyrinth.”

The corn maze is high and intimidating, but Bucky’s presence and the soft glow of an orange sunset manage to silence your fears a bit. The passages are almost entirely empty except for the two of you, and each corner you take makes your heart jump at the possibility of encountering spooky surprises.

“This is fun,” you reassure, taking a sip of mead. James shoots you a look you cannot truly decipher, but you decide the meaning is somewhere between worried and teasing. “It is,” you hesitate for a beat. “I just keep remembering the haunted corn maze in Greenwood. They have scare actors there, who jump out of the bushes when you least expect it and completely startle you. Vivienne took me there last year, and I cannot shake the memories.”

The expression on his face melts into sympathy. “If it’s any consolation, I would protect you against all the zombies and monsters this maze might throw at us,” he speaks before, “not that it has any,” adding.

“If theme’s anything to go by, I think we’re OK,” you chuckle at his offer, referring to the cutesy signs and charmingly painted pumpkins scattered throughout the labyrinth, “unless Johnny decided to include a couple gory scenes at the end, though it’d end worse for him than it would for me.”

“Johnny The Mayor?”

“Johnny The Mayor,” you take yet another sip, nodding. The beverage is barely warm twenty minutes into the attraction, providing only the comfort of a soft alcohol tipsiness.

“He’s a charming little fella,” Bucky notes, and you don’t have it in yourself to deny the statement. “I’ve never experienced someone initiating a hug by wiping their hands on my jacket.”

“Sorry,” you offer sheepishly because what could you say after an occurrence so bizarre. Everyone in this town is strange? James must’ve caught on to the fact by this time.

“It’s alright, and besides, I now have a humorous story to recount at parties, which is a first,” he gleams at you. “It may come as a surprise, but I’m not usually the life of it.”

“Can I ask you a question?” You shift to gaze at him before emptying the cup of mead to steady your nerves.

“I don’t promise to answer,” James grins, fiddling with the beaded bracelet, “but yes.”

“Who’s Samuel?”

“That’s your question?” He laughs as his flesh arm slithers to rest upon your waist. At least you think it’s his flesh arm. The man wears gloves whether the sun shines or the rain pours. You’ve seen pictures, though, and read stories of The Winter Soldier in possession of a metal arm. Neither raise concern, not for the reason you’re smitten with Bucky. Rather, because James was manipulated and stripped of free will, and if heaven would descend, perhaps because that metal arm is sinfully attractive. It’s a thought forbidden to be mentioned aloud, for the gloves are a large indicator he’d enjoy staying silent about the matter. “Who’s Samuel?”

“Yes,” you sputter. The butterflies his simple action caused you don’t mention. “I want to hear about this Samuel. I’ve been informed he likes birds, especially Redwing, who’s not technically a bird?”

“The Samuel I was babbling about is Sam Wilson. The Falcon, if you’re a fan of CNN,” James teases, steering you into the left pathway of the maze. Despite your instinct to choose right, you stay silent. “Redwing’s a drone of sorts Sam uses on missions, and, this is a direct quote, for surveillance. I despise the thing.”

“If we get lost, forget the second date,” you playfully threaten. Though the coziness of his body pressed to yours is intoxicating, it does nothing to ease the goosebumps painted on your skin, and as the sky bleeds in shades of crimson and purple, the sun melts into the horizon, teasing you for forgetting a sweater. “I would’ve categorised holding a grudge against an object as below you.”

“If the shoe fits,” he chortles, leading you down a long passage before abruptly stopping. Hesitating for a beat, he drapes the flannel jacket you’ve come to love on the man around your body. The garment is red and weighty, and it smells of James. The gesture makes your heart swell with admiration, but you ignore it. Dates should be approached with a blank slate because expectations are easily shattered. “I shouldn’t deliver Steve that woman’s phone number, should I?” Bucky’s arm finds your waist again.

Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, “on the bright side, Indigo is quite a pleasant woman,” you verbalise the thought. James observes your expression, baby blues studying the same features he cannot resist thinking about at nightfall. Blood rushes to his cheeks at the notice of your fingers on his lower back, the heat of your skin piercing through his charcoal henley. “She’d certainly treat Captain America right. On the downside,” you pause, “Indigo is the exact opposite of Steve as the media portrays him. Come to think about it, both of us are.”

“How so?”

“The media portrays supersoldiers as courageous, but Indigo and I once had to call Luke to get rid of a teeny spider. Steve’s active in politics, whilst we often skip the town’s meetings—“

“Eldermont holds town meetings?” James chuckles, subconsciously drawing you in closer.

“Once a month, always on the first Tuesday,” you gleam at him before drawing in a deep breath to calm your violently beating heart. “Last time, we discussed the very pressing issue of Halloween decorations. Johnny insists every business on the main street must participate in the festivities. Indigo and I escaped out the back before the mayor could finish his speech. At the least, Steve would’ve stayed in that meeting, and at the most, he would’ve managed it.”

“People do say opposites attract.”

“Heard that before,” you agree. The loose strand of Bucky’s auburn hair tempts you to tuck it behind his ear, but you halt the impulse of committing such a ludicrous decision. “It must be true because you drink coffee black, and I prefer lattes. You have cinnamon buns for breakfast, and I, if time would be gracious enough for breakfast, would choose danishes.”

“The jury’s decided, then.” The corners of his mouth quirk up into a lazy and wickedly attractive smile, and, you almost wonder if Bucky’s aware of the effect he has on your body because if he isn't, your buckling knees must’ve given it away. “Opposites do attract.” His wildly confident attitude is a new discovery, but you decide you like it. “It would be a shame to ignore matters of the universe.” Confidence is a good shade on him.

“Is this your way of asking me on a second date?” You tease the man, memorising the pink hues veiling his cheekbones.

James guides you around the corner, observing the corn maze’s exit, and halts his movements. “Only if the lady agrees,” he shifts to stand before you, catching your forearms in his gloved hands, “which I’m sincerely hoping she does.”

Resting your arms on his shoulders, you gift yourself a quick moment to explore his features — the stubble gently lining his sharp jaw, the little scar above his eyebrow, and the red lips you, despite hiding it, wanted to kiss since he first visited Spice & Honey. “The lady would love to go on a second date.”

“Good,” an emotion you cannot comprehend waltzes in his eyes, but, for the sake of your composure, you abstain from thinking it could possibly be lust. “The gentleman is looking forward to it.” There's an argument happening inside him, you can sense it by the way he keeps drawing you closer until the space between your bodies is virtually erased, but retains his posture straight and almost rigid. The weight of should he or should he not lingers in the air around you before James catches your stare and smiles timidly, shattering the flicker of hope you have for him to kiss you. You don’t exactly yearn for him to kiss you. In theory, kiss-less first dates are a great idea, paving the way for deeper conversations and a closer bond. They build anticipation. Anticipation is good, you ponder for a second, but all you can truly focus on is whether James would taste like apple cider mead or the sugary desserts you two savoured earlier. “The night is still young," he speaks, the tone of his voice light and reticent. "It would be a shame to end the date this early."

“Luke’s open if you want to grab a quick dinner,” you say with a grin, stepping away from him. “Though we should probably exit the maze first.”

“Yes,” Bucky laughs and extends his arm towards the light at the end of the passage. “Lead the way, pretty lady.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x baker reader #bucky x baker!reader #insomniumstella #bucky x reader spice & honey

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cherrirui-official · 1 year ago

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Friendlocke Violet Gijinkas (Part 1/7)

Since the edited episodes are starting to come out, I figured that bc of that and the fact that I've been keeping this in the back burner for a loooong while now, might as well complete all my friendlocke violet gijinkas!! Some are gonna stay the same while others are gonna have slight/ complete redesigns, so please keep that in mind!

I plan on posting them in order by groups of three, so there's gonna be seven parts in total, all of which I'll be linking here when done vvv

(Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five) (Part Six) (Part Seven)

!! These will contain personal headcanons I have for the cast, little fun facts, and also spoilers for Friendlocke Violet (for both the edited vids and the streams) !!

@saltydkart-reblogs

And that's pretty much it, designs under the cut!

LARK:

HUGE nerd. spent most of his time during the Uva Academy studying different kinds of pokemon as well as different fighting styles he can utilize once he is able to go out on his own journey with his very own trainer! Too bad that didn't really help in the long run...

His entire wardrobe consists of McDonald's related outfits. It's fucking insane. He even has some from long LONG ago that aren't available anywhere else.

The bubble pattern on his hair is able to move and change. Nobody knows how this is possible, not even Lark himself. All Lark knows is that his hair looks incredibly stylish!

Speaking of bubbles, he has the ability to blow bubbles whenever and wherever he pleases!

Often keeps himself extremely clean and gets upset if even a small speck of dirt gets on him, despite this he somehow smells like McDonald's food and axe body spray. Disgusting. He's so cool!

Even after death he still likes to hang around the other team members as a ghost, often getting to know the newer members as well as reuniting with the old ones. Sometimes they see him, sometimes they don't. It usually depends.

SARA:

Due to being a human in her past life, Sara is able to actually speak with the other humans in the pokemon world. However she usually doesn't due to it being seen as extremely weird and out of place. She did slip up once while talking in the presence of Arven, who thought it was the weed making him hear things.

Oinkologne are usually unable to do much with their hooves but Sara spent nights practicing how to knit with her new hooves and now she's able to do it flawlessly. I don't know how she managed to do that but go queen!

When first joining the team she'd often have the urge to eat her food related companions. It was a strange time for Sara, but she managed to overcome it.

When Peppy gets sick, she usually is the one who nurses him back to health. She was a human once so she often is able to figure out whatever sickness Peppy has and treat it properly. I suppose she's like a second mother to him.

The bag she carries with her is full of thread that she collected from various Tarountula she encountered on the journey, as well as little things she knits together in her spare time.

For the most part, Sara forgives... but NEVER forgets.

Did you guys know that Sara has a new YouTube channel? Check it out!

Pastey:

Before joining the team, Pastey was a nameless wanderer. He's been down every road in Paldea and knows almost the entire region (except for Area Zero) like the back of his hand.

He's gotten hurt pretty badly throughout the run (ie. the Mikey fight, the Atticus fight, and ESPECIALLY the final battle), however, he does not gain any (physical) scars from those fights. This is bc he's basically an axolotl, and axolotls are usually able to heal without scarring.

Pastey's "arms" are, to put it simply, mud prosthetics. More info here vvv

Pastey HAS met Mall Bingo once before the run, however, he doesn't recognize her. The only reason he does not recognize her is bc she wears glasses. (You know how people somehow aren't able to recognize Superman bc he wears glasses in his civilian attire even tho his face remains the same? It's basically like that lmao)

Unlike the lightbulbs he eats, the gasoline he drinks isn't really mandatory to his diet. Gasoline is like alcohol to him and he drinks it like an absolute CHAMP.

He goes fishing when there's nothing else to do or when he can't sleep at night. He doesn't do this bc he thinks it's fun or anything, only bc it's a "good time passer" or so he claims. Other members of the team will often sit with him and vent out anything that's troubling them at the moment, and Pastey is always there to listen to them.

And that's pretty much it. Next is Joe, Hannah Ü, and Mykyie!

#I am a firm believer that Sara can and will beat ass #No i do NOT plan on making gijinka designs for Chatbike and Phil sorry guys #just getting that out of the way i know how much yall love phil /j /lh #Anyways it feels so good to finally start on this like holy moly #also idk when the others will be done... HOWEVER...#The sketches for Joe Hannah and Mikey are already pretty much done I just gotta make em digital #so ideally they'll be out pretty soonish I'd say... I hope #but yeah if anyone has any questions abt them feel free to send them in my askbox and I'll be happy to answer them as best as i can!#<- No anons tho sorry yall #Also I need to be honest here Lark's outfit kinda does look atrocious and I couldve changed it... BUT...#I honestly thought it was WAY funnier if Lark's attire looked weird on purpose so I kept it like that lol #Anyways sorry for the word vomit here are the tags #friendlocke #friendlocke violet #saltydkdan #should my gijinkas have their own tag...? Sure why not #Violet Gijinka Au #cherris canvas

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moonshine-nightlight · 1 year ago

Text

Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Part Thirty-Four

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale Chapter 34

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six][Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] Part Thirty-Four [Part Thirty-Five]

“So,” he says, after a sip of tea, “where would you like to begin?”

“I’m not certain,” you admit. Your mind’s been spinning with questions for weeks and yet now that Dale is availing himself to said questions, you find it blank. You grasp for anything to start. Nothing comes to mind besides the very beginning.

“You said earlier… that the original Dale was killed in his summoning attempt?”

“Yes,” the demon inhabiting his body replies. He sets down his cup of tea. “He attempted a summoning ritual, planning to bind a powerful, but unintelligent demonic spirit to him so he might use its strength and other inhuman abilities for his own gain.” That tracked with what you would have expected the original Dale to want. He seemed to have contempt for both demons and his grandparents’ rules, while craving more power for himself.

You’re not surprised it went wrong either as Dale is clearing an intelligent demon. Even while traveling abroad from Northridge, the human Dale likely needed to be covert about his studies and plans. Given the host of misinformation out in the world, well, that probably led to some bad information. His own arrogance likely blinded him to that fact or he overestimated his ability to filter such misinformation out resulting in, well… Summoning demons is very dangerous.

“Unfortunately, he miscalculated in a number of ways,” Dale immediately confirms for you. “Such as how deep he threw his lure down into the portal he opened being the gravest as it meant he underestimated the vitality of his offering. Or rather, if he’d only gone as deep as he planned, it perhaps might have been sufficient. However, since he tried to go too deep, the offering was used up and he’d not set the proper parameters on the summoning circle to prevent an overreach demand.”

Your confusion must show on your face. This is all so far over your head. All your research since discovering this situation with Dale had been regarding what to do with a demon that was present, not how to find or bind one. You’re trying to follow along though and you’re sort of managing, even if you’ve no idea about the mechanics of how to do any of what Dale is describing.

Dale elaborates, “It needed more fuel to the fire so to speak in order to reach as deep as he specified, which was in error. After the offering, the closest source of potential energy was him. Not his body, but his—” Dale made a sound, a hissing air filled noise that you’d never be able to replicate “—, er, his life’s energy? I’m not too sure of the mechanisms myself to be honest. Most of what I know is gleaned from memories of humans who I’ve possessed and that knowledge is incomplete.”

“From what I can tell,” you offer, uncomfortable with speaking on something you’ve not studied deeply, but wanting to contribute something—or at least reassure Dale that you’re no expert nor expecting him to be one. Most of the studies you’ve had covered the Depths as part of history, not science. “There seem to be waves or cycles with knowledge of the Depths. There will be a build up of knowledge in one civilization, an increase in daily interaction between the planes, and then some big shift—a nation-wide purge, a crater where a city once was—wipes out a lot of that gained insight. The topic becomes taboo again, until slowly interest and tolerance builds once more.”

“Fascinating,” Dale says, leaning forward with rapt attention. “I’d not noticed, but I think you’re correct—the sources of information my hosts recall do seem to be clustered in certain years. The cycle isn’t obvious in the Depths because of how time is distorted.”

“I’d imagine so,” you say, enjoying how animated Dale is on the topic. You hope your intrigue is not obvious as you surreptitiously study the two additional eyes which have opened up on his forehead. They’re identical to Dale’s human eyes, despite their placement.

Dale leans back, perhaps you were too obvious, but the eyes do stay. “Something to be explored at a later date,” Dale says sheepishly, seemingly to have recalled his original train of an explanation. “There are some things that are common knowledge among demons—passed on and around as information does even with the Depths’ fractured communities. If a human is drained of energy, there is a small window of opportunity where a demon can leap into their body. We can give it a kick to get it moving again—reignite the spark of life and animation with our own.”

You’d heard of both types of possession–shared and solitary, but you never knew why or how they happened. You’re only grateful that the demon didn’t have to fight the original Dale–you feel guilty, but you can’t help but be glad you’ve only this Dale now.

He waves dismissively. “Of course you can possess a human body with the human’s energy still intact—you’ve met Two—but it's a much more delicate proposition. Often such a prospect involves a fight or negotiation. That’s why so many of the older cults would purposely use a human as an offering. Then the demon they wish to summon won’t have any trouble finding or possessing a vessel.” He again seems to get nervous with such mentions—as if you’ll suddenly remember that you should be afraid of him—and hastens on, “Anyways, there are also ways to do the reverse—to limit a casting, so if the offering is used up, it stops. Dale did not do that properly. He didn’t set the lure right either, which is why he didn’t attract demons that are more akin to animals than humans.”

“I suspected he might attempt something like this,” you admit, remembering your trepidation as the original Dale’s inability to conceal his anticipation had grown. “He was not subtle in his studies around anyone besides his grandparents, but I’m still horrified to think he did so in the estate. If anything went wrong—as it did—who knows who could have been hurt? Is there a way to limit the number of demons that can, can follow or catch the lure?” Your mind is filled with visions of multiple demons, with no regard for the humans already here or even merely not in control of themselves as many animal-like demons often were. It would be like suddenly having a pack of wolves in your bed chamber.

“There is and he managed that much,” Dale confirms and even though the casting is over a month ago, you still feel some relief that you weren't quite so close to complete chaos. “Once I had the lure, I merely had to keep hold of it as these are set to pull in the demon once one suiting the parameters comes into contact with it. He’d made—not noise—but something similar enough that there were a number of interested parties in the area. Luck made me one of the closest once he cast down.”

“But you’d come to see if the noise was a way to the Surface on purpose,” you guess, reading between the lines. You think back to the mood Dale had been in when he’d ‘recovered’ and was showing up to more than a meal an evening. He’d been happy. He’d wanted to be there.

“Yes,” Dale nods. “I’d been looking for the opportunity for long enough. It was a great relief to win the race and fight for the chance. I wasn’t going to let such a lucky circumstance slip through my fingers.”

“How many times had you been to the Surface before?” you ask, caught up so much information. He clearly knew a lot about summoning from Dale’s memories, his personal experiences—but possibly even from other humans. To want to be here strongly enough to fight for the chance he must have known what he was getting himself into—or been in such a rough spot in the Depths anything seemed better. You hoped it was the former.

“A few times,” Dale confirms. He leans back in his chair, his pupils darker in a fascinating way. Not larger, but deeper. You have to watch yourself so you don’t lean forward to see better, like you might find understanding if you fell into his eyes long enough. You force your gaze away and take a sip of tea.

“The first time was by accident,” Dale confesses. “A very skilled summoner from Anjou pulled me and a couple others up. Bound us to her soldiers. It was enough to let me see and experience what it was like here. And to start my fascination.” He shrugs. “Sure, I’d heard of the Surface and humans before, but I’d never seen anything or anyone.”

“It’s not pure darkness in the Depths—I’ve no notion how such rumors began up here—but there’s nothing like the sun and sunlight and its warmth.” He closes his eyes and turns his face towards the window, even though the sun is almost done setting. “Everything feels freer here somehow, less weighed down. As if I’d been moving through water or smog my whole life, in more ways than one—not that that’s quite right either.” He frowns at his inability to describe the experience and opens his eyes to meet yours with perfect accuracy. “My apologies, I seem to lack the vocabulary to explain some of the differences as the effects, the experiences, are not ones that translate well.”

You don’t think he’s giving himself enough credit. “No, no—I think I understand as well as I’d be able without going there myself.”

“I’m not sure you’d like it,” he immediately cautions. Before you can begin to reply that wasn’t what you meant, he’s already hurrying to deter you. “Do not misunderstand me, there are many parts of living in the Depths that I liked. Having my own body and not having to use a vessel. There’s a certain beauty in landscapes and locations that cannot exist here. Comfort in the familiarity of it all. Not to mention the lack of constant deception. However, I’m not certain you would enjoy it.”

“That’s alright,” you reassure him. I have no plans to visit the Depths–you just want Dale to stay here.

“Good, good. It’s…” Dale’s at a loss of words as he tries to convey whatever he wants to. “Well, it’s very dangerous, more wild.” You shiver at the thought, having only lived in cities or large estates in your life–tamed in a manner that you can tell Dale means the opposite to.

Dale frowns, glancing at you and out the window at the nearly set sun before going over to start a fire. You don’t clarify his misinterpretation because the light will be helpful to you, as you know Dale has excellent night vision. Besides, it's early enough in summer that nights can still carry a chill.

Dale continues to talk as he arranges the logs, his voice clear despite his facing away and crouching down, “There are far more animals, for lack of a better word, than intelligent beings. And the intelligent demons are very territorial, in tight-knit clans that exclude outsiders, or in family groups, or solitary. None of these larger communities like humans, with their travel and attempts at civil interaction.”

“What sort are you from?” you can’t help but ask. He seems to enjoy being part of Northridge. He’d talked weeks ago of it as his ‘territory’ but you noticed he hasn’t mentioned anyone else. No one person was mentioned as an aspect of the Depths that he misses.

He straightens up from the fire, picking up his cup of tea for a drink. “That’s complicated.” He sets down the cup holds up his right hand as he explains, “One of my parents was pure shade, but they had been injured defending their territory. During that time they met an ambyani who’d left her family territory to make her own and had settled next to their territory.” He holds up his other hand to represent that parent, before frowning at your blank stare at the word.

You know there are many races of demons, far more varied than any humans are from one another. Some are more famous—infamous— than others. You’ve never heard that word before.

“Ambyani would remind you of humans in a broad sense—most intelligent demons have a form that’s similar enough to humans—but with features that would bring to mind salamanders and birds.” You nod, which you limit yourself to only because you can tell Dale has other things to say besides simply continuing to describe such a creature in greater detail as you wish he would. You wonder if he’s any talent for drawing that he might better illustrate what they would look like. “A courtship developed between them over the years. Eventually they became mates and began to have children.”

Does he mean his parents courted for years before marrying? Perhaps he is interested in such things, but merely expects a longer time frame. You can’t decide whether or not that makes you hopeful or dismayed, so you focus elsewhere. “So different races of demons can have children together?” you ask, even though you suppose he’d already told you as much. You’d grown up hearing about all sorts of demons—wild and strange in so many ways. They seemed too different to be able to have children together.

“Yes, although not always easily and often in adapted manners,” Dale replies. He fidgets, looking as if he’s going to start pacing again, before he sits instead. “The offspring tend to be a mix of parental traits, although the level of influence varies. For example, when a human has children with a possessed human, it is as though the child has three parents, with traits from all, but will end up primarily human because there is more influence from humans. Demons have overlap in their traits, even when different races, and those common traits show up more prominently in offspring.”

You try to absorb what he’s saying about demons, but your mind is a little stuck on the human part, since it's most applicable to you. Another problem for another time, you try to remind yourself. After all, it's not like that information is likely to be relevant to anything happening tonight. Forcibly, you remind yourself that Dale is attempting to explain his own parentage, which you do want to know about and which might help you learn more about him. You’re not sure if your mind can believe that having control over shadows is like hair color, but perhaps it was for demons.

“Shades spawn in swarms with or without partners,” Dale says, not having noticed your mind briefly get off on the wrong track, “while ambyani lay eggs.” You can’t help but notice neither of those methods is how humans reproduce. You try desperately not to picture what mating or sex would be like between such different demons if only because you want to keep listening to Dale. “It can be harder to reproduce between very different races, but my parents were able to raise a clutch with deliberate action, all of whom inherited from both parents.” You’re nodding until he says, “I was not one of them.”

“What do you mean?” Were those two not his parents after all?

“Myself and a handful of other siblings were formed on accident, with a greater portion of shade than ambyani,” Dale says, still not filling in many of the gaps to your mind. You didn’t want to interrupt him with more questions about how that happened in case he was talking around the exact circumstances on purpose. “As such, we grew up as shade do, wandering about in large swarms. We did combine and recombine with less frequency than usual due to our mother’s contribution.”

“But a swarm of bats or a flock of birds are still separate animals,” you can’t help but point out. “You’re saying that shade young are not fully separate?”

“Correct, usually a swarm solidifies into one shade after time passes, if they survive.” Dale sounds wistful as he explains, “However, rather than eventually dying off entirely, being subsumed by a larger swarm, or forming one shade being, we solidified into a group of siblings when younger than is typical for boundaries like that to form. Because we wandered as young shade do, we had strayed far from our parents' territory. We traveled throughout different demons’ territories, never able to stay long and always in danger from predators. Once old enough, we decided to find our parents. I was the only one to survive the journey home.”

Your heart goes out to Dale and you can see that he feels the loss of his siblings at such a young age. You can’t even imagine it. “I’m so sorry.”

Dale smiles sadly. “Thank you.” He fidgets in his chair before standing up. Waving his hand, he tries to downplay the loss, “It’s a blur, to be honest—little moments stick out but I was very young. Still, I missed them and being part of a family. I was quite eager to join my parents.” You’ve got a sinking feeling in your gut, given how Dale is and the sad tone this story has taken, that his eagerness may have been misplaced. “Unfortunately, by the time I returned, I had grown enough that my parent thought I was an unrelated shade, looking to steal their territory and family. I was able to communicate who I was eventually, but they never fully trusted me.”

You wrap your hand around the low footboard of the bed to resist the urge to comfort him with an embrace. He seems too full of nervous energy to appreciate it and this conversation, while relatable in some ways, is also throwing in your face how different you are. Perhaps he wouldn’t want a hug, even if you want to give him one. “Why not?”

Dale sighs, leaning against the vanity. He looks older, more tired. “Between growing away from them and how we—I—was formed, my mother felt there wasn’t enough ambyani in me. She barely believed I was hers. My parent saw me as too shade to be trusted—family means very little to them on its own. He could never truly be convinced I was not a rival to him. My other siblings were quite different from me and followed their lead.” All of Dale’s extra eyes have vanished and the shadows are very still around. His voice is clipped as he says, “After an incident, I realized it’d be best if I struck out on my own.”

You’re not sure what sort of incident he could mean, but given his parents distrust it could have been anything. People looking for a threat tend to find one, no matter how warranted. “Oh, Dale.” He shrugs and turns to stare into the fire, the light casting strangely deep shadows on his face. He barely looks like his namesake in this moment. He looks too far from human.

You want to shake him from this melancholy. It’s not the same, but you know what it's like to feel like a stranger, someone outside looking in, in your own home and with your own family. Your age difference would have been enough to do that to some extent, nevermind your illness. But your parents and siblings had always been around, had always known you were family. Now here Dale is once more outside of his ‘family’, a demon among humans. He had very little from his original identity he could reveal, even if you hope sharing with you will help. The thought occurs to you and you tentatively ask, “I suppose that reminds me of another question, do you wish for me to call you by another name?”

“Hm?” He half turns towards you, but continues to look so clearly inhuman. It's fascinating what light and shadow can do to change a person.

You’re not scared of him, but you are somewhat intimidated by the gap in your experiences. By how much you still don’t know of him as even this basic question demonstrates. “I only meant for when we’re alone, of course. But you must have a name besides ‘Dale’?” As soon as you clarify, you start to second guess yourself. What did you know of demons and their naming conventions? You’ve heard tell that names mean something to them. Or that they use them differently? But what was rumor or fact, you’ve no notion.

“Oh!” Dale turns fully away from the fire, looking startled, and it seems to shock him back to looking fairly human. His eyes, only the two at the moment and in the proper place, still must be the hardest to control. They still seem to have a glimmer of firelight in them. As he recovers from his surprise, he appears to give the question a brief few seconds of thought before shaking his head. “No, I don’t mind Dale.” You breathe out a sigh of relief that you hadn’t accidentally offended him. He continues, “We didn’t have names as such in the Depths, not permanent ones. Names, however someone was referring to you, were to reflect who you were in a context. In this context, I am Dale of Northridge.”

“If you’re happy with that,” you reassure him, even as he gets up to make himself a fresh cup of tea, “then I’m pleased to continue to call you ‘Dale’.” You hand him another packet of tea and he refills your own cup with fresh hot water. “I just want to make sure you’re aware you can share things with me, as yourself.”

“Thank you, sana.” His smile is small, full of sharp teeth, and quite sincere. “I believe I’m starting to get that through my mind,” Dale says as he salutes you with his fresh cup of tea. “It merely seems so novel. Humans are so fearful of the Depths and demons, which is not unwarranted.”

He frowns thoughtfully at you, pausing as he stirs his tea. He squints, a third eye mimicking the motion. “You’re quite smart, and compassionate, and—well, cautious isn’t quite right. Deliberate? Hm.” You wait with bated breath for whatever else he might say of your character. You’ve been wondering how he truly saw you for so long, what he made of such a silly human, and yet he seems far too complementary. “What I mean to say is that you are very sensible and that seems at odds with, well, this,” he motions between the two of you. “Your reaction to me when compared with others. I admit I still do not fully understand it.”

“I’m pleased you think I’m sensible,” you say before frowning because while you’re flattered, you also don’t want Dale to have a false image of you in his head. “But I don’t truly think I am. Sensible, that is. I mostly just see myself as a worrier, but it’s true that I worry a similar amount about what others might see as inconsequential or as monumental.” You shrug helplessly, trying to articulate what you mean. “I think I’m just better at pretending, or rather… I grew up oddly, because of my illness and isolation, in a manner such that the things others saw as mundane were far more to me. And now that I am healthier, I think sometimes because my mind has elevated the ordinary to extraordinary, I don’t find the strange so strange, or the risk as risky.” You wander back to the bed and sit down as you try to pull your thoughts into order.

“It’s true, marrying a demon is risky,” you’ve never actually said it out loud. The closest you came was with Steward Bilmont. It does sound incredibly foolish, even with Dale patiently waiting for you to keep talking, the picture of normalcy—baring the now three additional eyes. “But so is marrying anyone, to some extent. Certainly so is marrying an ambitious lordling who dabbles in forces he overestimates his abilities in. I knew what he was like when we entered into our betrothal, but considered it a price I’d pay, a risk I’d take. I wanted to attempt to run a fief and have a family of my own where my decisions held weight. My other options had not had such possibilities.”

You think back to when you figured out what was going on and what Dale was. What you wanted to do. “You were a new player to account for, but I already knew Dale wasn’t a prize himself. You could have been anything—for good or ill—and Dale was already part of the marriage to bear, not what I was looking forward to. Given the other alternatives, I thought seeing if you would at least be as tolerable as him would be worth the risk. If it did not work out well, I would deal with it then.” You shrug helplessly. “I think I’m just too stubborn by half and twice as foolhardy. A month ago, when this part of everything began, seems so long ago. But I’m very happy with where we are now and with you.”

“Is that so?” Dale can’t seem to help himself from asking.

“Yes.” Luckily telling him so gets easier every time.

He leans forward to peer at you, unblinking in his examination. Your breath catches in your chest as you wait him out.

“So strange, you really seem to mean it.” He looks away to stir his tea.

You find you’ve leaned towards him and are in danger of falling off the bed. You hurriedly hoist yourself back a sensible distance so you don’t look quite so eager. Hopefully by the time he looks back at you the heat in your cheeks can be blamed on the fire and tea.

“Some humans have used me as a tool, others a weapon. Some were civil about it, others were not—whether using bribery or punishment to attempt to deal with me. None dealt with me as an equal.” He says so casually enough it takes an additional second for the pang of sorrow for his sake to hit you.

He looks back up, that earnest light in his eyes. “Despite all that, I still wanted so badly to be here. After the first taste, I tried to learn everything I could of the Surface. I’d not managed to join a new clan or other group by then, so I started trying to mark out my own territory in the shallows. Where I might see more of the Surface. I even attempted to find a way to go it alone up here, but shades are just a bit too… delicate? We need an anchor—a vessel—or we fade.”

“So you focused on humans who cut holes into the Depths,” you surmise, even if you feel a pang of disappointment that you’ll never see him without Dale’s human body, on his own. You wonder if the brief glimpses you saw during his fight with Two were close to what he looked like naturally. Maybe you could still see some of what he was underneath.

“Precisely,” Dale replies. “I learned better how to spot the lures humans dropped, how to tell who they were aimed at and how powerful the one casting them was and so on. Not that I was always correct in my estimation and there are others—other demons—who want to go to the surface as well. Even ones who might be able to in their own forms tend to still prefer to travel up a line a human dropped to ascend. Competition was fierce.”

You try to think of what to ask, without making it obvious you want to know everything he could tell you. Hopefully he would, eventually, but what did you want to know tonight? “Were there any other journeys here that you thought might have been what you wanted?”

Dale frowns before he slowly nods. “One. Time moves differently between the planes and matters less in the Depths, passes differently too so I can’t say for certain how long ago it was. Decades on the Surface,” he settles on, “but less than one below.” He sighs and there’s a little whistle to it that makes it sound more like the wind than a human letting out some breath. The whistle is eerie and pretty at the same. You want to know what other sounds Dale can make. “It did not work out as I’d hoped, but it was the closest I’d come.”

This is the most wistful you think you’ve ever heard Dale and you are so eager to learn more. “What happened?”

“You truly wish to know?” Dale’s not arguing with you, but you can see he doesn’t understand your interest in this. You’d thought this is what he wanted to share, but maybe he was expecting questions more along the lines of the specifics of what he is or what his plans are. After this morning and the wedding, you’re not nearly as anxious about that as you were yesterday. You don’t need reassurances he’s not going to hurt you or leave. You merely want to know him better.

“It has no bearing on the current state of affairs. I promise I’ve no desire for another life,” Dale reiterates, looking earnestly at you. “As I said, this was the finest stroke of luck I’ve ever come across.”

You can’t help but smile because honestly, his arrival ended up being a pretty perfect stroke of good luck for you too. “I believe you,” you reply, hoping to soothe him. You’re not deterred. “But these events had an impact on you, did they not? A strong impact.”

“Yes,” he allows. “They did.”

“I only want to get to know you,” you say, hoping your unadorned words will help him understand you.

“Very well.”

You frown at his continued reluctance. “If you do not wish to tell the tale, I’ve no desire to force you.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, his hand brushing some of the hair that’s escaped his tie back from his face. “It might clarify some of my actions to you.” You still are not convinced he wants to speak to you of this. You can have patience. You open your mouth to say so, but Dale admits, anticipating your words, “And I’ve never had the opportunity to tell this story to anyone. So if you wish to listen, I will gladly tell of it.”

You are getting better at reading him after all, you realize, be cause you believe him. You relax back onto the bed. “Yes, please.”

“It was in Khinat, though the group was not entirely from there,” Dale says, setting the scene. The far off look is back in his eyes, the shadows’ movements more rhythmic than the typical chaos from a fire. “They were a band of thieves, who wanted to steal, well, a number of precious items from a palace.” He gives one slow blink, as if giving you a second to object to such criminal behavior. As if you weren’t aware most dabbling in demonology that weren’t scientists were mercenaries and the like. You doubt he had much choice in the matter and theft was always more palatable to you than harm caused unto others—not that they couldn’t overlap.

When you only wait patiently, Dale continues, “They wanted more than human advantages on their side. Their caster bound myself and two others to three of their fellows. My vessel, he did first. He’d not been sure of how much energy it would take to get the depths he wanted and so he had that human written in as a secondary sacrifice. Sure enough, he’d not provided enough energy and the human’s life energy was drained in the summoning process. It was the first time I’d been in a vessel with no mind to compete with beyond memories.”

“That caster had been a foul man, callous and arrogant,” Dale flexes one of his hands angrily at the memory before clenching it into a fist. “He bound me tight in that body. The other two demons he summoned were controlled by their humans with excessive strength. One human was able to handle it properly. The other was not and did survive to the end of the quest. The one who survived kept the demon bound to him as his reward while I was told that I could have the human body and my freedom if I cooperated. I saw this as a great opportunity, even if I disliked most of the other members of the group."

“I can understand why," you acknowledge. It was obviously more appealing for Dale to not have to share a body, even if it meant someone else died—at least it was not by his own actions. It certainly painted the humans involved in a negative light, cruel to sacrifice someone in such a test and then use their body after their death. And while you know demons can be violent too, this manner of binding stinks of slavery to you. "Even if they sound like a reprehensible crew."

“Yes. There was one who had been, not captured as the one who became my vessel had been, but coerced to a high degree,” Dale says. You sit up straighter at the gentler tone that has entered his voice. "She was the appraiser—the one who could tell the decoy artifacts from the genuine. Rather than wait until after the heist, the leader compelled her to join with a combination of bribery and threats. She needed the money, and wished to keep her life, and so complied."

Dale seems to be lost in his memory and so you only need to nod to prompt him to continue.

"I performed reconnaissance and scouting. She utilized that information to ensure we had the correct targets. We became close over the time spent together, preferring each other's company to the rest," Dale's voice gets even softer and you hate the insecurity it sparks through you because you can see where this is heading. You don't like discovering you're a jealous spouse—you hadn't been with the original Dale, but then again, you'd not truly wanted him, or wanted him to want you, the way you did with this Dale. "She knew the terms of my service, that I would get only my freedom and nothing more, so she invited me to return with her to her hometown and then beyond. She was taking this payment and leaving her life in the city behind. A fresh start for both of us, she said.”

You could see why such a prospect appealed to Dale, and possibly even to this woman, who sounded like she had found herself in far over her head. You’re waiting though, balanced on the edge of a cliff, because you know by virtue of Dale standing here with you, that this story will not end well.

"It was the longest I'd been on the surface for and had full control,” Dale says, lost in the memories. “I learned and enjoyed as much as I could, even under the circumstances.”

You can picture Dale, not having to hide his nature with the crew, and testing his limits with the same eager attitude he sometimes displayed.

“Not that the lessons learned from the rest of the group were useless,” Dale adds, coming back to the present somewhat. “I’ve been applying some of those skills recently to the investigation into the assassins.”

You blink, pulled out of Dale's story. "You have?”

"Yes," Dale says, as if still worried what you might think of this part of his past. Like he wants to show he's useful beyond his impersonation of Dale, which has never something you needed convincing on. "Of course, I’ve been trying to pull what useful information I can from Dale’s memories, his knowledge, of his network of informants, and so on, but I do know something on my own of information gathering, of meeting with unsavory characters and how they operate. Ensuring those I have contact with can and cannot tell I am Dale as appropriate."

"I'm glad you've had the experience because I don't know where I would have begun," you admit because you are and you want him to know that you value what responsibilities he’s taken on. "My family might help if I had asked, but they are busy with their own matters. I certainly have no network of contacts, especially not for figuring out who might have hired assassins."

"Yes, well, you would not have acted in a manner that would prompt someone to send assassins after you."

You smile at the affront you hear in Dale's voice. "I'm glad you think so. I don't think if you'd been Dale at the time that you would have either."

Dale gives you a lopsided smile. "I'm pleased you think so, but I'm not so certain. There's still much I'm learning and my experience, my loaned memories—they are not always the correct preparation. I'm grateful to your aid and Grandmother and Grandfather for their clear expectations. Besides, as you've pointed out—rightfully so—my control still needs fine-tuning. Within Northridge, that’s the greater concern.”

While you've worried over the same thing yourself these weeks, here in this room—with Dale, and honesty, and your marriage—you no longer feel like that’s a true looming threat. “Now that we can work together, I’m certain we can prevent that from happening.”

“Thank you for your confidence,” Dale says, pleased. “I’ve simply never been able to stay and so inherently find the prospect hard to trust in.”

“I’d imagine so,” you reply. “From your story, it seemed like a true possibility, but you weren’t able to stay, were you?”

“No,” Dale sighs. “It was a lovely month—my longest stay until now. We did succeed to the leader’s satisfaction and he paid us both as promised. Even the journey to her home was uneventful. At first. That’s when it all fell apart.”

Even knowing that something was going to go wrong, it still made your heart clench at the despair in Dale’s voice. That he was here now, meant that he couldn’t have stayed then, and you selfishly want to be the one—want this life to be the one—that makes him happy. You still hurt for the hope you can see he had and lost.

“While I thought she understood my situation,” Dale continues, “it turns out she had not.” You frown, what did he— “She thought I was like the other two, a human sharing a body with the demon, except that I hadn’t asked for it the way the other two had. She thought freedom meant the caster had rid me of the demon, not that I was the demon being given a body. She thought she’d been talking with a human the entire time.”

Oh, your first thought is once you’ve digested that, no wonder he hadn’t thought you knew. He’d deceived this other woman by accident. Perhaps that is even why he seemed so careless—why he’d called humans oblivious. He’d said before he’d been testing his limits of what he could do and she’d still not caught on. She must have been shocked, particularly if her experience with demons had been tainted by the other members of the group. “Oh, oh no.”

Dale nods, resigned sorrow in the lines of his face, aging him. “When I finally realized what was happening, I told her the truth.” His voice flattens, “She did not take it well. Refused to believe me at first. She was angry and unsettled and—but then,” the corners of his mouth lift in a facsimile of a smile, “she seemed to accept that I had been myself the entire time. That our relationship was genuine. She was a little more standoffish, more hesitant, than before but she was a good person. Forgiving. She still wanted me to come home with her. She didn’t abandon me.” You can hear a lot in that statement, thinking back on his family.

“I thought given time,” Dale continues softly, “she would be able to accept me. And so I followed her home, right into an exorcism.”

Your eyes widen and you can’t help but get to your feet. Carefully, you approach Dale. He watches you with wary eyes, but doesn’t move away, doesn’t ask you to stop. “She’d written home ahead of time,” he blurts out and you reach out your hand to entwine your fingers with his, giving his hand a squeeze. You know he can appreciate this much at least. “Her mother, a sanctif, set everything up. She believed I’d deceived her purposely and was still attempting to use her to some nefarious end. I was shoved back down into the Depths within the day.”

“Dale…” You say, running your free hand down his arm in what you hoped was a comforting gesture, but you’ve no idea what else to say. No wonder he hadn’t believed you knew.

“I thought I was so clear with who I was!” Dale exclaims, looking frustrated and sad. The shadows flicker, and his teeth grow sharp, and his hair seems to have burst from its tie entirely. His fingers stay entangled with your own and his grip is so light. It’s primarily you holding on to him. “And she was so kind, so understanding. We’d known each other for weeks. She saw me—”

He cuts himself off with a frustrated growl. You feel the sound through the close air between you and through his body. You don’t know how to make him feel better. Had he said he’d never even spoken to anyone of this? It all must be so bottled up inside him. You hope talking about, telling you, is releasing some of the pressure. You want to pull him into an embrace so badly, but you don’t think he wants much more contact than this.

He inhales, a shiver that goes through his entire body before he stills. He pulls his inhuman influence back into himself that the room seems more static than before, like a painting of a room instead of a true one—Dale, a statue. He looks down at you with his glowing blue eyes, only two of them, and mostly looks forlorn. “And she was convinced that she did what had to be done, I could see it, once trapped. The righteousness in her. Looking back, I should have realized her concerns over what we were doing, how the demons were used by the other humans—she had been disgusted with the use of them, of me. I simply thought it was the binding, the control over another, she disagreed with. In the end, I think she was a purist, who thought none should cross the planes and all should stay in their own realm.”

It was a popular belief, one that waxed and waned throughout the centuries but never truly went away. You sigh and keep your hand on Dale’s arm, not his cheek. “I’ve heard of that school of thought. I’ve never studied much about the planes or demons, not enough to have a strong opinion. I know there is a lot of danger when realms mix, but I also think that those are the instances everyone hears about because if there are demons here or humans Below that are doing just fine, well, there’s nothing to say or hear about, is there?”

Dale relaxes at your every word, at the way you continue to hold his hand, stay close—not move an inch from his side. “Yes, that’s my stance as well.” He frowns, “Do not misunderstand me, there are plenty of dangerous individuals who are a perilous risk to all around them, regardless of where they are and what they are. Demons have done serious harm on the Surface, but humans have been to the Depths and done damage too.”

That’s not something you’d considered, though you’ve heard tales and speculation of those who ventured there. You know Dale knows this, but he must feel so defensive given the attitudes of so many, including that woman and his grandparents.

“In the end, I can only speak for myself. And I wish to live here.”

You take his other hand in yours and clasp them both. “You do live here now. We’ll work together to make sure it stays that way. I can help so much better now that we are on the same page, I promise.”

“Thank you, sana,” Dale replies warmly, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. “I now know you’ve already been doing more than I ever expected. I admit I didn’t entirely follow all of what you said about what aid you have provided over this past month—besides the holy water. I take it that now it was your intention to be the primary target?”

“Yes, I didn’t know Grandfather had holy water,” you admit with a shrug “but the gesture, the fall… It struck me as suspect so I reacted without thinking.”

“How else have you helped?” he asks, heartfelt gratitude in his voice. “I have done my best, but I’m still learning. Dale’s memories—my own from my other visits—are a great aid, but I can’t always understand why certain things are done or what human limits are. I estimate the correct action as well as I can and hope small slips do not arouse too much suspicion.” He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“I imagine so, I would never be able to maintain any such deceit of my own person.” The very idea of spending the rest of your life pretending to be someone you’re not is exhausting, but somehow helping Dale do the same seems so much more manageable. “I’m happy to aid you.”

“When else have you, if you don’t mind my asking?” Dale insists. “If I’m far more oblivious than I’m beginning to suspect, you need not enumerate all such instances if you’d prefer to go to sleep at some point tonight.”

You smile at his self-deprecating joke, but you’re not one to boast of your own accomplishments and you’ve no desire to make Dale feel worse—your reaction this morning had been quite enough. “I…” You want to fidget but you don’t want to let go of Dale’s hands. “I tried to help where I could as an unfamiliar person to give you time to work through your memories. Then as you said, your control isn’t perfect. Most of what I did was merely misdirecting others from noticing additional eyes, strange shadows, hungry shadow tails with a penchant for cheese.” You give him a significant look at that one and he looks mischievously unrepentant.

“I get hungry!” he defends himself. “I need a lot of fuel to keep myself and this body running smoothly.”

“Clearly,” you reply dryly, although you note it for later. “Other than that, some of Grandfather’s attempts to prove I’d cursed you were aimed at me, but some were aimed at both of us or were in danger of affecting both of us. You managed the High Sanctif fine on your own, but I did ensure we were away from Dr. Louisa and Grandfather after you touched her detecting gloves.”

“Her what?” Dale asks, baffled and curious. An additional eye opens below one of the usual ones, already trained on you.

“She’d just given a demonstration before you and Grandfather joined us. Your hands were stained due to some substance she developed.”

“Oh.” All his eyes blink. “Now that you say so, I did notice a bit of a stain when I retired for the evening, but I thought that was from ink. No wonder I couldn’t recall when it had happened.”

“Quite.” You search your mind, for other instances, feeling strange laying them out after working so hard to conceal them. “I tried to help you gauge your strength with the games before the tournament so you did draw suspicion with the jousting itself. Not telling everyone what else I saw of you during the fight with the assassins wasn’t a challenge—especially since I didn’t see that much as it was. I did try to ensure I helped treat your injuries first, in case you needed the time to regain your control or were injured in some inexplicable manner.”

“I appreciate that, sana,” Dale says with a warm smile and an emphasis on your ‘healer’ nickname, “but I did make sure not to return until I was entirely human, knowing I might be under heightened scrutiny. In some ways it was easier that night since I was tired from having used so much of my demon attributes in the fight and chase. Too tired and I’ll get sloppy—that’s why I only was in public for short periods right after taking control of Dale’s body—but there’s a sweet spot, or so it seems.”

“I’m relieved you’ve managed as well as you have then,” you reply with a crooked smile, “even without exhausting yourself.”

“Still, obviously I have not been doing as well as I’d presumed.” Dale frowns, “My sense of what humans will notice is obviously skewed. I’d appreciate your help in—”

A crackle and pop from the fire as a log shifts and falls in the pile cuts Dale off. He lets out a strange noise, a growl but lower register and more of a continuous, less rough sound. Like a hiss. The shadows writhe around him. He lets go of your hands to put himself between you and the fire, one shadow in particular shoots out like another limb or a tail to wrap loosely around your shoulders, the end of it facing the danger.

Hearting beating wildly from the noise and Dale’s reaction, you try to calm your breathing. “Just the fire,” you say, then fear creeps down your spine. “Right?”

Dale looks at the fireplace for an extra second, before he deflates, pulling back in on himself. “Yes.” He looks at you cautiously, as if wondering if you’ll judge him for overreacting or for showing so much of himself when you were just discussing how he needed to do better at just that. “I apologize. My form is quite instinctive.”

“It’s alright.” You place your hand on Dale’s upper arm, turning him back towards you. “I think we’ve both been on edge these last few days.” You want to get back to where you were, sharing and together. You want him calm once more because he deserves to be after the journey to get here. “What do you mean by instinctive?” you ask, wanting to know more, wanting to figure out the right way to tell him that it was okay. You didn’t mind. His inhuman traits might still surprise you, but they never frighten you. He’s mesmerizing and thrilling and so much more than human. It's actually one of your favorite things about Dale.

He takes a measured breath, clearly wanting to follow you back to normality. Well, normality for you two. “While anchored to this body, my essence is still mine to command as well. It flexes and forms according to my desires and instincts as it did when I was only a shade. I try to keep that within or hidden, however...

You wait with baited breath, so interested in anything to help you understand the most obviously inhuman part of him.

“If I am curious, I create more eyes with which to observe. If I need more reach, I grow more limbs.” His lips quirk, as if remembering what you said earlier, “If I am hungry, more mouths.” You smile in recognition. Dale continues, a frown you recognize as one where he’s trying to translate what this means for him into meaning you can parse, “In many ways, trying to control such manifestations is anathema. Attempting to maintain a neutral facial expression when someone is trying to make you laugh.”

“I see.” It’s a helpful comparison. You remember the games you played in your dorm—including that one. Everything thinking of ridiculous or scandalous things to say in order to make the others break and laugh. It also makes his reaction of putting himself between you and potential danger all the sweeter. “Then perhaps I have not given you credit for the control you do have.”

“I’m sure you’ve given me precisely the credit I deserve,” Dale says wryly, some stress leaving him as he speaks. “It sounds like this is the aspect of my deception you’ve helped most with and I’m grateful for it. I’m grateful to be here, with you.”

“Me too.” You stare up at him, feeling the firm muscle of his arm under your hand, the tightly wound tension still present despite your attempts at reassurance and distraction. You want to truly take his mind away from everything, more than you want that for yourself. You want to relieve the stress you’ve both been under, enjoy what you now have. You want to make Dale not just grateful for not being betrayed, but truly happy—with you.

A clock strikes the hour, obvious as it breaks the silence between you. Dale steps back, picking up his forgotten cup of tea. “It’s getting late, I don’t mean to keep you awake after such an eventful day.”

“I’m not—” you start to protest before cutting yourself off. If Dale wanted a polite path out of tonight’s typical obligations, you should let him. You muster up a small smile, hoping what disappointment and frustration you feel reads as exhaustion. “Yes, I suppose it has certainly been a long day.”

You walk over to the tea table to put down your cup, gathering your leftover supplies. Telling yourself you’re not stalling in the hopes he changes his mind and wants you as a spouse and not simply a confidant, however much you’re enjoying being one to him.

As you move, you’re uncomfortably aware of your chemise. Despite being soft and well made as it is, you feel awkward in your nightclothes. A pretty, but slipshod attempt to make this night something Dale never wanted. He’s still in his waistcoat, for star’s sake.

The garter you’ve on around your thigh is the most uncomfortable and you try to remember if your maid had actually tied it with a purity knot. With a pang, you recall her checking it was still tight when she helped you out of your other clothes after arriving here. Surely, you could figure it out on your own despite its supposed notoriety for being unable to be done by a person who can’t see the knot itself. That’s why it was tradition to do up a betrothed’s garter with it.

But what if you couldn’t? What would be worse? To ask Dale for his help now so you might leave with some dignity after it was undone? Or to leave and have to return for his aid then? No, worst would be to do neither and have your maid be the one to untie it in the morning and know you weren’t enticing enough to tempt your husband into doing so himself.

Regretfully, you turn around, back to where you’d been sitting earlier. “Before I go to bed,” you start, lifting your foot to place it on the ottoman at the foot of his bed.

“What are you doing?” Dale cuts you off, his voice raising in alarm at the end of his sentence when you begin lifting the hem of your chemise.

You give him the driest look you can manage, hoping it hides your embarrassment. “It’s our wedding night, Dale. No one else knows we’re discussing your inhuman nature. They’ll assume we were occupied elsewise. And they’ll ask you about it.”

“Ask—,” Dale sounds personally offended, as if he’s forgotten how certain people will act—because they’re nosey or crude or lack tact. “Not in any sort of—,” he stops and starts again, staying rooted to where he stands instead of making himself useful. “You don’t need to—”

“The garter was tied with a purity knot,” you cut him off before he can continue to prove all your communication issues are not over by not taking a hint and damaging your ego at the same time. You try to remind yourself of all the compliments he’s paid you instead reading into the look of mild panic on his face now when confronted by the mere sight of your bare leg. “I need your help taking it off.”

“You do?” his voice sounds a bit weak, almost reluctant, and you swallow down another wave of disappointment and embarrassment.

“It was tied very tightly and specifically,” you say, grateful your voice, while a little strained, is otherwise close enough to how it typically sounds. “I can’t manage the knot, especially since it’s behind me. You should probably have it regardless.”

Dale blinks and some of his frozen posture thaws. He has that look you’ve seen multiple times, especially in the last few hours—he’s remembered some bit of human knowledge. Hopefully, he chalks this whole experience up to an oddity of humanity and nothing further. “Of course, yes. I don’t know how I forgot about this. One of my cousins tried to convince me to wear one as well this very morning—Grandfather didn’t leave me alone once I told him I would be getting married after all.”

You have to work hard to keep your facial expression from showing how pleasing you find the image of Dale with a matching yellow garter on his leg that you would have gotten to carefully untie, like a present on Midwinter.

He walks over to you, less nervous, but still cautious. You resume pulling your chemise up, hoping he doesn’t think this is some sort of deliberate seduction—caught between hoping you don’t look foolish and wishing he at least found you somewhat pleasing.

Carefully, you hold up the hem to just above the garter, the lace feeling even tighter to your skin. You have to suppress a shiver when you see Dale’s eyes on your bared skin. He reaches for you, a single finger twirling in the dark blue ribbon—which matches his own suit. His eyes dart up to your own for a split second, his pupils already noticeably dark and blown wider. You know they don’t react like humans do, and probably only mean he’s trying to see in better detail, but you feel goosebumps break out across your skin.

He finally grasps the garter itself and gives a little tug to turn it so the knot is towards the front. It’s tight enough that he moves your leg more than the garter. You murmur an apology, one hand on the low footboard of the bed to try to hold yourself steady.

He shakes his head, waving off your apology. “Why on the Surface is this so tight? My apologies for not helping you with it sooner.”

Your own dismissal of his apology is cut short when he wraps the fingers of his right hand around your upper calf, right below your knee and tries again to turn the garter. His grip is strong and unyielding, keeping you in place for him to work and making desire pulse through you at the obvious display of strength. He gives up when the garter’s only made a quarter turn. Since he’s at your side, that must be helpful enough.

You swallow down a bereft noise when he lets go of your calf to use both fingers on the laces. Carefully, he pulls out the ties’ ends from where they were woven back into the garter—another reason they’re hard to undo by oneself. Then he sets to work on the knot itself, his fingers continuously brushing your skin as he tugs and pulls.

He’s so close to you like this, practically looming over you, crowding you against this end of the bed. It would be so easy to fall and bring him with you, on top of you. A knot of a sort twists itself between your legs from his proximity and his touch. You desperately want him to untangle that one too.

He leans closer to see better and it's so unfair. Why has the universe let you get so close to what you want but left you unable to grasp it?

Dale’s noise of triumph causes you to look back down at him as he slides the garter down and, with even more room, off. “There we go,” Dale says, his voice low and soft, with a little bit of smug pride at having finished his task. Before you can lower your leg, he hisses in sympathy. You look down to see lines pressed into your skin, a stark reminder of where the garter had been.

You can feel blood flowing back into that area and it hurts more than it had before Dale had untied the garter. Dale reaches back out for you and rubs his fingers over the marks. “This must have hurt, my apologies once more.”

You shake your head as you fight to keep your eyes from fluttering in appreciation of Dale’s strong fingers massaging that part of your upper thigh back to life. “Thank yo—” you cut yourself off with a gasp when Dale’s fingers drift to the inside of your thigh, which is far more sensitive—not to mention how much closer it begins Dale to where your appreciation is making itself known, gathering at the apex of your thighs and threatening to drip down to where Dale can’t help but notice.

Another stroke of his thumb provokes a hum of pleasure from deep in your chest that you can’t contain. Dale breathes deeply before he finally looks away from your thigh to meet your eyes. You can’t even see any white left in his eyes: his irises are a vibrant blue, glowing with soft light, surrounding dark, wide pupils.

He’s not breathing at all anymore, which you only notice because you have to resist the urge to pant. Then he lets out a sigh, his voice like the wind as he breathes, “You’re so beautiful.”

“You, what?” your voice is high and breathless as he leans closer. “Truly?”

“Yes,” his reply is swift, barely having to think about it. “Of course.” At your continued look of wide eyed surprise, he elaborates, “I was nearly ready to retract my calling off the wedding, no matter my attempt at being better than my nature, when you came to see me simply from how you looked alone. The reminder of what I was giving up.”

His eyes slide up and down your form, before he leans so close your foreheads are nearly touching. His voice is low and almost distracted as he says, “Dressed up so pretty for me.” He moves one hand from your leg to tuck one of your curls behind your ear. “My healing ray of sunshine.”

Heat shoots through your veins at his half-lidded gaze, at his words, at his breath on your lips. “Dale…” Your voice is pleading to a degree that surprises even you. You don’t have time to feel self-conscious about how needy you sound when Dale groans in response, his lips covering yours the next instant.

Soft but insistent, he pushes everything away except for the feel of him pressed against you. The hand still on your thigh, gives a little squeeze, while his other hand cups your cheek, as he’d tried to this morning. He pulls away for a second and your hands wrap themselves in his waistcoat to keep him near. He seemingly needs no persuading as he goes in for another kiss.

His teeth, sharp as they are, tug only gently on your bottom lip, little pinpricks of sensation that send shivers down your spine. You push your hands up his chest and onto his shoulders as you open up to him with a sigh.

His tongue is hotter than the rest of him as it slides into your mouth and you melt in his grasp, wrapping your arms more fully around his neck to keep yourself some semblance of upright. Your pulse thrums with desire as he moves against you and it's all you can do to hold on tight. The flick of his tongue sets your blood simmering. His thorough kiss ignites a hunger in your bones. He pulls back eventually, remembering you both need to breathe, but you don’t care.

You’ve spent so much time at his side, unable to go after what you truly wanted, ask for what you truly want to, that you tighten your hold on him as best you can so he can’t drift away again. Without realizing it, the word “please” falls from your lips to linger in the shared air between you.

Dale’s head tilts back, which is the opposite of what you want, but it seems it’s only to better look you in the eye. “Yes?” He looks startled, despite how you’ve been acting, but eager.

“Yes.” You nod emphatically, past the point about appearing foolish as long as he understands.

“You’d taken this so well,” he says, that same bewildered hope that had sprung up when you said you wanted to marry him back in his eyes. He kisses your skin just below your ear while his hand slides up your side. “I didn’t want to press my luck.”

He captures your mouth in another deep kiss, seemingly unable to help himself

“Uh-uh,” you say once you have a moment to breathe and the wherewithal to speak. You feel drunk on his kisses, the rest of the world and its concerns lost in this heady haze. “This is my reward for getting us here.” Somewhere within, you find the courage to ask, “Haven’t we earned it?”

“More than twice over,” Dale breathes before he sits down on the bed and holds out a hand, “Come here.”

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tgmsunmontue · 1 month ago

Text

Season to Taste - 24/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FORTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTYONE TWENTYTWO TWENTYTHREE

CHAPTER TWENTYFOUR

He loses his temper much easier when he’s tired and he’s tired a lot the first year the restaurant is open. He knows the saying burning the candle at both ends, but he’s found some way to hollow himself out and also burn the candle from the middle as well. Of course he’s a hard worker, expects those around him to put in just as much and expects the best from them, but when Vi calls him a thoughtless and heartless bastard in Italian while the film crew are still rolling he knows he’s gone too far but his brain is so fried he doesn’t even know what it is he’s done wrong. He crashes for sixteen hours and then has to go and make several apologies. Especially to Vi.

… … …

“This is Admiral Kerner.”

“Hello Admiral, this is Bradley Bradshaw.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and Bradley bites his lip. He has no idea if the man he called Uncle Sli growing up will remember him. It’s been over fifteen years since he left, and longer since he’s seen him or spoken to him. But he knows how to sweet talk people and enough people to get Slider’s work number.

“Baby Goose?”

“Yeah. Hi Uncle Sli… you do remember me huh?”

“Holy shit… of course I remember you kid. And as if I could forget your face on my TV every time the misses puts it on when I’m home.”

“Oh. Sorry?”

“No. Don’t be sorry. It’s nice to see you doing so well. Wait. Why are you calling me?”

“Uh, I’m really sorry to ask, but I sort of have a favor to ask. Maybe a couple of favors.”

“Okay. So you’re calling me out of the blue, after not talking to me for years… What do you need?”

�� “Uh. It’s probably available to family, I was just wondering if I could know when and where your ship will be calling into port and for how long."

“Uh. Okay. That’s… all fine. It’s information I can share. Can I ask why?”

“My, uh, my boyfriend I guess? He’s going to be on your ship for seven months.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah. So if I could know when and where I might be able to see him, I’d really appreciate it…”

“I’m helping you organize booty calls!”

“Uh, yeah, sorry if that’s too – ”

“Oh no, this is perfect. Your dad would be so proud. Using all the resources available to you so you can get your dick wet!”

Bradley rolls his eyes and pulls a face, glad he can’t be seen. Because while he’s not wrong it’s not the only reason why Bradley wants to see Jake. He hasn’t heard things like this about his dad in a long time, not since he left Mav’s. He barely remembers his father, but considering his best friend was Maverick, Ice and Slider also considered him friends speaks enough to the joking kind of personality he can imagine him having, coupled with what his mom told him. He remembers warm laughter the most, along with music. Strong arms picking him up.

“Also, it’s kind of romantic. Your dad was always doing sweet stuff for your mom, making the rest of us look bad.” Oh. He’s never heard that before. Never imagined what kind of partner his dad might have been like and he adds it to the little list he keeps tucked away in his head. “Of course, he was also a terrible flirt, ladies flocked to him. Lucky for the rest of us all he did was flirt and he’d send them our way.”

Okay, maybe more than he wants or needs to know about his dad.

“Yeah, anyway Uncle Slider, thank you so much for this. Let me know what I can do to repay you… maybe come and cook you and your wife dinner?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to that, she’d kill me if she found out you’d offered and I turned it down. But I have to ask… does Ice not know about this boyfriend? He could have got you the same info.”

“Yeah, I know, but… No. He doesn’t know. I kind of want to keep it on the down low for now. We’re only just starting out… Very early days.” God, he doesn’t want to say it’s literally only weeks old, can only imagine how crazy other people might think he is.

“No no, wait, go back. You mean I know something before Ice? Not only that you have a boyfriend but that he’s a good Navy boy…”

“Actually he’s one of your aviators,” Bradley says, because there’s no point in not sharing that information. As soon as he sends the care packages and asks Slider to deliver them, he’s going to know exactly who it is. Fuck. He really needs to give Jake a heads up.

“Jesus kid. Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. You really couldn’t escape even when you tried huh?”

Bradley laughs, because yeah, he guesses it might look like that from the outside, but Jake’s career doesn’t actually matter to him, other than the fact that he’s now got the background niggling worry that he’s in a dangerous profession. He finds that there’s no longer any bitterness about not being an aviator himself.

“Well, I didn’t exactly go seeking him out. Just happens to be what he does, and well… you’re right. I’m not above using any contacts I might have to keep an eye on him and keep him in some comforts of home.”

Slider snorts at that.

“I’ll send you all the dates and locations. Plans change of course, but I can keep you updated.”

“Thanks. I’ll send you some cookies or biscotti next time I send a care package. You still partial to pistachios?”

“Oh, this just gets better and better. Yeah kid, send me something to keep me on your good side. I am all open to bribery from you.”

“Oh, there’s one more thing. He calls me Leo. Leonardo. We met in Italy and that’s how I introduced myself, he knows my name is really Bradley Bradshaw, and what happened to my dad, but uh, he’s either completely oblivious about who I am exactly, or he’s really good at pretending he has no idea. So uh… yeah.”

“Right. Got it. So keep it on the down-low that you’re Bradley Bradshaw.”

“No. Not really. Just don’t announce it over the PA system?”

“Got ya.”

… … …

“Lieutenant.”

“Admiral Kerner sir.”

“Relax son, I’m not here for work. Just. Turns out we have a mutual friend.”

“Sir?”

“Bradley Bradshaw.”

“Oh! Leo.”

“Ah. Yes. He did say you called him that. Anyway, I flew with his old man. Was at Top Gun when the training accident happened.”

“Oh. Yeah. He told me about that. I didn’t realize he still knew people in the service.”

“Oh, he knows a few,” Admiral Kerner says dryly and Jake wonders who else might pop out of the woodwork. “He was forced onto a different path, and while it might have worked out for the best there are still some deep hurts there.”

Jake keeps his mouth shut.

“Anyway, he sent me a care package, because I get mail more regularly. However he sent this to you, care of me. So. I’m now apparently his delivery man.”

“I’m sorry sir, I’ll ask him not –”

“It’s fine Lieutenant. He did ring and ask first. Just… he sounded happy. It was good to hear.”

“Yes sir,” Jake says, not really sure how he can take part in this conversation safely, if this is somehow a weird sort of semi-shovel talk given the reference he made to knowing Leo’s dead father. Does he consider Leo a sort-of son?

“Enjoy your care package. I know I’ll enjoy mine.”

“Oh, yes. You too sir,” Jake says, suddenly understanding that Leo must have also sent Admiral Kerner something to his liking, and yeah, if it’s going to keep his CO happy then Jake’s all for it. He takes the package and nods his farewell as he watches Admiral Kerner stride away. He’s going to look up Bradshaw in the database, have a look at whatever Top Gun class Leo’s dad was in, because it might pop up again and he’d rather not be taken by surprise again. He suspects that the whole class might be keeping tabs on Leo, whether he knows about it or not.

“Why was Admiral Kerner talking to you? What did you do?”

“Phoenix. Always a pleasure. Why do you automatically assume I’ve done something?”

“Because you’ve usually done something?”

“Haha. No. He just, uh, introduced himself I guess. He flew with my boyfriend’s old man,” Jake says, rolling the word boyfriend around in his mouth, because that’s all he can think of calling Leo. He’s never had a boyfriend before, and he finds himself smiling at just the sweet gesture of Leo sending him a care package via the fucking Admiral of all people. Stupidly sweet.

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah… You?”

“More trouble than they’re worth.”

“Not my one. He sent me a care package.”

“Through Admiral Kerner?”

“Yeah. You want to see what he sent me?

“Do I want to?” Phoenix asks, pulling a face and Jake laughs, in too much of a good mood to get smart.

“Live dangerously Trace. You might get lucky and I’ll share with you…”

“Again, do I want that?”

“He’s a chef. I know you have a sweet tooth.”

“A chef? Well. Why didn’t you lead with that?”

Then they’re opening the box, and there’s several carboard boxes, written on the top what they’ve got inside. Cranberry and pistachio cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Almond and dark chocolate biscotti. Pistachio biscotti. He shouldn’t be surprised, Leo going overboard a little seems very on brand and he has to stop himself from just smiling so widely at the gesture. God, what did he do to deserve such a sweet man doing things like this or him? His sisters are definitely right to be envious.

“Holy shit these are good…” Phoenix says, and he looks up to find she’s already opened one of the boxes to reveal a resealable plastic bag containing the baked goods. It’s the chocolate chip biscuits and he bites one, crunchy outside, chewy inside, milk chocolate chips and there’s so much sugar he thinks he hears his teeth squeak.

“Yeah, they’re not bad.”

“Not bad? These are like… crack.”

“Hmm. Maybe I just need a glass of milk for the full experience.”

“Does he sell these? Do you think he’d make me some? I’d suck his dick if he sent me cookies like this.”

“Well, lucky for you I’m sharing.”

“Are you sure? If these were mine I’d be hoarding them.”

“They’re a little too sweet for me.”

“Your boyfriend is a chef and you critique his cooking?”

“Everyone has room for improvement Trace.”

“Even you?”

“Well, no. It’s hard to improve on perfection.”

“Perfect asshole maybe…”

“To your perfect bitch…”

“What’s his name, this boyfriend of yours?”

“Leo. Funny story actually. I met him in Italy years ago, like a decade. We… uh, exchanged names, then went our separate ways. Then I was home and there he was at the farmers market my sisters sell their stuff at…”

“Wow. That’s actually kind of sweet and romantic and nothing like how I imagined your love story might go…”

“Aw Trace, you imagined my love story?”

“Yeah, usually it involved conjugal visits.”

Jake laughs.

TWENTYFIVE

#Season to taste #Hangster #Sereshaw #Top Gun Maverick fanfiction #AU

53 notes · View notes

banjjakz · 8 months ago

Text

Seven Days at Granny Orimoto's Flower Shop ; Yuuta x F!Reader

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden. As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service. Please think of me kindly.

Or: An odd boy shows up every night begging for a job offer. Did you mention that he gives you handwritten letters? Do you have to report a workplace romance if the only other employee is your boss, who is currently dying? Asking for a friend.

notes: commission for the lovely mielle! thank you very kindly for 1) commissioning me!!!!!! and 2) putting up with my compulsion to surpass any and all word count specifications

warnings: general off-putting vibes, casual discussions of child death, implied stalking (at the very least), unethical(…? maybe ethically gray?) necromancy, etc. y'all know what's about to go down

♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

Life as a florist is every bit the dream that you’d hoped it would be.

The thought of working from nine to five in some cubicle for the rest of your life was enough to drive you out of university before even completing the feeble attempt you’d half-assedly made at a degree. While the path to your current state of employment had not been linear, easy, or even recommended, you cannot imagine ending up anywhere else.

You’re lucky enough as it is that Granny Orimoto was willing to take you on – perhaps, at first, out of pity – as a shop-hand. That day, all those months, is still as clear as unmarred waters in your mind. What a pitiful image you must have made: underfed, poorly clothed, with roving, vacant eyes.

Nevertheless, you adjusted quickly and gratefully to your new place of employment. Within months, your sense of self and purpose in life had been restored, watered and nurtured underneath the guiding light of Granny Orimoto’s flower shop. Like a corpse risen again, your days were once more filled with hope and aspirations.

Eventually, Granny Orimoto began bestowing upon you more and more responsibilities. You tend to think of your daily tasks as privileges more than anything else. You’ve graduated far beyond merely ringing customers up on the till – at this point, you’re somewhat of a budding horticulturalist. Or, at least, that’s what you’d like to think on your good days.

Recently, Granny Orimoto has even begun to entrust you to manage the shop on your lonesome for several days out of the week. It used to be the case that she would require you to work only hours that coincided with her own availability, so that you might fall under her constant supervision. Of course, this was back when you could barely keep a plant alive. Nowadays, things are quite different.

Quite different, indeed.

On this slow, Monday evening, managerial status finds its way to you once more. Closing the shop used to feel weird, without Granny Orimoto there to lay into you about your posture, or your clumsiness, or your naturally shy, stuttering nature. Now, it’s starting to feel eerily more and more like business as usual.

When the bell above the front door rings, you don’t think too much of it – this town is a bit of a tourist trap, so there are quite a few out-of-towners who aren’t used to respecting closing times. Usually, you’re too nice to shoo them out, but the weight of the day bears heavily upon your apron-clad shoulders.

But when you spin around on your heel, the polite-yet-firm “we closed four minutes ago” withers on your tongue like dead leaves crumbling away upon the unrepentant, earthen ground.

The most disturbing thing is not that he’s exactly your type of handsome: tall, gaunt, malnourished, with a strange, lost look in his wideset eyes. It would be easier, somehow, if your immediate and arresting attraction to the gangly stranger was the most of your worries.

Perhaps what unnerves you so, is the fact that you are powerless to do anything but devote the entirety of your attention to the odd young man. The terra cotta pot once in your grasp has suddenly been placed on the nearest shelf. The gardener’s gloves on your hands have now been stripped away and flung carelessly to the ground, the delicate flesh of your fingers on display for the world to see.

“Are you hiring?” He asks. The lights flicker. Granny Orimoto should really stop fighting you about calling an electrician – they aren’t that expensive.

No, is what you should say, because you don’t have the authority to answer this question and also the thought of having to train someone else when you are just barely getting the hang of your newfound managerial status is a terrifying prospect.

And yet, what ends up leaving your mouth is:

“Yes.”

His black hair is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The bangs are in a liminal state: too short to part, too long for comfort. It dangles limply in his eyes. Those eyes. Big and glassy and dark, like a dead doe gazing up, unseeingly, at the sky.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there an application that I could fill out?”

Is he not cold? The weather chills significantly at night, and his layers look rather thin. Or maybe that’s just the way the clothes hang off of him. “No, it’s alright. You can just – um, you’re good.”

“I’m…?”

“You’re good,” you repeat and then you have to fight for control over your own body, so that you can turn around and break eye contact before it actually kills you. “When can you start? Do you have a phone number? Um, so we can get in touch with you about scheduling and training and verify your location and such and so forth.”

Okay, that last sentence was hastily tacked on. You’ll be the first to admit that much. But what kind of girl would you look like, asking a random stranger for his number out of the blue?

You hear more than you see him shuffle his feet, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t have a phone.”

“E-mail?”

“Ah..no…would communication via letter be alright?”

What is his problem?

He shows up, four minutes past closing, poorly dressed and clearly in poor health, as well, to inquire about a job opening, and doesn’t even have a phone or any form of contact to provide other than handwritten correspondence?

Is this a prank? Are you being pranked, right now? You pause your fastidious, frustrated handling of today’s arranged bouquets just to surreptitiously scan your surroundings for any hidden cameras.

It’s like the man of your dreams has walked through the door. It’s almost too good to be true. You know you have eclectic tastes—and this is exactly why you’ve never had a boyfriend, before.

Because what living man could possibly compare to the fictional freakshows you stay up late at night reading about? Who would be worth fawning over, when you are already well equipped with a wealth of off-putting – and, quite frankly, disturbing – characters of ill-repute? Never has there been a living, breathing vessel capable of catching your jaded, heavy eyes.

Until now, that is.

“Sure,” you say, allowing the brain-rot to take control of your faculties. “Give me one second to write down our mailing information.”

But before you can cling desperately to another excuse to evade his magnetic presence, the strange boy speaks up, alluring you with the unsettlingly tranquil timbre of his voice: “That won’t be necessary. I can hand deliver the letters every day, around this time.”

You blink, sizing him up once more. Any normal human being would find this situation incredibly odd and even worth of a police report.

However, you’re comfortable in your own skin and are able to recognize that the screws you’ve knocked loose over time have, for better or worse, permanently altered your threshold for “red” or “green” flag recognition. For all you care, the flag could be purple. You aren’t thinking about flags right now. You’re thinking about his murky bangs, dark and deep, a rich obsidian, metastasizing over the smooth expanse of his alabaster forehead like a natural disaster.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at this time every night, then.”

For the first time this evening, his gaunt face split into a tender grin, pink lips parting like spliced flesh. Somehow, he’s able to make the act of smiling something gory, something haunting. Your eyes are glued to the bone-white of his teeth. It’s like watching a car crash. You want, desperately, to look away. You cannot.

“I’m glad,” says the strange boy. “I’ll be here every night, right on time.”

A soft breeze stirs outside, just restless enough to tickle teasingly at the windchimes which dangle from the shop’s awning. Usually, the barrier of the front door dulls the melody. Tonight, you can hear the bells loud and clear.

Before you can think to demand (beg) that he reveal additional identifying information about himself – like, say, his name – the boy has all but disappeared from sight. Incredulously, you whirl around on your heel, scanning every visible inch of the shop for any possible clue as to where he went. But your searching is all for naught. It seems that he is, both in presence and absence, a complete mystery to you.

Well. There are certainly worse things that have happened to you. At least you got to chat with a cute, creepy guy for your trouble.

;

The next day, Granny Orimoto abstains from work yet again. Her modest apartment sitting atop the flower shop has kept her out of sight for many days, now. You’re no stranger to her fits and bursts of ill health, but you cannot recall the last time the brusque, full-hearted old lady has been bedridden for such a prolonged length of time.

You almost consider trying to drop by unannounced to bring her some soup and vitamins, but the thought dies immediately upon arrival. Memories of the last time you’d tried to caretake for her and were subsequently thrown out with indignant, irate gusto are enough to curb your momentary sympathy.

This means that you are effectively head of shop, once more. Over time, it gets easier to deal with the random accidents prone to any small, self-run business: leaks, clogs, jams, flickering lights, disappearing items, strange sounds at odd hours with an unlocatable source. All of it, you handle with def improvisational methods.

Even the spontaneously shattering bathroom mirror is no match for your handywoman capabilities! Really, Granny Orimoto should be lucky that it is you who happened to show up on her doorstep just as her health began to take a dive.

These are the kinds of thoughts buzzing around your skull as twilight descends upon the horizon like flies to a carcass. The death of the day is, as usual, a bloody affair: hues of bright vermillion spill across the sky, setting everything in the shop a brilliant, flagrant shade of fresh-burning red. The terracotta pots seem almost to be radiating with internal heat.

Night comes soon enough, bringing with it a brisk chill in the air. The wind rustles the windchimes, a forewarning of what is to come.

And sure enough, at 8:04 P.M., there he is, lingering in the doorway, daring to take not one step past the threshold, just as he’d done yesterday, that first night.

“Good evening.”

Clutched in his fingers is a wrinkled letter, wrapped in plain stationery. He offers it to you with both hands, politely.

The space between the both of you evaporates in the fraction of a second it takes for you to cross the shop and greet him back, accepting the letter with greedy hands and a greedier heart. “Good evening. Thank you for the correspondence.”

“Thank you for receiving it,” he replies, scratching the back of his head in a stupidly endearing self-conscious gesture. “I know the manner of communication is a bit unconventional… sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.” And it really is. You, of all people, are no stranger to unforeseen and harrowing life circumstances. That the young man does not possess a phone or email address is not so uncommon, anyways – you’ve had time to reflect on the situation, and for all his off-putting looks and strangely formal manner of speaking, he could easily be a country mouse who has recently relocated to a more urban area. Who are you to judge?

“Shall I have a response waiting for you tomorrow night?”

He bows, then, for a bit longer and a bit deeper than what is normally appropriate for two virtual strangers. “I’d be grateful. Thank you for the trouble.”

Once more, he evaporates seemingly into thin air, leaving behind not even the faintest trace of his existence. He appears to possess an uncanny ability to slip out of sight just as your eyes fall shut in the millisecond it takes to blink, to breathe.

Taken in stride with his dark-circled eyes and general aura of mysterious tragedy, the whole schtick is a little bit sexy, you have to admit. His vibe is that of a haunted family heirloom: beautiful, priceless, stained in generations of blood and cursed to doom those who dare to draw too near.

Your eagerness is almost feral as you tear apart the seal to the envelope in your hands, greedily pawing at the innards. What awaits you is a handwritten letter, complete with smudged pencil marks obscuring some of the more intricate kanji scribbled onto the page. Some of his radicals waver, lines bending or sprawling in odd and abnormal ways, as though he’d been shaking when we wrote it.

As though he’d been nervous. So nervous, in fact, that upon handing you the thing, he had to immediately abscond from the premises without another word.

Cute.

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you very kindly for your willingness to take me on as an apprentice to your shop. Please allow me to introduce myself.

As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service.

Please think of me kindly.

Upon reading the very last word of the very last line, you discover that your bottom lip has been bitten so severely that a fine trickle of blood is descending down your chin.

There is no resume or CV in sight – just this handwritten, strangle little letter in which he divulges some most interesting truths.

Is he playing mind games with you? “Accustomed to taking orders”? “Eager to be of service”? Is he trying to tell you something? Outside of the hiring process, that is.

The note itself is perfectly polite and proper. It’s you whose mind succumbs hedonistically to the gutter. Oh, for shame.

At night, the shop tends to turn into a gnarly jungle of pots and leaves and vines and poorly-placed smatterings of soil; you wade through theses trenches, aided by no more than the moonlight attempting to feebly infiltrate through the shutters – as the lights are out, again. Should probably call someone about that.

In your frantic haste, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t sliced by a spare pair of shears lying forgotten on some counter or another. Before injury occurs, you’ve already located what you’ve been searching for: a usable pen and some clean, uncrumpled paper.

The matchbox in your back pocket proves useful as you strike up a flame and light a nearby candle, paying no mind to the potential danger of the wobbly column of fire in a room full of fauna.

Like a woman possessed, you feverishly scribble away at your reply. It takes you longer to draft this one particular letter than it had to complete your college entrance exams.

But it’s alright – the candle beside you burns throughout the night, neither the wick nor the wax diminishing even a wink.

Dear Okkotsu,

Your eagerness to work hard is clearly evident. Color me impressed.

As fate would have it, I am in dire need of some help with running the shop. The owner has been absent with illness for quite some time and the workload is starting to get unmanageable. The addition of a strong set of arms is more than welcome. Even when it was the two of us putzing around, we still wouldn’t have been able to do some of the heavier lifting.

I’m curious to hear more about your passion to serve. Was this instilled in you during your time at vocational school? What does “being of service” mean to you?

While we are ultimately a public-facing shop, the stream of customers is slow, and your daily tasks will often look like physical labor and horticultural activities. But, from your letter, it sounds like this will pose no object.

Overall, your enthusiasm is appreciated and your hard-working attitude is attractive to future employers.

You could start as early as tomorrow.

Please do respond at your convenience.

It was rather quickly with only a slight bit of panic running through your veins that you tacked on “to future employers.” Even while reading it back, you cringe a little bit. Too forward? Oh well. It’s written in ink and it’s much too late to go for hunting for another clean piece of paper in the shop’s opaque blackness.

Speaking of which… you really should call an electrician. And a plumber. And some sort of handy man, to help you clean up all the broken glass from the shattered bathroom mirror. And maybe it may also me a good idea to get in touch with a security footage company and inquire about their installation rates. It certainly can’t be normal; how many things go missing so frequently. Although you’ve spent most of your waking hours with an aging elderly woman up until very recently, you’re quite sure that dementia isn’t contagious.

Ah, well. These are all things to take care of tomorrow. Sighing, you tuck away the letter into your back pocket for safe keeping before you go about locking up.

You try not to think too hard about the lingering gaze you feel on the back of your neck. If anything, it feels better than being completely alone.

;

The fragrant scent of okayu fills your nose as you climb the stairs to reach Granny Orimoto’s apartment.

Usually, you would not dare to trespass inside her abode, despite it’s close proximity to the shop. She is a grouchy old lady who does not take kindly to meddling. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seed of worry in the pit of your belly, which had blossomed over the course of the past few weeks into full-blown concern for her wellbeing. Besides her once-daily text message in the evening confirming the status of shop operations, you have not seen or heard from the old woman in what must be almost half a month at this point.

So, you’ve bitten back your pride and prepared a meal to personally deliver to her.

You are moderately concerned when there is no response to your three separate attempts at knocking on the door. Granny Orimoto hadn’t responded to any of your text messages, so you’d naively assumed she’d been asleep and hadn’t seen them. But is it possible to sleep through the ruckus that you’re creating?

The tension in your body only heightens when you try to the doorknob and realize, in shock and slight horror, that it’s open.

“Granny Orimoto?” You call out, haltingly yet loudly – loud enough to reach her wizened ears. “Granny, I’m sorry, I’ll be coming in now! Pardon the intrusion!”

Taking care not to jostle the still-hot bowl of rice porridge in your hands, you slip off your shoes at the Genkan and make your way inside of the apartment. Although you’ve only been here once before – and it had been an extremely brief stay before Granny Orimoto had shooed you off the premises – it still doesn’t feel all that unfamiliar to you.

It’s a traditional set-up, that much is for sure. Not much has changed, either. Same old floral blankets folded in various assortments and piles around the tiny room, same old plastic draining rack laid across the kitchen sink.

And, of course, there is that strange pair of guest slippers by the front door.

A bright, childish pink with the width and depth to accompany the foot of a young girl no older than six, these slippers had given you pause the first time you’d set foot in Granny Orimoto’s apartment. As far as you know, the old lady doesn’t have any living relatives with which she maintains contact. She spends every holiday alone, in her room, and refuses any offers of companionship between the two of you. You’ve always assumed something tragic must have happened, for a woman this advanced in age to have no one to visit or host during the New Year.

So why, then, does she keep a pair of children’s house slippers by the front door?

Although they are neatly placed and carefully aligned, the heels of the slippers face the direction of the household – as though they’ve been recently taken off and exchanged for outside shoes. Like someone has been here and left. Were they in that position when you stopped by before? Perhaps Granny Orimoto set them that way during her last cleaning.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you move past the entrance area and towards where you know the bedroom awaits. There is no overt stench of death and decay, so you aren’t afraid of walking in on her corpse. You’re, like, 85% sure that you could mentally recover from handling that situation, but it would be unfortunate and would likely mean an endless night for you and the poor EMTs who would be dispatched to the scene.

The bedroom door, too, is slightly ajar, and when you push it open all the way, you’re greeted by a sight that hits you squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs, stealing your voice, marring your eyes with shock and sympathy.

Granny Orimoto lies on her back, skin so pale that it is a near perfect match to the futon covers draped around her frail body. Even from this distance, you are able to clearly track the pathway of her veins as they course across her, the deep blues and greens standing out abnormally against the thin, alabaster flesh. Her hair, significantly grayer than the last time you’d seen her, has escaped from it’s usual, customary low-slung bun. You’ve never seen Granny Orimoto in any other kind of style – in fact, you’d begun to think – somewhat mischievously – that her hair had been surgically arranged to the nape of her neck.

But now, it sprawls around her skull in scraggly spirals, spilling across the pillow like leaking liquid. Thin and brittle, you’re sure that if she tried to gather it into a bun as she once had, it would split and break into a million fine pieces of ash.

“So, you’ve come.”

That hoarse voice snaps you out of your trance. You hadn’t even noticed that she was awake. One moment, you’d been gazing at her motionless body – and the next, you find her entirely unchanged except for the fact that her eyes are now open, peering at you. Unblinking. It’s disconcerting.

It looks like the effort pains her, to lift one hand and pat weakly at the comforter. “You came all the way here, silly girl. Might as well sit.”

You aren’t being kicked out?

Wow. She really must be dying.

Gingerly, you fold your legs beneath you and linger at the edge of the futon. “Granny, how are you feeling? I brought okayu. If you are feeling up to it, please eat. You must take care of your health.”

“Alright then,” says Granny Orimoto, mildly. “You’ll have to help me.”

“Of course.”

There is ultimately an insignificant amount of spillage down the front of her shirt, in the end. Still, you take it as an opportunity to encourage her to take a bath and change into fresh clothes, which you expect she has not done in far too long. This, too, requires your assistance. You don’t mind it at all. In fact, it brings you peace – to be able to care for the woman who had most probably saved your life by taking you in, all that time ago.

When it’s all said and done, Granny Orimoto lays back in the bed. The sheets could use some washing and the futon itself should surely be hung out in the sun to dry, but you recognize that this might be a bit too much excitement for her today. Having eaten and bathed, Granny Orimoto appears ready to return to her slumber.

You decide not to push your luck by overstaying your welcome. “Please rest well, Granny Orimoto. I will come back soon.”

It is when you are almost past the threshold of the bedroom door that you hear Granny’s whisper, faint as smoke and so soft it almost doesn’t sound like the stubborn, strong-willed woman you once knew:

“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

As though you’ve been struck by lightning, your body is immediately paralyzed, muscles helpless to do anything but twitch in confusion, overstimulation. “Oh…? I hope she is well…”

“She’s dead,” says Granny Orimoto. “The stench of death follows you.”

Ironic, coming from a woman who is quite obviously preparing to approach the far shore herself. “I see.”

“Whatever is hanging around you, get it taken care of. You’ll stink up the shop and the plants will wither.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Are you taking care of my zinnias?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Better be. How can you own a flower shop if you can’t take care of zinnias…”

You want to whip around and ask her what the hell she means by that, but the rumbling of her soft snores fill the space before you can get another word in edgewise.

As you make your way downstairs, Granny’s words continue to marinate in your mind – and not just her implication that the shop would be left to you. That she thought it fit to tell you that you remind her of her dead granddaughter was certainly an event that occurred in your life. But what exactly had she been on about, telling you that you smell like death?

In absentminded thought, your hand fiddles around in your jacket pocket with the latest letter from Okkotsu. You can’t stop thinking about his response to your last letter.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Are you taking care? The seasons are changing during this time, so I hope your health is faring well.

I’m glad that my enthusiasm comes across as clearly as my physical capabilities. Sometimes I struggle to convey my intentions and inner thoughts. It seems like we can understand each other well, even while communicating through letters, which makes me happy.

To me, being of service means unobstructed and clear-minded dedication of the self, body and mind, to another’s fulfillment. Not dissimilar to pure love. This “pure” element is important to me. In fact, I believe total service is a form of pure love. Would you agree?

Maybe this is a bit strange to say, and you might hate me for it, but you remind me of a girl I once knew. She is long gone now. It has been nice to see some of her, again. Of course, it has been even nicer to get to know you.

Regretfully, I cannot begin formal employment just yet. The country re-entry procedures are taking longer than expected and things are a bit complicated right now. It is burdensome, but if you could please kindly allow for some additional time I would be very grateful. I’m sorry to trouble you.

In the meantime, it’s fun to chat together, like this. I’d be happy if we could continue.

Take care not to catch a cold.

The first time you’d read it practically had you squealing into your hands like a schoolgirl. Pure love? Expressing concern for your health? Expressing his desire to continue exchanging letters, even if he can’t formally start the training process?

At this rate, you’re on track towards a confession.

Which, of course, is the ultimate goal. You could never forgive yourself for letting the physical manifestation of all your wildest fantasies slip away. No, you’ve got to reel him in. You’ve got to ensnare him in a web of infatuation, so convoluted and intense that he won’t be able to find his way out. You’ve already decided that he is yours. It’s only a matter of time before things fall into place.

As has become customary, Okkotsu drops by the shop at precisely 8:04 p.m. and not one moment sooner or later. You’ve grown to anticipate the tinkling of the windchimes which herald his otherwise soundless arrival. Like an apparition, his visage manifests in the front door.

There’s something different about tonight: uncertain, he chances a foot past the threshold. “Could I trouble you to come inside?”

Oh. Oh! Are you finally past the stage of contactless letter exchange? You could cry tears of joy. “Please come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion…”

When he breaks past the entry area, it’s as though a wave of heat pulses throughout not just your own body, but the entire shop, as well. A light sweat breaks out at the crest of your brow. Is this seasonally appropriate? You aren’t sure if there is any season wherein a heatwave past sundown is normal.

Okkotsu looks at you like a lost puppy, floundering at what to do, what to say next. You yourself are no less awkward, but you take on the burden of breaking the silence first:

“It’s funny, you mentioned in your letter that I remind you of a girl you once knew. Today, my boss said that I remind her of her dead granddaughter. Wouldn’t happen to be the same girl, huh?”

You’re trying for lighthearted, but the joke falls flat when Okkotsu pales, white as a ghost.

Damage control, damage control! “Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, raising a hand. “I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. You aren’t too far off from the truth.”

Huh?

Okkotsu continues, “When I was a little boy, Mrs. Orimoto’s granddaughter and I were best friends. Her name was Rika. When she was six, Rika died in a car accident. I was with her at the time and failed to do anything to stop it from happening, or to save her. I’ve always been very sorry to Mrs. Orimoto, who raised Rika from a young age. By working at her shop, I hoped to repay some of that debt…”

You blink once, twice. Time seems to fall apart and reconstruct itself in the space it takes you to conjure up a response. What can you possibly say, to a story like that?

“You don’t, er, have to say anything,” mutters Okkotsu, as though he’s read your mind. “I know it’s heavy. But that’s the truth…”

“Okkotsu,” you say, voice tinny and faraway to your own ears. “You have a good heart.”

His downcast face shoots upwards, wide eyes seeking out your own with a desperate sheen to their dark, bottomless depths. “Huh…?”

“I mean it,” you press on, stepping closer as you do. He doesn’t even flinch or waver. You know this, because your senses are acutely aware of every fiber of his being. “Not many people would be that brave, or honor that sense of duty. You’re an admirable man. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

It seems you’ll be staying well past closing tonight to mop up the puddle that Okkotsu is about to melt into. His ears burn such a bright red that they almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop.

“I- I--!”

“So that’s the depth of your service,” you muse, your toes stopping just shy of his own, “or your ‘pure love’?”

Okkotsu’s eyes flutter shut. The sound of his gulp echoes like a gunshot. “Ah… er, miss manager, I—”

“Call me by my name. I’ve written it to you for a reason.”

Obeying your direct command, he feebly whispers your name, invoking you like he’s scared of what he’s about to summon. It sets a live wire alight at the base of your spine. Sparks fly throughout your body and it’s all you can do not to pounce on him then and there in this very shop, sleeping Granny upstairs be damned.

“Good. It seems you really are skilled at taking direction.”

His eyes are still closed when you nods, face flushed. Cute. You can’t help but want to tease him more, push him further. “Good job.”

His head all but hangs, now, as he resolutely refuses to make eye contact with you. In front of him, his hands are clasped suspiciously in front of his crotch – a detail which you take in ravenously, hungrily.

Curbing the overwhelming desire to do more, you settle with pushing your sealed envelope into his firm, solid chest with both hands, letting your fingernails press lightly into the muscle. “Here’s today’s letter. Read it and respond well.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says, eyes still shut, head still hung.

It requires you to stand on your tiptoes, when you try to lean into his ear and whisper: “You deserve a chance to make things right. Let me help you with this.”

You let him go, then, because you’re sure he’s about ready to burst at the seams. The last thing you throw his way is yet another bit of praise, because you’re a little bit awful: “I admire your idea of pure love, Okkotsu.”

Before tonight, you’ve never seen a grown man walk straight into a windowpane. Okkotsu reels back, nods and bows to you in acknowledgement before hightailing it out of the shop so fast that, as usual, you fail to actually see him go through the motions of stepping out and leaving. He’s always in such a rush. An odd one, he is.

Good thing “odd” just your type.

From that night onwards, Okkotsu starts making himself more available outside of his usual 8:04 p.m. haunting. Now, he’ll drop by early enough in the afternoons for his shadow to be visible against the door. Still, he resolutely avoids any times when current customers are present. You tease him, lightly, for this, asking how he plans to work partially as a sales attendant if he is afraid to interact with the customer base.

His response?

“I want to work here for two reasons,” he’d stated simply. “For you, and for Rika.”

Normal women would probably find an issue with their ideal man likening them to his dead childhood sweetheart. Fortunately, you are not normal. It’s flattering, even.

Clearly, Rika was another manifestation of his pure love. That you can even approach that category, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as her, is, to you, a vibrant green flag. You must be doing something right here.

So you continue intertwining yourself deeper and deeper with Okkotsu Yuuta: the letters are a constant in both of your daily lives, as well as his visits become more frequent. As an interesting development, he’s started to bring you homecooked food. Usually, it is you who does the caregiving. The first time he shows up with an obento made specially for you – complete with a heart made out of specially cut seaweed set atop the fresh rice – you almost start crying.

Admittedly, it’s all moving very fast. Hasn’t it only been four days, now, since he’d first darkened your doorway, pitifully asking for a job with no form of communication? And now, here he is, feeding you the food he’d prepared for you to enjoy as you go about your closing shift.

“Would you ever want to go out?” You blurt, and then pause, mortified at the overtly forward implication to your words. “Like! To a restaurant! Or a café! You always bring me stuff. Let me treat you.”

“Hmmm…”

Okkotsu’s wide, dark eyes roll upwards in thought. “But I really like staying here. I like eating here. No one else gets to see your pleased, comfortable face while eating except me. I don’t think I can share that. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, dizzy. “You don’t have to.”

This is the right answer. Despite his soft, youthful features, the ginger grin he offers you is undercut by the ominous glint in his intense gaze. “I don’t have to share?” He gathers some pickled plum in the chopsticks, bringing them to your open, waiting mouth. “It’s all for me?”

“I am,” you say, and accept the bitter, delicious fruit on the tip of your tongue. It is pungent. It is sweet. It is overwhelming. You almost aren’t able to swallow.

Time spent with Okkotsu makes life seem so fantastical that it almost blinds you to the world of the living. That night, you cannot find it within yourself to leave the shop and go home after closing, instead opting to chat with this gaunt, ghoulish boy until you are startled awake in the morning by your phone’s automatic alarm.

When you come to, you discover that you’d all but passed out behind the front desk, where the two of you had sat, talking, for hours into the night. Okkotsu is nowhere to be found, but in his absence is a crisply folded piece of paper lying innocently upon the desk. Hastily, you scrub at your eyes and smack your lips, trying to wake yourself up as much as is possible before you unfurl the letter and dive into its contents.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be apart from you?

If I could have, I would have stayed with you all throughout the night. I’m sorry to have left you by yourself. But you aren’t really alone. If you ever feel lonely, in the shop, please remember that I’m always there with you. Watching over you. Can you feel me?

Thanks for listening to me last night. It was a heavy story to tell, but now that I’ve confessed it, I feel so much lighter. And you accept me! Words can’t express how I feel, so please allow me to keep showing you.

Also, since Mrs. Orimoto isn’t well these days, can I ask that you don’t share with her that I’m here? The shock may worsen her condition. When she is no longer bedridden, I will tell her myself that I wish to remain and work in the shop. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of my situation.

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you so much already, and I haven’t even left the shop yet. I’m writing this as I watch you sleep. Did you know that you snore a little bit? It’s cute.

Please think of me often.

On the one hand, you want to bury your face in your hands and scream and cry and maybe roll around and die a little bit. A love note! It’s a proper love note, this time. The thought makes your insides feel as though they’re being set alight with a bright, brilliant, inextinguishable flame.

On the other hand, Okkotsu’s mention of Granny Orimoto has brought to mind the fact that you haven’t heard from her in what is now two days. Usually, she’ll send you a message or two at the end of every day, making sure that things are in order and that you haven’t burned down the shop yet. But the last time you’d spoken to her had been when you brought over the okayu to soothe her sickly stomach…

Inexplicably, a chill overtakes your body.

Operating on autopilot, you pull yourself together – running a hand through your hair, smoothing your wrinkled clothes – and make your way out of the shop, to the external set of stairs running along the west wall.

With haste, you climb the steps, nearly tripping over yourself to reach the front door which has been left, once again, unlocked. The sense of wrongness occupying your faculties only heightens when you realize this must mean that Granny Orimoto has not been up out of bed since you’d last visited.

When you stop to toe off your shoes at the genkan, you notice that the bright pink pair of children’s house slippers are nowhere to be found, absent from their perpetual perch by the front door, as though someone – or something – has stepped inside.

Mind whirling a mile a minute, you push into the apartment and immediately reel back at the offensive scent of pure, unadulterated rot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It could be the spoiled ingredients in the fridge, you think, desperately, as you hustle towards the bedroom. It could be anything. Anything but what it is you’re most afraid of.

Dazed, confused, scared, and still freshly woken up, your clumsy limbs somehow manage to collide with one of the low-sitting tables filling the living space. The abundance of knick-knacks and keepsakes cluttering the surface clatter in indignation, making an obscene ruckus as they fall over and to the floor. Upon closer inspection, you realize, to your horror, that it is an altar which you’d disturbed.

The only things left unshaken by your blundering blight are two framed photos: one of which displays the portrait of a young girl, no older than six, with long, dark hair and a serene smile. She seems to peer at you through the barriers of the picture frame, through the barrier of time. Her gaze hooks into your soul and invites you to step closer, to look harder. The longer you stare, the higher the gooseflesh on your skin raises in alarm. It’s an uphill battle to slide your gaze over to the picture beside her, which displays the likeness of a young boy close to her in age – presumably unrelated to her, given their distinct features, and yet, he is placed next to her on what is surely a memorial altar meant to honor and house the deceased.

While the personal effects and other supplicating items have all been disrupted and thrown off by your collision, the incense in front of the two picture frames still burns brightly, steadfastly. Oddly, it does nothing to quell the horrid stench of decay in the apartment. If anything, the altar seems to be exasperating the smell, which brings involuntary tears to your eyes and a pucker to your lips.

It's less so that the stench itself is what drives you to such a reaction; rather, the sensation invading your olfactory senses fills you with an abominable concoction of violent emotions: rage, pity, sorrow, envy, despair. You are drawn follow the source of these feelings, and your feet lead you to the bedroom, hands trembling underneath the sheer weight of all that you are experiencing as they push the slightly ajar door all the way open.

A gasp escapes you, unbidden. There, in that same, white futon adorned with layers and layers of her signature floral blankets, lies the corpse of Granny Orimoto. You can tell she’s dead because her skin has started to sag and bloat in strange and inhuman ways. This is the least surprising thing before your eyes.

Next to Granny sits a little girl – the spitting image of the girl in the portrait you’d glimpsed mere moments ago. Her gaze had once been trained steadfastly on Granny’s body, but now she looks up at you, unblinking, all-seeing.

“Hello,” says the girl, with a little girl’s voice.

“Hi,” you respond. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “This is my granny.”

You remind me of my granddaughter.

She’s dead.

Granny Orimoto’s parting words to you echo in your head, rattling your brain, fizzling your consciousness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rika. Granny Orimoto told me about you.”

Slowly, cautiously, as though you are approaching a spooked animal (ironic, given the fact that it is you who is shaking like a leaf), you crouch down and kneel on the floor, sitting on your haunches in a polite manner, mirroring the girl before you. Granny Orimoto’s body is the only thing separating you as you both sit, face to face, hands clasped in your laps, peering curiously at one another.

“I know,” says Rika. “Yuuta told you about me, too.”

Of course she would know about the conversations you and Yuuta have. This also might as well happen. At this point, after all you’ve just witnessed – first, the fresh corpse of your former employer, and now, the physical manifestation of a girl who died over ten years ago – there is very little left that could happen which would truly shock you out of your wits.

“Yes, he did. Have you been hanging out in the shop? Have you been lonely?”

The girl sticks out her bottom lip. “Yeah. You guys didn’t pay attention to me. Even when I was really loud, or turned the lights off, or broke the mirror. Sorry for breaking the mirror. I was mad.”

“It’s okay to be mad, but we mustn’t break things, or hurt others. I’m sorry for not noticing you sooner. Do you like plants and gardening? Like your granny?”

Rika nods. “Mhm, yeah. But Granny never lets me into the shop. Granny says all I do is mess things up. Granny says I’m no good. Granny says people died because of me. Did you know my dad is dead, too?”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” says Rika. “I wanted him to die.”

You blink. “Did you want Granny Orimoto to die, too?”

She takes a moment to contemplate before answering. “Granny had to die if I was going to play with Yuuta again.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, desperate to understand. When she begins to explain, you lean forward, forgetful of the fact that it is an old woman’s corpse which lies beneath you.

“Granny has already lived for so long. I wanted to come back. I died before my seventh birthday. Yuuta and I were supposed to spend it together. Yuuta never forgot about me. Yuuta talks to me every day. Yuuta went to Africa. Have you ever been to Africa? I went with Yuuta because he made a shrine for me there. Now Yuuta is back in Japan. Yuuta promised that we would play together again. Yuuta said he needed some time to prepare things. Yuuta is good at things like that – Yuuta can fight and do magic. Yuuta does jujutsu. Do you know jujutsu?”

“I know it,” you tell her.

“Yeah, Yuuta has powers. Yuuta knows a lot about dying and things like that. So, anyways, Yuuta said he would use his powers to help me come back so we can play together again. Yuuta said that me and granny have to switch places. I said ‘OK, Yuuta!’ and then Yuuta said he needed seven days. What day is it today?”

Somehow, you know the answer, even without looking at your phone’s calendar. “Monday.”

“Oh, so it’s been seven days. Yay! We can play together again. Do you want to play with us, too?”

“I would like to play together, yes.”

Abruptly, Rika unfurls from her graceful little seated position and makes her way over to you, crawling over Granny Orimoto’s corpse. You try not to think too hard about the graphic squelching that occurs underneath the childish palms of Rika’s tiny hands.

“Yay! Let’s go downstairs. Maybe Yuuta will be there.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that Yuuta only swings by when the sun is out of sight. Her arms raise, clearly indicating that she’d like to be carried, and you are content to oblige her, as you scoop her up in your arms and make good on her direction. You exit Granny Orimoto’s apartment with Rika in your arms, her little feet dangling from your hip. The bright pink pair of slippers almost fall off as you make your way down the stairs, and you take care to remind her to make sure not to lose them.

When you get back to the shop, you must admit that you were mistaken in thinking Yuuta would not be there. As though he’d been anticipating this – which, you realize, he absolutely was, as this marks seven days from the first time he’d set foot in the shop – Yuuta stands by the front desk, wringing his hands before him nervously, sweat visible at his temples.

The both of you lock eyes, and he smiles, warm and fuzzy and entirely ill-fitting for the increasingly absurd scenario in which you find yourself. But you have little time to interrogate him about what the hell is going on – for Rika leaps from your arms and hits the ground running, screaming at the top of her little lungs, Yuuta!! Yuuta!!!, excited and so full of life, in only the way that children can scream in pure joy. Pure love.

He crouches and readily meets her, scooping the little girl up in his arms and sweeping her into the air, spinning round and round with Rika in his arms. Rika-chan!! Rika-chan!!! he cries – literally cries, that is, as you cannot help but spot the stray tear or two running down the swells of his flushed cheeks.

It is right as you are starting to feel a bit voyeuristic that Yuuta slows to a stop and finds your eyes once more. He comes to you, then, with Rika still perched on his hip, a chafingly tender smile splitting his face into two.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers with charged intensity, voice potent with unspoken feeling. “I knew you were special. I’ve always known. You never judge me. You always listen. You accepted me. And you accepted Rika, too.”

Have you? Accepted them, that is.

You shock yourself when you realize that you really have accepted all that’s transpired. Granny Orimoto saved your life when she’d taken you in and, for that, you must always be grateful. But from what Rika shared with you about how she’d been treated as a small child, and from what you’ve observed from Yuuta’s generally traumatized disposition and extreme reluctance to come face-to-face with the old woman, you realize, now, that there is a reason why Granny Orimoto had no living family to speak to or rely on when she was in her final days.

Whether or not her death had something to do with Yuuta’s apparent preternatural abilities (you remind yourself to ask about that later), it remains clear that she’d been in ill health long before you’d arrived at the flower shop. With no one to talk to. No one to care for her. You’d always felt pity. But, now, you realize that it may have been a situation of her own doing.

How could you argue with the living, breathing testament to that fact, who stand before you in fresh-faced, smiling glee?

“Of course I accept you both,” you say, earnestly, and mean it. “Rika is too cute not to love!” The young girl giggles, bashfully burying her face in Yuuta’s neck.

“And what about me?” Yuuta’s brows are quirked, his smile dipping into something a bit more cutting, a touch more heated than his simple joy from moments ago. “Am I cute enough to love, too?”

The answer is simple and requires no effort on your part: “I love you, Yuuta.”

You had more to say after that, but it proves a bit challenging to monologue your undying devotion to this man while said man is currently enveloping your mouth inside of his own. He kisses like a black hole: devouring, dark, impossibly comprehensive, and providing you without hope for possible escape.

He really is your type.

;

After those first seven days, Yuuta finally begins training at the shop. And Rika joins in, as well.

The three of you make an odd, adorable little family unit. After Yuuta had taken care of cleaning and renovating the apartment space upstairs, the three of you moved in without further delay. Your days are filled with home-cooking, raising Rika, maintaining the shop, and working alongside the man who has quickly made himself to be your life partner in every endeavor.

In fact, so much of your life is consumed with this newfound domesticity that there is little reason for you to leave the shop in the first place. Whenever you stray too far outside, you are prone to headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and even fever. It’s best to stay where is familiar, you reason. And Yuuta’s cooking is too good for you to want to eat anywhere else. He makes sure you eat three times a day, at least, and insists you finish your plate every time. Perhaps this is why you can’t stand life outside of this four, cozy walls – where else could you possibly find contentment such as this?

The business is re-named to “Rika’s Flower Shop,” which all three of you find quite agreeable given the current state of affairs. More customers than ever flow in, attracted by the colorful designs hand-painted by Rika herself on the building exterior. You generate enough revenue for additional renovations to be made on the shop. There is enough room in the budget to hire some part-time shop hands – local university students in the area looking to support themselves.

Everything is coming to fruition. For once, you truly feel as though life is blossoming.

And you can attribute all of it, every last bit of happiness, to them: Granny Orimoto, Rika, and Yuuta. The happiness is so overwhelming that you don’t ever want to leave their side, not even to run to the konbini, or to visit the post office. Why would you need to leave, when everything you’ve ever wanted is right here?

You have a family, a home, a life. You’ll remain in this shop with your loves until the day you grow as old and sickly as Granny Orimoto, and you’ll likely die upstairs, lying next to Yuuta, the both of you wrinkled and gray, curled together atop the futon, exactly where Granny had wheezed her last, bitter breath.

You wonder if Rika was there to watch it happen. You wonder if Rika will be there to see the both of you off, too.

You hope so. You really, really hope so.

You’re sure death will be every bit the dream you’re hoping it will be.

#okkotsu yuuta x reader #okkotsu yuta x reader #jjk reader insert #jjk x reader #okkotsu yuuta reader insert #okkotsu yuta reader insert #jjk ao3 #jjk fic #okkotsu yuuta fic #okkotsu yuuta fanfiction #okkotsu yuta fic #jjk fanfiction #my writing #mine #commissions

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sourw0lfs · 10 months ago

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dance with the devil - part six

I've decided this will eventually be available on AO3, but I want to get through some major plots points for everyone following along here before I have to spoil them with AO3's tagging system.

Words: 525 | Rating: E (mostly parts 1 & 2, but also future parts) | CW: dead bodies, Eddie is having a bad time

part one || part two || part three || part four || part five || part six || part seven || part eight || part nine || part ten || part eleven || part twelve

Once the front door of the apartment closes, Eddie spends the first few minutes by himself just staring at it. He isn't sure exactly what he expected when Joyce gave him this assignment, but he's pretty sure what he got isn't even near the list. Having to help cover up a murder definitely isn't on the list. And now that he's done that, Eddie isn't even sure that's what he was supposed to do. The only instructions Joyce gave him before sending him on his way was take care of Steve Harrington. No details, no helpful hint or clues. Nothing but the world's vaguest instruction and a stern warning not to fuck it up.

Eddie's eyes wander to the body still in the middle of the floor and he grimaces slightly. "Guess it's just you and me, buddy," he tells the man as he pulls the fourth angelic miracle of the hour to cover up the murder even further. A pool of ochre colored vomit appears next to the body. Hopefully it's enough to throw off any suspicion of foul play, because it's all Eddie's got left. He's only even had the ability to do things like that for a handful of hours at this point. He probably shouldn't be testing their limit. Or cleaning blood off people with them, but what else was he supposed to do? He can't help a guy that gets slapped with a murder charge five minutes into his assignment.

Sighing and taking one last look around the apartment for anything he missed, Eddie finally lets himself go after Steve. There's a chance it's been long enough for him to have the breakdown he was clearly teetering on the edge of. Or maybe he's actually fine and Eddie's just assisted a psychopath or something. That'll look great on his soul's record. All it takes is a blink for him to find out.

And yeah, maybe he should stop with the magic for now, considering the dangerous wobble to his landing once he let's it guide him back to his charge. And maybe he should have made sure Steve was alone before teleporting to him, because a shrill, frantic female voice is the last thing he needs when his head is already kind of spinning. "Holy shit! Where did you come from?"

Blinking hard to clear his vision, Eddie looks in the direction of the voice. He sees Steve first, looking just as frazzled as he had when he’d stormed out before, but now there’s a girl, too. “You want the long answer or the short answer?” he asks, lips already spreading into a grin to hide his discomfort. “Because short is some guy’s apartment and long is, well, a long story.”

The girl looks at Eddie for a moment longer before glancing at Steve, seeming to have a full conversation with him with just their eyes, before they move back to Eddie again. “Long,” she replies with a smirk of her own. “And it better include how the hell you just popped up in my apartment out of nowhere.”

Grimacing, Eddie takes a deep breath and launches into his story.

Did a quick little Google about why some people might not be showing up, so if you're down below and your tag didn't work, check to see if your blog is searchable in your settings! If it's not, I can't tag you.

If you want added to the list, let me know!

tags: @chaosgremlinmunson @soaringornithopter @hbyrde36 @shares-a-vest @dreamwatch @quevadilla @tboyeddie @penny00dreadful @momotonescreaming @stevesbipanic @dawners @steddiejudas @just-my-latest-hyperfixation @estrellami-1 @vthx @lolawonsstuff @gleek4twd @littlebluejane @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lawrencebshaggoth @sadisticaltarts @queenie-ofthe-void @r0binscript @anaibis @hairdressersdoitwithstyle

#fox writes things #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot

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merrybloomwrites · 1 year ago

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You Can Start a Family (Extra: Sickfic Part 1)

Summary: Y/N gets sick and Mitch, Sarah, and Harry take turns doting on her.

Previous Chapters: One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six ; Seven ; Eight ; Nine ; Ten

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Grabbing extra blankets, you bundle deep under the covers of your otherwise empty bed. You hope that your cats will join you soon so you’re not completely alone.

It’s not like you have other people in bed with you every single night. Since you started dating Mitch and Sarah earlier in the year, and added Harry to the relationship three months prior, you’ve spent a decent amount of time alone. One might think that wouldn’t be the case with two boyfriends and a girlfriend, but they’re busy people.

Harry has been writing his next album, traveling twice for writing retreats with his collaborators to minimize distractions. On top of that he’s had meetings, photoshoots, and other projects that require him to be away from you for days at a time.

Meanwhile, Mitch’s album had dropped just a couple weeks prior, and he and Sarah were busy promoting that.

All in all, you were very used to sleeping alone. But for some reason you were really missing them tonight. They had all been home for just three days before they had to fly out to Los Angeles to prepare and rehearse for Harryween.

It had been a somewhat last-minute decision to actually do Harryween this year, since tour had ended a few months before. But the venue was open and most of the band was available, and they knew tickets would sell out immediately, so they decided to pull the trigger and go for it.

That meant that they needed to fit in all of the prep work the week right before Halloween, leaving you alone at home for days. They had left Sunday morning, and since it’s now Tuesday, it’s your third night without them.

You only need to make it until Thursday, and Mitch will be back for a couple of meetings, and then you’ll fly to LA with him for the two shows at the start of the following week.

Knowing that it’s only two more lonesome nights would normally help you, but for some reason you just feel so alone tonight. The bed feels too big and empty and cold. You are cold, freezing, bone deep cold. It isn’t even that chilly out, a mild fall evening.

It’s early to get in bed, not even 9 PM, but you feel exhausted. You wish you could just call them, but you know with the 3-hour time difference that they’re definitely still rehearsing, probably not even taking their dinner break for another hour.

You settle for playing their music, your go to when you just need to hear their voices to feel them close to you. It doesn’t take long before you fall asleep.

The blaring alarm wakes you the next morning, and even though you slept over nine hours, you’re still tired. You go to say good morning to the cats who joined you at some point in the night, and your voice comes out groggy. You clear your throat which only leads to a coughing fit. It doesn’t last long, and you’re fine while you get ready for work, so you figure it was probably just a tickle and not a big deal.

Wednesday is the same as Tuesday, most of your days truly blending together. You take a bath after dinner, hoping it will help the new aches in your joints that bothered you all afternoon, and you nearly fall asleep in the water. If it weren’t for your phone ringing, you definitely would have been out cold within a minute.

You dry your hands and grab the phone, checking who it is before answering.

“Hello,” you say, and notice your voice once again sounds a little rough.

“Hi love,” Sarah replies. “I’ve only got a minute, but I wanted to check in. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“What are you up to?”

“Decided to relax tonight, currently taking a bath.”

“Is that so? Wish we could facetime,” Sarah says cheekily.

You laugh at how forward she can sometimes be and reply, “Get your mind out of the gutter Jones!”

“I know, I just wish I could see my beautiful girl.” You blush at these words as she continues, “How are you? You sound a little hoarse.”

“Yea, I’m okay. Not sure why I sound like this. It happened this morning and just came back. Maybe it’s allergies, the ragweed is pretty bad this time of year.”

“Okay, well just let me know if you get worse. Maybe do a covid test to be safe?”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll do one in the morning before Mitch comes home. Last thing I want is to spread something to you guys before the shows next week.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she reassures. “But always good to check.”

You’re about to ask how she and the others are doing, see if she could put Harry and Mitch on the call for a minute but before you can ask, she says, “Oh, I’ve got to go, we’re starting again. There’s a new transition that we’re struggling with a bit, so we’ve got to work on that more.”

“You guys will get it, you’re the most talented band out there.”

“Thank you, my love. Sleep well tonight, let me know how you’re feeling in the morning.”

“I will keep you posted. I love you.”

“I love you too. Good night.”

“Good night,” you say, and the call is ended.

You sit for a moment, your apartment feeling extra quiet again. It takes all of your energy to get out of the tub and finish getting ready for bed. It’s difficult to adjust to the cool air after the hot bath, and you quickly burrow into the pile of blankets you left on the bed, sighing in relief at the warmth they offer. Like the previous night you play music and immediately fall asleep.

The alarm is even louder than usual the next morning, and it hurts to open your eyes. You go to sit up and realize that everything in your body hurts. You take a deep breath to collect yourself, but that has the opposite effect. The second you breathe in you begin to cough, and it feels like minutes pass before you get it under control.

Forcing yourself out of bed you remember the conversation with Sarah the previous night and decide the first thing to do is take a covid test. You do that and as you wait the 15 minutes for the result you make a cup of tea and get dressed. You’re not sure yet if you’re going to call out sick. As a nanny to a toddler, the last thing you want to do is go to work sick and pass it on to the child. You choose to wait for the test results before deciding.

The timer goes off and you see that it’s negative. You call Beth, the mom you work for, and fill her in, letting her decide if she’s comfortable with you being around her son that day.

After telling her your symptoms she says, “I’m okay with you being around Ryan, but if you’re not feeling well, you should stay home. Take a sick day and rest. I know it’s exhausting taking care of a toddler when you’re not under the weather, and much worse when you are.”

“I’m really not that bad,” you reply. It’s not a complete lie, you already feel slightly better than when you first got up. You had taken a pain reliever and it was helping your achy joints, plus you had only had one more minor coughing fit. You assure Beth that you’re well enough to work and that you’ll see her soon.

She fusses over you slightly when you get to her house, mothering you a bit to make sure you’re not worse than you say you are.

“Call me if you need anything. I can get a substitute or Michael can work from home and watch Ryan.”

“I will, I promise,” you say, locking the door behind her as she leaves.

You feel fine all morning, nothing more than a slight cough. Ryan takes an excellent nap halfway through the day, and you make the mistake of laying on the couch during it. The baby monitor is right next to you, ensuring that you’ll hear Ryan when he wakes up, and the white noise coming through the monitor lulls you into a light sleep.

Beth has told you before that it’s okay if you rest while he’s napping but you normally never do. Today though, you can’t fight it and your eyes slip shut.

After nearly three hours Ryan’s babbling wakes you up. It’s immediately obvious that your short nap was a bad idea, and you feel awful as you get off of the couch. Checking the time, you note that Beth will be home in two hours and tell yourself you can push through to the end of the day, maybe with a little help from Bluey.

You’re relieved when Beth walks through the door, having gotten worse throughout the afternoon. She again dotes on you as only a mother can and tells you to take off the next day. You try to protest, since you’re already planning to be out for days the following week to travel to LA, but she won’t hear it.

“I will see you next Thursday. Not tomorrow. Rest. Get better so you can enjoy your boyfriend’s show.”

You smile and thank her before driving home. The second you enter your apartment you take off your shoes and climb into your bed. You don’t realize that you’ve fallen asleep until you jerk awake hearing the door open. You’re confused, and worried that someone is breaking in, but a moment later you hear Mitch calling out your name.

You try to shout out to him and let him know where you are, but as soon as you open your mouth you begin to cough. It’s even worse than the fit you’d had in the morning and Mitch rushes into the room, immediately rubbing your back to soothe you.

Finally, you start to catch your breath and you turn, curling into Mitch’s embrace as he wraps his arms around you.

“What’s wrong baby? Sarah said you didn’t sound great last night but this is worse than I expected.”

“It wasn’t this bad yesterday. It wasn’t even this bad when I got home earlier. I feel like shit.”

“What do you need?” he asks.

“I don’t know. This is helping though,” you say referring to him holding you. He squeezes you tighter for a moment and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

For a few minutes you stay like this until another coughing fit wracks your body. Mitch again rubs your back, his touch calming you even as you struggle to breathe. When you’re done coughing, he shifts so he can get off of the bed.

“Don’t leave, please,” you say, grabbing on to him.

“I just want to check if you have any medicine, I’ll be right back.”

“Please,” you say, refusing to let go if his arm. Deep down you know that you’re being clingy, but you can’t bring yourself to care in that moment.

“Okay, c’mere,” he says and gestures for you to wrap your limbs around him. Once you’re secure he carries you with him to the bathroom and places you down on the closed toilet lid. He opens the closet door and takes out the box of different medications you have in there.

“Have you taken anything yet?” he asks.

“I took some Tylenol earlier today, but it’s been a while.”

“Nothing for the cough?”

“No, it really wasn’t that bad before.”

“Okay, here, take this,” he says, handing you the small cup filled with cough syrup. You do as you’re told and he takes out the thermometer, holding it up to your head.

It beeps a moment later and he says, “Definitely a low-grade fever. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve had the chills, and I guess body aches.”

“Alright, you said it’s been a while since you had Tylenol?”

“Yea, I only took it this morning.”

“Here’s another dose, it’ll help with everything else.”

You take the medicine as instructed, too tired to even think and grateful that you have someone there to tell you what you need to do.

“Have you eaten today?” Mitch asks.

“Yea, I had a sandwich for lunch,” you answer.

“But no dinner?”

You shake your head no.

“Okay,” he replies. “I’m going to heat up some soup for us. Do you want to wait in bed or come with me?”

“With you,” you reply, holding out your arms so he’ll carry you again. He smiles at how adorable sick you is, and he picks you up with ease, loving having you in his arms.

He places you on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island and you rest your head on your arms as he gets food ready. Normally you’d be asking him how his flight was, how rehearsals had been going all week, but instead you just rest your eyes, comforted by the sounds of another person in the apartment with you for the first time in days.

A few minutes later Mitch places a bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of you. He sits on the stool next to yours with his own bowl and puts a sleeve of crackers between you two. You lift your head up and thank him before starting to eat. You’re feeling a little better now that the medicine has had time to work, and you’re able to finish your dinner.

As soon as you and Mitch are both done eating you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Bedtime?” he asks, and you nod your head yes.

He cleans up the dishes and the two of you head to the bathroom to get ready. You lean against Mitch as you brush your teeth, too tired to stand on your own. He keeps a firm arm around you, making sure you don’t fall, and leads you into the bedroom.

Once you’re both in bed you immediately move to lay on top of him, needing to be as close as possible.

“Is this okay?” you ask, and he replies, “Of course, baby. I’ve missed my human blanket.”

You smile and melt into the embrace, his arms wrapped around you, making you feel safer and more content than you have in days. It doesn’t take long before you once again fall into a deep sleep.

Mitch, however, stays awake for some time after you. It’s still fairly early, especially since he’s on west coast time. Once he’s sure you’re asleep he pulls out his phone, careful not to disturb you with his movement.

He sends a text in his group chat with Sarah and Harry, telling them about how sick you are. It’s obvious how worried they are in their replies and Mitch assures them that he plans to take you to the doctor in the morning if you’re not feeling better.

The moment he wakes up the next day he can tell something is wrong. He feels like he’s in an oven and he immediately realizes the heat is coming off of your body as you lay sprawled on him. Carefully he reaches over to the side table and picks up the thermometer to see what your temperature is.

He grimaces as it beeps loudly in the quiet room, but you remain asleep. He checks what it says and grows more worried. While yesterday you had a mild fever, it’s much higher now. Just as he puts the thermometer back down you suddenly wake up coughing.

Mitch helps you sit upright so you can breathe easier, and after it passes he hands you a glass of water, encouraging you to take small sips.

Your whole body is aching, and a violent shiver shoots through you.

“Baby, I think you should get checked by someone today, okay?”

You want to refuse, saying it’s not that bad, but you don’t have the energy to fight so you simply nod to agree.

The start of the morning is hazy. You and Mitch shower together so he can help you and make sure you don’t slip in your weakened state. You get dressed and throw your damp hair up into a bun and join Mitch in the kitchen for breakfast. A shower and food have done you some good, and you’re feeling more alert. You make an appointment with a doctor, happy to see an opening in just an hour.

Mitch insists on cancelling his morning meeting to go with you, but you tell him you’ll be fine. He concedes by just pushing it back a little bit so that he can drive you to your appointment.

As he drops you off he tells you for the hundredth time to text him with updates and let him know when you need to be picked up, reassuring you that he can leave his meeting if he needs to.

“I’ll be okay Mitch. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself. I have for a while now.”

“I know you can, I just- we all just like to take care of you.”

“And I love that about the three of you. But I will be fine. Now go, I need to check in.” He grabs your hand for a moment and squeezes tightly before letting you go.

You go into the office and the woman at the front desk hands you the typical forms to fill out. After handing those back you wait for a little while, happy that you thought to bring a book. Focusing on that helps you not focus on how crappy you’re feeling.

Once in with the doctor you tell her your symptoms and she does her normal physical assessment.

“Well, there are a number of things this could be. We’ll test for covid, flu, strep. But, we’ve had a number of cases of fungal pneumonia recently, so I want to check you for that as well. Seems there could be something nearby that’s causing these infections.”

With that she sends you off to the lab next door where they do a number of tests, including a chest x-ray to know for sure what’s going on. You text Mitch to fill him in while you wait for the results.

You get called back into your doctor and she informs you that you do in fact have fungal pneumonia.

“I’m going to prescribe you itraconazole, an anti-fungal drug. You can continue taking cough medicine and acetaminophen to treat the symptoms of the infection.”

You nod to show you’re listening and ask, “Is it contagious?”

“No, fungal pneumonia is not contagious. To get it you need to come in contact directly with the spores. Did you visit the wetlands recently?”

“The one’s over near Creek Road?”

“Yes.”

“Yea, I went there Sunday afternoon. Why?”

“Most of the patients I’ve recently diagnosed with this have been there. There must be something on one of the trails that’s infecting people.”

You continue to nod, finding this mildly interesting. If you weren’t sick you’d probably find it fascinating, but you’re too tired to think about it too deeply. She asks about your hike, writing down the specific areas that you walked to send over to the rangers at the Wetlands so they can determine where the danger is.

“I’ve sent your prescription to the pharmacy you listed; it should be ready soon.”

“Thank you,” you say, and she leads you out of the room.

You sit in the waiting room and text Mitch that you’re done, and he tells you he’s outside, his meeting having finished a half hour prior.

The drive home is quiet, with a stop at the pharmacy to pick up your prescription. When you get back to the apartment you head straight for your bedroom, exhausted from the morning’s activities. Mitch joins you a few mimutes later, bringing lunch and your medicine with him.

He Facetimes Sarah as finish your food, and she and Harry answer. They ask how you’re feeling, and you shrug, too tired to come up with a full response. You take the medicine that Mitch gives you, and you fall asleep while they’re still on the phone, comforted by the sounds of their voices.

They stay on the call expressing their concern and Mitch assures them that he’s taking care of you. A few minutes later they hang up, and Mitch carefully cleans up lunch. He’s about to lay down next to you again when you wake up.

“Hey, how are you doing?” He asks.

“The same I guess. Don’t you have another meeting to be at?”

“Yea it’s in a little while, but I can cancel and stay home with you.”

“Mitch, really, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes I’m sure! Go, you’ve got important stuff to do.”

“You’re important,” he replies.

You nearly respond sarcastically but instead you find yourself blushing at his words. He leans down to kiss you, and you’re very grateful that you’re not contagious and can still do this when sick. It’s the first kiss you’ve shared with him since Sunday, and it feels like home.

He pulls away, pressing a kiss to your head and gets ready for his meeting. He checks in with you again before leaving and you reassure that you have everything you need and plan to stay in bed watching movies the whole time he’s gone. He walks out of the room and comes back a minute later, one of your cats under each of his arms. Mitch places them on the bed with you, gives you a final kiss and a “love you” and leaves the apartment.

Mitch is gone for a movie and a half, walking in partway through the 2nd live action Scooby Doo.

He sees what you’re watching and looks almost guilty.

“What?” you ask after seeing his expression.

“I was on the phone with Sarah and Harry while I drove home. They’re concerned about you traveling when you’re not feeling well.”

Your first instinct is to immediately reply that they’re being ridiculous, that you’ll be fine. But instead, you say, “We have 2 full days until the flight to LA. Let’s just play it by ear and decide on Sunday, okay?”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he replies.

“And even if I’m not better by then I could always just fly out Tuesday. You guys will look silly without your Daphne!”

“I still can’t believe you convinced us all to have Scooby Doo as the costumes for Harryween.”

“I can’t believe you chose to be Scrappy Doo.”

“Well Pauli already claimed Scooby. What was I supposed to do?”

“Pick a normal villain from the show, like everyone else?”

“But I wanted to be a dog for Halloween!” he practically whines as he plops in the bed next to you.

You smile fondly, loving when you got to see this side of him. You weave your fingers through his hair and you’re both quiet for the rest of the movie.

Mitch dotes on you for the rest of the weekend, insisting that you do nothing other than rest and get better. He prepares food, brings you your medicine, and carries you with him whenever you’re feeling particularly clingy.

While you hate being sick, you love the excuse to slow down for a few days. Everything is always so hectic for the four of you, and a weekend of nothing but cuddles on the couch with comfort movies and shows in the background is nearly perfect. It would be completely perfect if Sarah and Harry were also there. And if you didn’t still feel like crap.

You slowly got better, and by Sunday morning you were confident that the anti-fungal medicine was working, and you were officially on the mend. It took a lot of convincing the others, but by Sunday afternoon you and Mitch were seated next to each other flying back to Los Angeles.

It’s late when you land, and you go directly to Harry’s place. He and Sarah are waiting outside and rush to the car to help with your bags. The boys bring the luggage inside and Sarah wraps an arm around your waist and walks with you.

You spend the first few minutes there telling everyone repeatedly that you’re fine, just a bit tired. And you’re telling the truth. Your fever is gone, the chills and body aches going with it, and you have only a mild cough. Even if you hadn’t been sick the last couple days you’d be tired after traveling coast to coast.

That night you sleep in between Harry and Sarah, Mitch on Sarah’s other side knowing the other two needed to feel you close to them.

You wake up in the middle of the night, knowing you’re about to have another coughing fit, and try to sneak out of bed so you don’t wake anyone. Unfortunately, Sarah is wrapped around you so tightly that you can’t escape. You start to cough, turning into the pillow to try and muffle the sound but the others wake up anyway.

They all fuss over you, Sarah rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. Finally, you stop coughing, but you keep your face pressed into the pillow. You don’t want them to see the tears in your eyes, knowing how much more worried they’ll be if they see that. You can’t help it though, between the breathlessness and the chest pain the coughing brings, your eyes have no choice but to water.

You try to calm yourself with some deep breaths, but that just causes you to start coughing again. This time you turn into Sarah, needing the comfort her hold brings you.

“Sorry,” you eventually say. “I didn’t mean to wake everyone up.”

“Are you okay, love?” Harry asks. “That didn’t sound good at all.”

“I’m okay, my lungs are just a bit irritated.”

“Are you in any pain?” He questions. You know he’s very familiar with lung issues, having dealt with asthma in the past, and you know that he’ll be able to tell if you’re lying.

“My chest hurts a bit, but it’s really not that bad.”

He gives you a look, like he doesn’t believe you, so you hold his hand and say, “I promise, it’s not that bad. It’s already getting better.”

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you to him. You straddle his lap, tucking your face into his neck. You melt into his embrace, loving the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around you. Even though you still feel sick, being surrounded by the three people you love fills you with warmth.

Somehow you fall asleep still sitting up with Harry holding you. When you wake up the next morning you’re still in that position. Harry is asleep beneath you, leaning back against the headboard.

The last thing you want is to wake him again, especially since there’s a show tonight. You open your eyes and see Mitch and Sarah are also sleeping, wrapped in each other’s arms. It’s a perfect start to the day, and you note that you feel much better than the last few days.

It’s not much later that everyone begins to stir. It’s already mid-morning but there’s enough time before they need to be at the venue, so no one is in any rush to get up. Sarah does demand that you switch to her lap, saying that everyone else has gotten more cuddles with you and it’s her turn. You go willingly; something about her soft embrace that comforts you immensely.

Eventually you do all get up to eat and shower before going together to the Forum. You stay backstage and get ready while they do soundcheck, wanting the set list to remain a surprise until the show. You love the group costume that was chosen for night 1, everyone dressing as their own version of Barbie or Ken, you included.

When the others get backstage they compliment you on your look and you smile bashfully at the attention. It’s a bit chaotic with everyone getting ready and having a quick dinner. Finally, you say good bye to the others, give Harry a kiss, and head to the floor to watch the show.

You don’t go out yet, knowing that the fans will notice you once you do, and you don’t want to give away the costume theme. As soon as the show officially begins you walk to the fenced off section for friends and family in the back of the pit.

You’re still not feeling 100%, and the lights and loud music are a bit disorienting, but you don’t let that show. This is your first time attending Harry’s concert as his official girlfriend, and you know that people are going to be watching you, judging you.

Even though you’re still a bit under the weather, you have a great time at the concert. You’re so happy that the set list was a surprise, and you know a fan nearby got your reaction to the start of Canyon Moon, one of your favorites that you hadn’t heard live before.

As always, harry puts on a perfect show. You love watching the fans and checking out all of their costumes. He does the whale to close out the concert and your face hurts from smiling so much. You feel exhausted, and look forward to getting home, but it was worth pushing through.

To no one’s surprise you fall asleep on Harry’s shoulder during the drive home. Sarah and Mitch are in a different car, since you had run out with Harry the second the show ended. You wake up at home, laying on the bed while Harry is taking your shoes off.

“Hi, lovey,” he says as you sit up, your legs dangling off the end of the bed with Harry standing between them. You reach your arms up, placing your hands on his face and gently pulling so he knows to lean down. As soon as he’s close enough you press your lips to his in a sweet kiss.

“Hi baby,” you say once you break the kiss. “You did great tonight.”

“Yea? Liked the show?”

“Loved it. Always do.”

He smiles at that, dimples popping out on each cheek. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Good. Sleepy, but otherwise I feel fine.”

“That’s a relief,” he replies. “Hated seeing you sick. Hated knowing you were sick, and I couldn’t be there to make you feel better.”

“Well, I feel much better now. All healed up.”

He flashes his dazzling smile again, and you pull him in for another kiss.

“Let’s get ready for bed,” he says as he breaks the kiss a minute later.

The two of you are halfway through your nighttime routines when Mitch and Sarah get home. Before long the four of you are cuddled in bed, Harry quietly humming something that sounds oddly similar to “I’m Just Ken.”

The four of you go out the next morning since you want to see a bit of the city. They each choose a couple of their favorite spots to show you before you all need to get to the venue. You again get yourself ready as they do another quick soundcheck, one of the stylist’s helping you with the red wig you’ll need as Daphne.

Once Harry is in his Fred costume the two of you take some pictures together. Night 2 is the same as Night 1, except you’re a bit more worn out from walking through the city all morning. As much as you insist to the others that you’re not sick anymore, that’s not completely true. Your head is pounding by the end, and you feel slightly dizzy. On more than one occasion you feel like your heart is beating out of your chest, it’s racing so fast.

You do everything to keep a smile on your face and not show how you’re feeling. For the first time ever, you feel relieved when the show is over. You enjoyed it of course, but you can’t wait to lay down, which will hopefully stop the world from spinning.

You’re quiet on the drive home, but still able to hide your symptoms from Harry. Once home you get ready for bed, falling asleep before Mitch and Sarah even get back.

The next morning is slightly chaotic as the four of you need to be at the airport fairly early. It’s not until you’re all seated on the private plane that they pick up on the fact that you’re kind of out of it. You claim to just be tired, but you know that they don’t buy it and are all watching you closely.

You’re seated next to Sarah and fall asleep on her shoulder shortly into the flight. When you start to wake up a couple hours later you shift, tucking your face into her neck. Mitch catches Sarahs concerned face, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“She feels warm,” Sarah answers. She places her hand on the back of your neck, noting how hot your skin has become. The boys are both immediately worried, each reaching over to feel for themselves.

You lift your head up and give them all a look, silently asking why they’re all touching you.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks. “Be honest with us, please.”

You take a moment to assess before answering, “Kind of dizzy. And cold. And sore.”

“Anything else, love?” Sarah says.

“Maybe a bit nauseous? But not that bad, really.” Despite your insistence that you weren’t going to throw up, Mitch gets up to grab an airsick bag just in case.

“How long until we land?” he asks as he sits back down across from you.

“About an hour,” Harry answers before he turns to you and asks if you need anything.

“I’m fine,” you reply. “Can you just, uhm. Can you maybe sing?”

“Of course I can love. Any requests?”

You shake your head, tucking back into Sarah’s side. Harry begins to sing, and you take deep breaths, trying to keep any nausea and dizziness at bay.

It’s a difficult hour, and a rough landing has you nearly reaching for the airsick bag but you’re able to hold it back.

You all get home mid-afternoon, and you immediately start to unpack. You know that if you don’t you’ll just leave the suitcase for days. When you’re done you head back to the living room where you find Harry sitting on the couch.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Ordering dinner. Don’t think anyone is up for cooking tonight.”

You sit next to him, putting a random show on TV for background noise. You grab a blanket, wrapping yourself in it to fight off the chills. You lean against Harry who wraps an arm around you. Mitch and Sarah join you two and you guys finish ordering food and sit together quietly while you wait for it to be delivered.

Once it’s there you all move to the kitchen table. You don’t have much of an appetite but try to eat some of your dinner. The others notice that you don’t eat much, but they don’t push it, knowing that your stomach is still bothering you.

Everyone changes into comfy clothes after dinner, and you head back to the living room couch. You’re in between Harry and Sarah, Mitch trailing behind in the bathroom for a minute. You wonder what’s holding him up but understand when he walks out with your medicine box.

He takes your temperature, frowning when he sees you once again have a high fever. You take the medicine he hands you before curling into Sarah’s side. Her hand slides through your hair and rubs your back, and you focus on those comforting touches.

You all watch a movie before deciding it’s time to head to bed. You stand from the couch, taking a moment to steady yourself as a wave of dizziness washes over you.

Your heart is beating incredibly fast again, and you’re having trouble catching your breath. The others stand around you, asking questions that you can’t hear over the pounding of your heartbeat.

You meet Harry’s eyes for a moment before everything goes dark and you collapse into his arms.

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@akkatz @pandeebearstyles @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @theekyliepage @numafarawayglxy @booberry019-blog @hillzrry @ssareidbby @gem1712 @acesofspadess @houseofdilfs @shaquille-0atmeal-1 @kissitnhekitchen @amateurduck @poguestyleskye @n0vaj3an

AN: Thank you again for reading this story! There will be a part 2 to this!

#harry styles x reader #mitch rowland x reader #mitch rowland x sarah jones x reader #sarah jones x reader #mitch rowland x harry styles #sarah jones x mitch rowland x reader

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fierymiasma · 1 year ago

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๑ Five Times.... ๑// Sebastian x f!MC (Part 3)

Summary: Five times Sebastian Sallow Was Jealous and One Time He Didn't Have to Be (Part 3)

Words: 2.7k

|| Masterlist || AO3 || Upcoming ||

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 4 || Full Fic

Chapter 3: Imelda Reyes

Sebastian had hardly slept last night, plagued with thoughts of undeserving Gryffindor boys and pretty Ravenclaw girls wooing his new friend. Sitting in the Great hall, Sebastian's head felt sluggish from the lack of sleep. He stared at this breakfast in bleak silence, silently begging for his pastries to tell him the answers he desperately needed.

"What crawled up Sebastian's ass and died?" Imelda asked, cutting through the dark swirling thoughts in Sebastian's head.

Ominis wished for the millionth time this week to have a quiet and peaceful breakfast in the Great Hall. "Oh nothing, just Sebastian pining after his crush and not plucking up the courage to do anything about it." He sighed quite dramatically. "And yet, somehow, everyone around him must suffer."

Sebastian's head snapped up from its daze. He glared at his best friend, who pointedly ignored him in favor of spreading more berry preserve on his toast. "Ominis! I'm not even interested in her!" He denied. "She's just a good friend."

Imelda waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry, Sallow. It's not like your massive crush on her is any news." She shoved the poor lower year student sitting next to Sebastian off the bench, making herself room at the table. "You'd have to be blind to not see how whipped you are for her." She cringed. "Um…sorry, Ominis."

Ominis rolled his eyes. Typical Imelda, as tactful as an elephant. "She's right you know. Practically everyone in Hogwarts knows you follow her around like a puppy. If you don't claim what's yours fast, some bloke else would."

Under normal circumstances, Ominis's words would have set Sebastian off. No one needed Ominis of all people to remind him of how "available" she was. Merlin knows, she already spent an alarming amount of time alone with the other boy. But now, with her recent date, Sebastian certainly had more on his plate to worry about. He scoffed remembering Natty's words from the night before. "And now, I have reason to worry about girls. Rumors say that she might bat for both teams, and frankly, I have no idea if it's true."

"Does she now?" Imelda whispered.

Sebastian stared in horror as Imelda started grinning, her eyes gaining a predatory gleam. How could he be so stupid to let something like that slip out? He knew better. Imelda played with girls' hearts like a she was a world class beater and their hearts were bludgers.

Even without any divination, he could see exactly where this was going. "Don't you dare." Sebastian warned. Never, in a million years, would Sebastian consider Imelda a friend. But there was honor even amongst Slytherins a code.

Surely, Imelda wouldn't cross the line and take what was rightfully Sebastian's?

Imelda's smile was toothy like a savage wolf eager for a meal. "Oh, she would be perfect. She's the only one amongst you sorry lot who comes anywhere close to my skills on a broom. Yes, I think we shall make the most powerful couple in Hogwarts. And after graduation, we'd make co-captains on whatever professional quidditch team we'd find ourselves. Our manor would be decorated with our quidditch trophies right above the little ones' rooms. Of course we'd have at least seven of them."

"Seven pets?" Sebastian asked weakly.

She scoffed. "No children. At least seven children: strong, and fast, and powerful like their mothers. Enough to make a quidditch team. We'd train them of course. Together we would create a new quidditch dynasty that would rival the Pride of Portree, no doubt."

Sebastian was at a loss for words. Imelda was loony. He couldn't tell if Imelda was simply pulling at his leg or actually threating him. "What makes you even think she would be interested in someone like you? Merlin, your ego enough would scare anyone away."

Imelda sniffed, turning her nose up at Sebastian. "It's simple, really. Power. The new girl is attracted to power. She would be stupid to turn someone like me down."

Sebastian's stomach soured. Did she think Sebastian was powerful enough to stand by her side? "As if."

"What? Scared of some competition, Sallow? Afraid that the only bachelorette worth pursuing in Hogwarts will be attracted to the best flyer in Hogwarts?" Sebastian spluttered in protest. "Early Seeker catches the snitch. One night with me on the quidditch field, and she'll be like a Kneazle purring in my lap."

His hands clenched into tight fists. Of course, Imelda would be the one Slytherin evil enough to violate the House code. How did he lose control of the situation so fast? "You snake. You wouldn't dare."

She raised one dark eyebrow, "Watch me, Sallow." She whipped her tight ponytail around, eyes scanning the Great Hall. "Oi! New girl!"

Sebastian's head snapped up, frantically searching for his partner in crime. Surely, she wasn't easy enough to fall for Imelda Reyes.

The poor victim in question was trying her best to enjoy a quiet breakfast. She flinched at Imelda's shrill voice, ducking as if hoping the Slytherin quidditch captain wouldn't notice her. Her eyes widening when the two girls accidentally locked eyes. Imelda, with her nose in the air, took strong strides across the Grand Hall. Arriving at her destination, the other students at the table suddenly grew deadly quiet, as if the flock of prey were suddenly alerted of a predator's presence.

She sighed into her porridge, "Reyes, is there something I can help you with-"

Imelda slammed her hand on the table next to the poor girl's goblet, causing all the silverware to jump to attention. She leaned over, boxing Sebastian's best friend in with her long arms. "Tonight. 7pm. Meet me at the Quidditch fields. Bring a broom."

The whole table erupted in chatter. The tendrils of Hogwarts gossip already working their magic. To Sebastian's horror, his crush's face erupted in patches of bright pink, as she tried to back away from Imelda's advances. "Imelda, I would love to, but I already promised Sebast-"

The Slytherin scoffed. "Enough of him. What's he going to do? Show you some dusty old book from three centuries ago? I'm going to show you a night you will never forgot."

Sebastian jumped to his feet, wand in hand. His pumpkin juice spilled over his trousers, soaking into the fabric.

The hero of Hogwarts was stunned into silence. Imelda was constantly on her case about "moving on" from Sebastian, but she'd never imagined that the Quidditch Captain would be the one to proposition the pining girl herself.

Natty's advice rang through her mind. Sebastian had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't interested in her romantically. It had hurt, to realize that the flirty looks, the indecent causal touches, the intense words, were all the same Sebastian charm that he laid on everyone. The hero of Hogwarts was no different to him than any other girl. She had just been too infatuated to see it.

Maybe all her friends were right. It was time she stop sulking like a children. It was their sixth year, they weren't getting any younger. It was time to start courting other people, to live a little.

What was the worst thing that could happen?

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, trying to look at his best friend from across the Great Hall. Her cheeks, so prone to blushing, was now a familiar scarlet. A weight as heavy as a stone dropped into his stomach as he watched the hero of Hogwarts tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ears, a telltale sign. Surely….she wouldn't agree to a date with Imelda Reyes of all people, a cackling hag who had nothing better to do than steal other people's soon to be girlfriend?

He saw how she squirmed nervously, unused to the intensity of Imelda's piercing gaze. "Um well..I'm sure Sebastian won't mind if I push off one night. We spend so much of our time-"

"-Excellent." Imelda clicked her tongue. "I'm so looking forward to seeing you on the field. Come prepared."

With the last foreboding warning, Imelda turned around, completely unbothered at all the other students staring at her bold advances. She strode back to the Slytherin table with the same expression plastered on her face as her winning the House Cup. Imelda plopped herself right next to Sebastian, snatching a cold piece of toast from Sebastian's plate.

"And that, my dear Housemate, is how Slytherins get what they want."

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

“Sebastian!”

Sebastian walked away from the entrance of the Great Hall even faster. Maybe if he pretended he couldn’t hear her, his crush would just eventually give up.

A sharp tug on the back of his robes made Sebastian stop in his tracks. Reluctantly, he turned to look at her.

Her cheeks were ruddy with exertion, giving her face a natural blush. She looked rather flustered, an expression that has been on her face too much of late.

She panted. It took a lot of energy to chase after Sebastian, almost as if he was actively trying to avoid him. “Sebastian, I won't be able to meet you in the library tonight. Imelda invited me to some late night quidditch practice.

His lips curled. 'Late night quidditch practice'. Oh it would certainly be late all right, but Sebastian had very little faith that they would be practicing "quidditch".

Sebastian's throat was too tight. He felt nauseous. "Oh great, Ominis. Me. Imelda. You just seem to bounce from Slytherin to Slytherin, I see."

She flinched at his words. Her voice turned icy. "I mean, we study every night together Sebastian. It's not like missing one night is a big deal."

A hot wave of embarrassment settled in his stomach. He was an absolute idiot for hoping for anything different. Their nightly study sessions were the highlight of Sebastian's day. The candles in the library always seems to frame her beautiful portrait so nicely in the lights and shadows. Whenever she was stuck on a particularly difficult essay, she would nibble on the tip of her quill, an adorably bad habit that Sebastian had grown quite fond of. He always saved his fun stories, cute little puns, and teasing for the very end of the day. On the days that seemed particularly stressed, Sebastian would transfigure some parchment in a flying crane, that would peck at her cheeks incessantly until she started giggling. Sometimes they would play a game, in which Sebastian would do everything within his power to absolutely distract her from her studies. Other times, there would just be soft comfortable silence as the two close friends read in the dying candlelight. Eventually, one of them, usually her, would nod off silently into their textbook, and the other (usually Sebastian) would summon a blanket to drape over their cold shoulders.

His parents were the same. Constantly up all night curled on their plush sofas, holding each other's hands as they read their ancient tomes before putting Sebastian and Anne to sleep. It was some of the last remaining memories Sebastian had of them before they died.

He thought what they had together was something similar. Clearly, Sebastian was wrong. How could he be so foolish getting so attached to that clearly meant so little to her?

"Well, have fun getting your heart crushed. Don't come crying to me whenever Reyes dumps you."

Sebastian turned his back to her before he could see the look of utter devastation on her face.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Next part: Part 4

Taglist: @dragonstoneshortcake @tarotwitchy-main @solariia

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #hphl #harry potter #sebastian sallow fic #ominis gaunt #harry potter hogwarts game #jealous!sebastian #imelda reyes

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broadwaybalogna · 4 months ago

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zutara prompt for you — “ why didn’t you tell me you got hurt. I could have helped you—.”

Awwwwww cute!!!

Here ya go!

Katara whined as she hugged her stomach in the large bed she laid down in. She continued to move from position to position in order to find some form of peace for her body to no avail. Tears pricked at the sides of her eyes as she continued to struggle through her cramps.

Katara got her first period when she was twelve in the southern water tribe. Being one of the few women in the tribe meant little menstrual products for her as well, so she was forced to make do with what little she had. Her cramps only got worse with time, however, as her body continued to grow. She’d spend days in her room in the Fire Lord’s palace just trying to find a few hours of comfort.

It had been five years since her first period, and she wanted to rip her uterus out.

She found a bathroom in a nearby corridor and slipped in so she could lay on the floor. Fire Nation palaces had nice specious bathrooms that were perfect for laying down on and contemplating one’s life. Katara groaned.

Katara was one of few women Zuko knew, and she honestly doubted he had ever stayed with any of them long enough to witness their menstrual cycle. The only other woman in the castle that they both interacted with was Azula, who Katara’s period quickly synced up to.

After a few minutes of laying on the floor, she picked herself up and walked back to her room. Azula was lucky in that her cramps were nearly nonexistent.

Katara continued to roll in her bed until a knock echoed through the room. Katara would have politely asked the person to leave, but she was too uncomfortable and exhausted to make any more than a loud hum escape her mouth.

“Katara?” She heard Zuko say as he entered the room. Katara was curled up in the bed with the blanket thrown onto the floor, it was too uncomfortably hot.

Upon taking in the state of Katara’s room, he paused. There were a few moments of silence between the two, but Katara was far more focused on her internal pain than her awkward encounter.

Zuko let out a sigh then spoke again, “Azula said I might find you like this.”

Katara groaned, of course Azula wanted to make her brother walk in on her while she was at her worst. Average sibling activities.

“Are you… okay?” He asked. Of course it wasn’t odd for Katara to take a break for four to seven days of each month from her duties as an ambassador, but she never exactly made it well known that it was because she could barely stand without keeling over and nearly throwing up out of pain.

“No,” she said as deadpanned as possible, but it came off more as a whine, if anything.

“You know I- I can help you,” he finally said after more awkward silence. This made Katara turn to face him. What was he getting on about?

“How?” She asked as genuenly as possible.

“Well, I- uh- talked with Azula about…” he paused to imply ‘period’. Katara couldn’t care less. She rolled her eyes. “She said that heat helps,” he finally spilled. This made Katara cock an eyebrow.

She took a deep breath. “You do know where it is that the cramps are, right?” She asked, knowing that if Zuko knew he would never have suggested this in the first place.

“Yes,” he clarified, which took Katara by surprise.

She considered her options. She could either wait for the pain to subside (which could take anywhere between a minute and a few hours) or she could let Zuko grant her comfort, albeit a little odd. She looked over at Zuko. His eyebrows were knitted together like he actually cared about her and her comfort, and he eyed the lower half of her abdomen where her pain centered.

“Okay,” she finally decided with a sharp nod.

Zuko sat down beside where Katara was laying and hovered his hand over where her uterus was.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she explained. “But if you don’t, I’d prefer to know now.”

“No- it’s fine,” he interjected. He softly laid his hand against her stomach and Katara could feel the small wave of heat begin to pool around her. The heat was more comfortable than anything she had tried before, and she was quick to relax into his touch.

While the warmth didn’t alleviate all pain, it certainly helped and she let out a long pent of sigh of relief.

After a few seconds, she took Zuko’s hand in her own and moved it lower down her abdomen. “Lower,” was all she had to say and Zuko easily complied.

Katara closed her eyes at the her newfound relief, she hadn’t felt this way in what felt like years. She felt herself slowly begin to drift to sleep, and she did nothing to stop her body from accepting it.

When Katara awoke, Zuko was laying next to her, also asleep, and with his hand still over her uterus. He was in a slightly awkward position which made her appreciate him even more.

Next time she felt this way, she would be sure to grab the firebender as soon as possible.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #atla katara #zutara #katara #atla zuko #zuko #katara x zuko #zuko x katara #fanfiction #zutara fanfiction #fanfic

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hannahssimblr · 9 months ago

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Agnieszka is available, actually, likely because our family pays her more than most people pay babysitters. I don’t think they’re being deliberately generous to her or anything, it’s more likely that they don’t really have a concept of how little babysitting teenagers earn. Recently Ivy asked my father what minimum wage was after hearing it discussed on the morning radio and he suggested that it was very little money. Something like thirty euros an hour, probably.

She arrives in her usual furry coat and uncomfortable looking high heeled boots with the chill from outside clinging to her, and I invite her. I give her the awkward spiel about being allowed to watch any of the channels on TV and take what she likes from the fridge as though I am a fully grown adult, not a school boy two whole years younger than she is and then finally, forty five minutes later than I had planned, I leave the house.

It’s Jen who answers the door when I knock, and she has an amused look on her face, “I thought you’d chickened out.”

“No,” I shiver as I step into the warmth of the hallway, kicking off my shoes and shrugging out of my coat and bag “It was my mom. She decided she had plans and left it to me to sort out a babysitter at the last minute.”

“Colette had plans?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, she doesn’t have any friends, I don’t know what the hell she was doing.”

Jen leads me into the kitchen where she fills a glass of water for me, “Is it a work thing?”

“On Saturday?”

She shrugs, “Maybe she’s having an affair.”

I take the water and chug it, parched after my sprint down the seafront, “Yeah. maybe.”

“Good for her.”

I snort.

“There’s potential in this, I think we could run with this theory.”

“I love how much you love theorising about my parents. But they’re just not interesting enough to do any of the crazy things you like to think they do.”

“So you don’t think your dad is fucking the babysitter?”

I pull a face, “No. Why would she fuck him?”

“Uh! Because he’s a stone cold fox.”

“Ugh.”

“When you remove his odd personality from the equation, like, yeah, he’s objectively hot. Michelle and I had a conversation about this a while ago, and of all the parents we know, your dad is the most physically attractive.”

“God!” I let a full bodied shudder rip through me at the thought of anyone having ogled my father when he ventured downstairs to frown at us when we made too much noise at home.

“Oh don’t be so disgusted, take it as a compliment. You’re all him. You’re just like a mini Christopher.”

I’m aware of this, of course I am, but still, hearing this fact aloud makes me queasy. All I’ve ever wanted for myself was to be so supremely unlike Christopher that similarities were nowhere to be found, for people to say ‘No way. You’re related to that guy?’ But looks, my colouring, my height, my bone structure and that slight romanesque curve of my nose give it all away, these things I cannot easily change. I’ll always be recognisably Dr. Christopher Turner’s son, and every teenager in Clontarf is going to think so when they're lying in his chair watching him tighten their braces.

I shake the thoughts away, “Have you started the movie yet?”

“Started it? We’re like halfway through now.”

“I didn’t expect you to be so punctual.”

“Half seven means half seven.” She points out, “You snooze, you lose. But still, come into the living room and watch the end of it. You might be lost but that’s not my fault.”

We creep into the darkened room together, where the only light is from the glow of the TV. It’s a particularly quiet scene in the film, and all of the emos snap their necks around to glare at me as I create noises of disturbance with my entrance.

I whisper that I am sorry and find a place to sit on the floor near that girl with the pink hair. I touch her accidentally with my elbow and she flinches away like I am an escapee of Leper Island so I shift a good metre to the left in case I inflict myself upon her again.

Wow. I think to myself after five minutes of concentrated silence. They’re really, actually watching the movie. Whenever I hang out with my other friends we just blab our way through it, making stupid jokes and saying ‘that’s you’ whenever someone ugly comes on screen. I don’t know what this movie is but at some point a zombie with bits of rotten flesh hanging off his face claws his way through the earth to stagger toward an oblivious canoodling couple, and I bite my lip to try and stop myself from saying it to Jen. I know it would be so funny but she would be the only one to think so.

It’s a long film and I never fully understand what is happening, so I’m glad when the credits roll and I can get up to stretch my legs. The lights come on then and I get to see them all in their outfits, and me in the middle of them all in mine: tracksuit bottoms and a football t-shirt. The fact is that when we’re in our uniforms it’s way easier to ignore the contrasting details about us, but now as I look at them and they all stare back at me I wonder if there is true merit to this deep seated feeling I keep getting that I naturally belong in that reeking changing room, discussing the Premier League and the merits of Kid Cudi's Day 'n' Nite music video with the rugby boys instead.

“Are we out of snacks?” Jen says as she peers into empty bowls dotted around the floor, “Damn, okay, I’ll run down to the shop for more before we start the next film, I suppose.”

“I’ll come too,” Michelle raises herself up from the couch, all legs in her fishnet tights, and then Evan does too, and I know I’ll have to go with them in case the rest of the room starts feasting on my innocent flesh while I’m left alone and vulnerable with them. It works out well this way, because there was something I was planning to talk to Evan about.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2009 #totally not listening to Kid Cudi's Day 'n' Nite rn #what a year 2009

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mosylufanfic · 5 months ago

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Answer the Questions and Tag 5 Fanfic Authors

Tagged by @rifle-yes, the fool

1. How did you get into writing fanfiction?

See answer #3 below, but the short version is that I started writing and posting stories at the Derbyshire Writer's Guild, a Jane Austen fanfic site. And it's all been downhill from there.

2. How many fandoms have you written in?

Oh boy. Hang on. This is a hard one because multiple of my fandoms are like, within a larger fandom? So there's a good amount under the Star Wars umbrella, and a bunch of Jane Austen, and a lot of DCTV. Going back and counting the major fandoms (the ones I remember being really into and doing several fics for, as opposed to just one or two to scratch an itch), I think it's seven. If you do count the one-offs, it's more like 12 or 15. Look, I've been on many fic sites and I'm still trying to get off my ass and archive everything on AO3. It's hard!

3. How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

Pretty much since forever? I remember writing Little Mermaid fic in fourth grade, although I didn't really have that word for it at the time. And there was an epic (and epically bad) Star Wars sequel that I worked on for years in my tweens. I started posting fic online at 19 when I realized that was a thing I could do (see #1). So in terms of writing fic that I shared with other fans, 24 years.

4. Do you read or write more fanfiction?

Definitely read, although there are times where it's a close run thing.

5. What is one way you’ve improved as a writer?

I think my worldbuilding has improved over the years. I never did it on purpose, but I see a definite uptick in how deeply I think about the worlds I'm writing in and the various implications of that for the characters.

6. What’s the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Oh so many things! I freaking love research. I think the most morbid (and mathiest) was trying to estimate how much air a man had available in a 10x10 space buried underground.

7. What’s your favorite type of comment to receive on your work?

This is like asking what kind of cake is best, but I do love the ones that pick up on something I didn't even realize about the story. I had one recently that pointed out a shift in language that signaled deeper and more focused intimacy in the course of a smut scene. And I was like, ". . . huh. Well, I'll be. That sure did happen."

8. What’s the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

I think probably the Space!Paperwork in Lost & Found was the fringiest thing I've ever done.

9. What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

Oh, man, longfics. I often come up with an idea and I just know from the shape of it that it's going to be a a monster. And then I have to decide if I want to go through all the work of plotting and writing thousands and tens of thousands of words. That's why I have so many one-shots that are basically "pilot episodes" for longfics that will never be written.

10. What is the easiest type?

Modern AUs, especially high school AUs. There's so much there that's already known to the readers that I can just laser-focus on the part that's interesting to me.

11. Where do you do your writing? What platform? When?

I do a lot of my writing on Gdocs. I know they're the devil, but I might be settled down to work on four or five different machines throughout the course of my day, and half that time is on the public floor where I have to look available to help people. So to me, it's better to be able to quickly sign into a website and tap out that quick scene than to try and hide my phone under the desk and write on that horrible little keyboard. (I'll do that too, but only when I have no other option.)

Longfics get ported into Scrivener when they get too unwieldy for Gdocs, but I'm still more likely to write scenes in Gdocs and paste them into the Scrivener file when I'm done.

12. What is something you’ve been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

Probably some of the longfics that are knocking around in my brain, especially the ones that concern areas of the Star Wars canon that I never really got into.

13. What made you choose your username?

It's a nickname my mom used to call me when I was a teenager, and when I was picking my AIM screen name in college, that's what I went with. Actually, I had another one first that was objectively cooler, but I forgot the password to that account and either I was too dumb to reset it or there wasn't functionality for that. So mosylu it was. I also decided at the time that it would be my Internet Identity, and it still is.

Tagging @andorerso, @hedgiwithapen, @incognitajones, @colleybri, and @youareiron-andyouarestrong

#ask game #writing

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anitalenia · 1 year ago

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hiii i was wondering how you get ur post texts to be pastel pink :) instead of this hot pink

Hiii 💕💕 okay so it actually has to do with coding 😭 I’ll try my best to explain. So basically, I go to this website ( https://jsfiddle.net ), this is where you can make any color text you want.

— STEPS BELOW —

Step One: So, once you’re there you’ll see this screen, I’m on mobile so it might look a lil different.

Step Two: Once there, you’ll go to the right side where the text boxes are.

Step Three: In the top box, you’ll want to type in whatever text you want to make a different color.

Step Four: Next, where the red and green color dots are, click on the red dot. This is going to be where the color starts. You can make the text whatever color you want.

note: you can make your text gradient, as in two different colors. I make my text just one color ( that pale pink color ), which means both the red and green dot must be the same color. For gradient, the red and green need to be whatever two colors you want to make gradient. For example, if you wanted to do yellow and purple gradient text, change the red to the color yellow and the green to the color purple.

*FFE5FA is the color of my pink text.

Step Five: After you’ve changed the color, hit the run button in between the text boxes.

Step Six: Once you’ve hit run, the text box below will generate the coding for your colored text.

Step Seven: Once it’s there, you’ll want to click on it and hit the ‘select all’ button.

note: I am using this on an iPhone, so it may very on a Samsung or computer. Just make sure you copy the whole thing of code

Step Eight: Once you’ve hit select all, hit the copy button

Step Nine: So now the text should be copied to clipboard and available to past where ever you want. After that, and this is an important detail or else it won’t work, you have to go to Tumblr Online, not the app.

Step Ten: Once you’re on tumblr, go to make a new post.

Step Eleven: Once you make the next post, you’ll want to go to the top right corner and click on the settings icon

Step Twelve: You should see a screen like the one below. At the bottom of that pop up where it says TEXT EDITOR, the icon next to it should say Rich Text.

Step Thirteen: Click on the Rich Text box, and options should pop up saying, Rich Text, HTML, Markdown

Step Fourteen: Click the HTML option

Step Fifteen: You should see this screen next

Step Sixteen: You’ll want to paste the HTML code you just copied next to or after the code already there like this

Step Seventeen: Okay then you’ll want to make sure it’s saved as a draft

note: if you go to your drafts first and then create a new post, then it should automatically have the save as draft option at the bottom. It’s quicker than doing it like normal and having to select save as draft.

Step Eighteen: It should look like this now

Step Nineteen: Congratulations! You’ve done the hard part. Now go back to mobile or the app because it’s easier for these next steps in my opinion.

Step Twenty: In the app, go to that saved draft and make the text bold if you so choose, it makes it stand out more that way

Extras: you only need to make one colored text when you make a post, which means you don’t need to go through that whole process for each line/word you want to make colored.

— just type whatever words you want colored next to the already colored text, then move it down a space.

— however, once you delete that line of colored text it cannot be recovered, you’d have to go through this process again.

ANYWAY, I hope this helped. I tried to make it as step-by-step as possible. 😁😁💕💕

#─ ·˚꒰ 𝙍𝙀𝙋𝙇𝙄𝙀𝙎. ꒱ ₊˚ˑ #pink themes #aesthetic #pink #pinkcore #pink dividers #cute #sparkles #stars #writing prompt #writing help #colored text #text help #gradient #gradient text help #gradient text

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ynmnrmt · 8 months ago

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You & Me & Rhea Makes Three: Chapter 9 (Finale)

rhea ripley x m!reader x m!reader's girlfriend

word count: 3,949

warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, themes of domination/submission, infidelity, rape fantasy, didacticism

a/n: Those who enjoyed the shameless metatextuality of the previous chapter will be happy to hear this chapter opens on an extended Socratic-style apology for RPF as a genre. Those who are just here for the sauce can safely skip to the first asterisk.

(The story so far: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight)

“No. I won’t condemn them for that. I can’t.”

You look around that sea of horrified faces, you feel how thin the ice is under you. You clear your throat.

“Obviously I sympathise with the impulse, I understand where anyone who wants to prosecute them is coming from. But it’s a situation where any possible cure is markedly worse than the disease. Not too long ago the laws against obscenity led us into absurd situations where – well, take Lady Chatterley’s Lover, for years that was only available as a heavily censored version, except if you went over to Europe, where you could get hold of an unexpurgated version quite easily. And then you had the farcical situation where people were smuggling books back and forth, which is the kind of thing you associate with a much older history, the great religious schisms, dangerous new kinds of Bible, etcetera.”

You breathe more steadily, it seems like the crowd do too, you’ve manoeuvred yourself back onto more abstracted ground.

“Crucially, even those kinds of barriers, which people did defeat quite easily, mean less than nothing in this information age. The big stumbling block in the Lady Chatterley days was, what, buying a ticket for the boat? Now getting hold of censored books is within the grasp of anyone with wi-fi. This, interestingly, was part of the Lady Chatterley trial in England, the prosecutors took the patronising tone that they weren’t so much looking to ban the book for their own benefit as they were for fear their wives or servants might get hold of it – that was their actual argument, and-”

You’re sweating. It’s a fun fact, it’s fun, it’s a fact, but you’re getting away from the point.

“A lot of people know that Lady Chatterley trial, less know that Japan also had a landmark obscenity hearing over the book. It’s from that legal precedent that we have Japan’s modern censorship laws, where pornography has to blur out the genitals. It’s a compromise, fine, but one that’s absurd on the face of it. So as we see, this kind of censorship both can’t be enforced, and manifests itself in profoundly stupid ways.”

You feel a bit steadier. Let’s bite the big one.

“If the members of the pop group Girls Aloud did encounter the fictional story in which they are raped, butchered, and eaten alive, naturally they’d be worried and upset, I certainly would be. Come to that, I didn’t wake up this morning wanting to defend such a thing. And if someone were to send such a work to them, then it’d be straight-out sexual harassment at the very least. But the mere existence of that story, depraved and poorly edited as it might be, cannot be a crime in and of itself. It can’t.”

It doesn’t clang into place the way you’d hoped, like a government of the people, by the people, and for the people. But when you see two of the figures in the crowd – one mousy, one Amazonian – rise from their table and start to clap, you feel the immaculate sense of what you can do for your country.

“Two minutes to rebut,” floats up from below.

“My worthy opponent,” says the guy on the opposite podium, “is perhaps not aware that the author of the vulgar story Girls Scream Aloud was tried on obscenity charges on the basis that children could easily access their work…” But you are aware. You know all too well that this was comprehensively disproved in court, and what’s more, you can already feel the head of steam you’ll build up over it, that children have always sought out works full of sex and violence, that this can’t be laid at the feet of the author, that you yourself read Nabokov’s Lolita at around twelve and while you found it fairly unsettling that would be a pretty poor reason to disinter the late Russian and drag him into court.

Rhea gets you under your arms and whirls you three times around through the air, so you’re dizzy when she kisses you. When she sets you down you nearly fall over and it makes her giggle. “Well done,” she tells you with bedroom eyes.

“Yeah, I – we’re both really proud of you,” says Jen, God, she hardly even meets your gaze, so you’re the one to give her a kiss.

“I’m just glad they didn’t want me to defend Holocaust deniers,” you say, slightly breathless, though that’s mainly from what Rhea’s just done to you. “I mean, I could have done it, I could have argued that censoring them just gives them an allure, but-”

“Hmm, you’re right, maybe they have a point,” Rhea bobs her head about, then rests it on yours and holds you. You don’t want to, but you laugh, quite a lot.

“Don’t you, sort of, have feelings about this stuff?” Jen asks tentatively. “You told me about how you sometimes get fanfiction of, well, you.” It makes you freeze, knowing you have unthinkingly committed a grotesque faux pas against the woman who has her solid arms wrapped around you and could snap you like a twig.

“That’s why you put in that caveat, wasn’t it?” Rhea asks you. “That when people actually send me that stuff it’s basically sexual harassment, but if it exists somewhere out there and I never know about it, then what’s the harm...God, I bet if you wrote some of that, it’d be really sexy.”

“I couldn’t do it if I knew you’d be reading it,” you say, as you relax into her grasp. Then, with your trophy for Dominance in Rhetoric in hand, you take your two girlfriends out to eat, still desperately guilty at having publicly defended a snuff fiction about a forgotten bubblegum-pop outfit, unable to shake the feeling another shoe’s about to drop.

But you get through a large expensive meal and it’s all fine. Rhea picks loose bits of rare steak out of her teeth with a fragment of bone. Jen had shovelled down her couscous bowl like a final meal, but now she’s sitting back in her chair, relaxed and almost happy.

“Back in a sec’,” says Rhea, her shadow rolls up over you and then she is gone.

“That was really,” Jen waves her hand about as she tries to pluck the right word out of the air, “I really thought, it was one of those where it said essentially what I’d thought but never really put together. If you know what I mean.”

“I mean, I’m glad you agree,” you laugh, it’s not funny but you do want her to agree.

“And,” thank God, she laughs a bit too, “a guy going to court over writing some dark fan fiction of a girly pop band just seems so, so insane. But I get what you mean, if it was writing that I was seriously offended by, yeah, maybe I’d feel differently. I probably would want to, to, for it to be against the law or something.”

“What’s wrong, Jen?” you say, because she’s turned completely, she can’t meet your eyes again.

“I’ve been having an affair,” she says, she looks at you with tears welling over her cheeks.

“I understand,” you say, probably too quickly, since it’s in the context of everything you and Rhea have done, and, yeah, made her watch too. Next to that you can’t really blame her.

“I want you to know,” she says, as she grabs desperately for a hold on your hand, “that it’s nothing you did wrong, that this is my fault, it’s something I’ve done wrong,” she’s collapsed across the table now, her forehead against your knuckles, you look around nervously and she lifts her head again, “and I still love you.”

“Look, I mean, I don’t know what it-” No, do you really want to know? “I realise it’s all been a bit, you know, sudden change lately, and,” you have no idea how to follow this up, but it’s then that Rhea’s silhouette crosses over you again.

“Hey, guys,” says Rhea with a regretful little sigh, not her usual cheerful tone at all. “So, did you tell him?”

Jen nods, her eyes screwed shut, a tear drops from her chin. Oh! Well, that’s alright then.

“Yeah,” Rhea nods at you. “I’m sorry. And I know she’s sorry.” She has a hand on both your backs, she draws you in, all one huddle across the table.

“I love you so much,” Jen sobs, her clutches work their way up your arm.

“Tell him how it happened.”

“That time when, when Rhea walked in on me masturbating in the shower, I begged her to get in with me. I begged her. And I knew it was wrong, I knew it was a betrayal, but you were away, and, she’s so fucking hot.”

“Don’t gloat,” you chide Rhea, who still looks quite apologetic.

“Don’t be a dick,” she fires back, her fingers brush up the back of your head, her bicep and her shoulder squeeze against you. “I told her I would get in the shower with her, if I could get at you as well. I’m no home-wrecker.”

“She made me come so much,” Jen weeps. Now Rhea does smile a bit, it’s not quite a gloat, but you catch her with a look.

“Alright, alright. We’re apologising, aren’t we?”

“Jen’s apologised,” you say. “I haven’t heard anything like that out of you.”

“I’m very very sorry,” Rhea’s words warm your face, “that I made your girlfriend come hard in the shower.”

“Good. Alright then,” you’ve hardly even closed your mouth by the time that you kiss Rhea, and you feel Jen paw at your face. When you break apart you turn to her, “Jen, honestly, this is a relief. This whole time I’ve been killing myself worrying you hate this.”

“I really think you’re still dealing with a lot of very sexist attitudes,” Rhea muses calmly. “Like, your insistence on thinking that your pretty girlfriend just wants, I don’t know, a wedding and a suburban house and two point five kids, rather than rough sex with both her boyfriend and her girlfriend.”

After a moment, you say, “Yes, perhaps you’re right. Jen, I’m sorry if you ever felt I was anything less than supportive of this.”

Jen sniffs out the last few tears. “I’m sorry too,” she says, she still sounds wretched. You pull her closer in and kiss her forehead, as tenderly as you can.

“That’s why we thought we should get you caged,” Rhea continues, “to teach you a lesson. And I think we should keep you that way. Ah, don’t look like that.” Her grin turns manic and her voice lowers when she confides in you “I promise it won’t stay on too much.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” you ask Jen, still holding her, not quite protectively but not unguardedly either.

“I was going to ask you that,” Jen laughs through her tears. “I mean, sometimes, I acted like I wasn’t, I was worried you’d suspect something. That’s, um, that’s why I did the thing with the knife.”

It’d be an alarming sentence at the best of times, but still, it makes you breathe a sigh of relief you hadn’t been holding. “So, that was, you were sort of acting out a little play for me to follow? Like the kayfabe?”

“Exactly,” Rhea credits you. “To be honest, the knife was a bit of ad-lib, but God, it got my blood pumping. This girl…” You feel her pull you closer, too, as she gives Jen a squeeze.

“I had, I thought you got that,” Jen confesses to you, “with all my but Rhea, what are you doing.” Her words turn sultry and suggestive then, you feel yourself grin like an idiot as the relief she really is alright, and enjoying this even, continues to buoy you up inside.

“I wish I’d thought of that,” you confess right back, “I mean, doing that too.”

“And see, you hadn’t wanted to that time because of what Jen might think,” Rhea explains, “but now you know it was okay all along.”

“Rhea,” you bring yourself to say, while you feel yourself melt into her body, “next time I ask you to stop, you’d better.”

“Of course I will,” she says, with the same gentle, sunny smile.

“That’s the other thing,” Jen comes in with her tiniest voice yet. “I also hoped you’d both help me fulfil my rape fantasy.”

“No, stop,” Jen purrs up at you, and just about holds in the laugh. You don’t, and on your next stroke you lean down and kiss her, and she puts her whole head into it. If she didn’t, if she wasn’t so obviously loving every second of it, you couldn’t bear it. You’ve got hold of her by her wrists, but that doesn’t really matter, because Rhea’s underneath her and has her in an implacable full-nelson. “I want you,” she lusts, “to take it out and then to stick it in again, because, that way it’ll be like, mmfh,” the little wriggle she does then is hardly even a physical movement, it’s more spiritual, but you feel it all the same.

You do as she asks, for a moment you just hold your cock and look down at them, at the very faint way Jen wrestles in Rhea’s grasp, these women you would do anything for.

“Squeeze me tighter,” she insists.

“I don’t want to break you,” Rhea teases, or pleads.

“You won’t,” Jen promises. So Rhea draws her up further, and as you put it in and make her wail you can feel the tension in her body, but somehow it’s not the kind of tension that resists you, instead it welcomes you in and threatens not to let you go. Her little body, those thick arms around it, you must be in a dream. But in that dream you would fuck them both, you would please them both, to make sure they both liked you too.

Jen wails like she’s been twisted around, for one awful moment it hits a note of distress. But then, as Rhea nuzzles into her neck, you hear it for the sigh of pleasure it is. Suddenly it’s not a cruel, sadistic stab motion you inflict upon her, you can feel yourself becoming one with her, and here you let go of her left wrist and clutch at Rhea’s iron shoulder, because you want so desperately for her to be part of this too.

You don’t quite all move as one, so as you fumble about, your hand ends up trapped between the two women you love. You’re in no hurry to move it, but you do, to touch Rhea’s face, at first just with your fingertips, but then your palm, you caress her properly, and she nuzzles into that, too. It makes you lose your rhythm, you flop down on top of Jen’s little body, feeling yourself press down on her, and her press up into you – but seconds before she looks at you and starts to complain you get going again, and her eyes flash with delight.

“Take it,” you tell her, “fucking take it,” it’s little more than something to say, ridiculous porn-star dialogue you’d never have thought of outside the heat of the moment. It works though, her eyes turn liquid and again she wails somewhere between pain and pleasure, she tries to break free of the way Rhea holds her but you all know she never, ever will.

The muscles in your neck tense, the blood thumps in your head, and with Rhea’s help and Rhea’s love you come directly inside your girlfriend. Your climax coincides with the last gasp of hers – so when you return to full consciousness, she is there for you in the afterglow. Her eyes flash at you, she smiles as if you had been gentle as velvet with her, and she whispers “I love you.”

Rhea shoves you both aside, as is her wont, and takes the big gulp of air you denied her. “God, you two are actually quite heavy,” she complains – before she props herself up a bit, arms folded back behind her head. “And I’d like to get off too, you know.”

The golden afterglow makes you sluggish for a moment. So by the time you dive in, Jen is already there with her face between Rhea’s legs, hungrily looking for any spot that will make her feel good. You settle for kissing around Rhea’s thigh, before she grabs you by the hair and pulls you up to look you in the eye.

“When do you think you’ll be ready to go again?” she asks, so sweetly, but by now you know, that light in her eyes, that belies the hunger.

“Oh! I, I’ll do my best,” you say limply, able to think only that she’d be ready right away. It’s an unfair comparison, but it’s the same results you get every time you compare yourself with her. Against her gorgeous sculpted torso, feeling the heat of her body, your cock flops, not even fully gone down yet, nowhere near going up again. You waver in her grasp, ready to collapse if she wasn’t there, “I can, I can help you get off in other ways,” you mean it, too, even if Jen’s face has still got Rhea’s vagina firmly occupied.

“I want to get fucked,” says Rhea, quite flatly, and you squirm in embarrassment that you cannot give her what she wants immediately. But then she smiles again, and with a little sing-song cadence adds “I know how to get you ready.”

The chill of desire you get when she says that is nothing compared to the chill of the metal on your balls as she pops them one after another through the chastity ring. Then there is the intense pleasure of her bending your still-half-erect cock about, to work that under the ring too, all of a sudden you think maybe you could go again. You collapse onto the bed, but immediately nuzzle up as close to her as you can, you thrust her hips to help her ease the cage over your cock. And then, when she looks at you with untrammelled delight and clicks the lock shut, then you get the first twinge of another erection.

“When it starts to hurt,” Rhea emphasises hurt like a French kiss, “we’ll know you’re ready again – ooh, Jen.” You feel her muscles move under you as she wriggles about with enjoyment.

“Uh huh,” comes your choked reply, your mouth pressed up against her shoulder, the cage somehow throttling your voice.

“But not a bad hurt, I wouldn’t want to do that to you, that wouldn’t be fun,” she specifies quite carefully. “I mean a kinky hurt.”

Jen pops her head up. “You said I was a shit girlfriend for doing th-” But without the slightest change of expression, Rhea rams Jen’s head back down between her legs. Jen produces a few satisfied “Hmm hmm hmm” sounds, you know these by now, the sound of smutty laughter muffled by Rhea’s thighs.

Rhea sits you up, lays her arms gently around your shoulders, and then with no force but immense power pulls you back in. First a little peck right on the lips, then a longer, deeper one, she nips your tongue with her teeth, you yelp – that’s muffled too – as you feel yourself swelling in the cage and the metal close in around you.

Her teeth release you, you do have the power in your limbs not to slither down her body and end up with your mouth on her breasts, but somehow that’s what happens. With all the talk of kinky hurt, that’s probably all the grounds you need to give her a little nip. But that’s not even what you want to do. With one of her arms around you, and the other keeping Jen in place, you kiss and suck on her tits as if you’re getting married to them and a priest’s told you to.

You can feel yourself filling up the cage completely now, feel the tip of it around you. But in spite of that bodily demand, you work your way back up Rhea’s chest, you smear your lips across the bottom of her neck, and she giggles to feel you land under her arm. There it is, the light sheen, the flavour and tang of the very slight exertion she’s suffered holding Jen in place for you. You scrub her remorselessly with your tongue, not wanting to miss one little bit.

While you love and mouth at that softer, more private skin, you feel her shift and go “Oh,” a low sexy intonation from the core of her being. Her chest heaves, she trembles which shakes you about too, and then comes the eruption, a long rattling cry of ecstasy. Part of you is tempted to pull away, to enjoy the look on her face, but you have latched on too firmly, and when she sweats out her climax you know you have made the right decision.

You straighten up, you finally take a breath – and so does Jen, a huge gasp for air when Rhea finally opens her legs and sets Jen free. For a moment she is slumped on the dampened sheets, and you go to her and check on her, help her up, genuinely worried she might have been squeezed too hard between Rhea’s thighs. But she leaps up to meet you, laughing merrily, then kisses you and lets you taste Rhea’s pleasure, all over her face.

“Mmh,” sighs Rhea, she settles down on the bed, gazing up at you both. “Look at you…” and the warmth of it fills your heart, before she blinks her eyes properly, focuses on you, and all business again asks “Are you ready yet?”

Jen grabs the cage, you feel her fingers through the bars and you yelp, she declares “It feels like it!” She cradles your balls, gives them a little squeeze, and asks them “Are these refilled for her?”, yes, there’s that heat of the moment filthy-talk again. You just manage one passionate kiss before Rhea’s got hold of your balls instead and pulls you over toward her.

“Well well,” Rhea muses, playing with the cage and your cock inside it, bouncing it on her hand. You’re hard enough by this point it doesn’t flop down but stays pointing painfully towards her – like she said, a kinky hurt. And she relishes it, she smirks, devours whatever expression’s on your face as she undoes the lock, she hadn’t even needed to take the key out after shutting it. She grips the cage, and pops it right off, you produce half a groan and half a gasp.

“I hope you fuck her real good,” Jen whispers, snuggled up to you from behind, she takes hold of your cock and points it directly at Rhea’s vagina, poking at her on your behalf. For a second you are nervous, you’re hard again but your erection doesn’t quite feel fully recovered. And hunched over Rhea’s big, lovely body you feel as inadequate as you ever have. But then Jen shoves you forward, with a trill of delight that Rhea echoes – and when you pump eagerly away, you can tell, she really does feel good too.

Rhea squeezes you with her legs, the way she did Jen’s face – the same face sticking to yours now – to hold you in place, inside of her, and you’re happy, and she’s happy too, and you’re all happy, more than you could ever even have wanted.

#rhea ripley x reader #rhea ripley x you #rpf #rhea ripley fanfiction #rhea ripley smut

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braemjeorn · 8 months ago

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CHAPTER XVII [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre/notes: general audience; angst; romance; regency period drama; family fluff; domesticity; ocassional angst; slowburn; governess!oc; nobility!BC; age differences; age changes

wordcount: 4.7k

summary: despite everything, and because of everything, it is only right for the heart to let go.

also available in ao3, if you prefer that format

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson @nixtape-foryou @do-you-know-what-else-is-big

Mari herself spent her last days in a sedate manner. She took care to take in every moment and give herself as freely and openly as she might, hoping to make up the best of the days left before the carriage would drive her away. Mari still kept to her usual hours in teaching; the oldest two begged to leave their long equations to sit with the younger ones. The eight of them ended up pursuing a subject together, raising questions and speaking out the opinions they’ve formed.

“You must not neglect your education—it will always be of some value to you,” Mari said quietly. They had gathered on the terrace outside the study room, huddling close to her—Jeongin had the privilege of sitting on her lap. They were to nap after some walk, but they had asked if they could sit with her instead. All the same, they dozed away in this soft breeze and her softly spoken bits of advice—her last naggings, so it would seem.

Balrnshore’s gardens would bloom in full again, while the Commodore’s stables expand with more horses for the boys to ride, perhaps accompanying their travel to the creek once summer rolled in. Mari would not repeat the season with them again, nor relive last year’s memories by walking through the fields again and seeing all the changes nature blooms into. No good, warm company. That she will regret the most—for the past few evenings she had allowed herself to revel in conversations with the Commodore, whether in making up stories for the boys before the fire or over dinner with Mr Bambam. Commodore Bang would tell tales of his expeditions, and as she worked over her embroidery hoop she mused at how the company of seven children sparks evenings just as warmer and more sweetly than coffee after dinner. It will be so quiet and different in Mrs Ahn’s home. Inha will soon live with Mr Noh, and the other girls will have each other’s company, or leave to teach. And she will be quite alone with her ideas and her embroidery, not knowing when it will be the time for her to speak up and join the company, or constantly wonder if her life is finite in dreary wait for something in between running classes. As if to remove herself from that piercing dream, quietly she roused her charges before they could catch cold in the open air, and helped them upstairs to their softer beds.

Mari checked over her things and clothes again, mostly packed since five days ago from where they had been strewn through the house. Now they are all ready to be carried back but for a few things and her gifts, and now there is not much to do but to pack the last of it on her final day.

Quietly, she went through the house, from the rooms at the top to take in the sights of their halls in the afternoon light. The red tapestries in the western gallery beamed proud and brave; she passed through them to the end of the room, descending the stairs into the front of the house. Soon she was out in the open air, the breeze blowing still to sweep over her face and strands of hair. She descended the stairs into the gravel, and walked round the circular path in front of the house, hastening to near the trees on the northern side. Mari passed between pine trees into the open grassy lawn. It was empty; she laughed. She turned to the high wall behind her—in line with the house, and bordering into the gardens. The breeze called for her to run, but she dismissed it to savour and soak the sights at a slow pace. Such warm afternoon light might not come again to illuminate Barlnshore like this.

Mari went to the flower gardens, admiring the hydrangeas and other blooms in their circular beds. She was mulling over the carnations—how can one not at the presentation of such fine blossoms!—when slow footsteps notified her of another’s presence. Her eyes found the well-cared boots, black trousers, and the long black coat. Commodore Bang was tall and stately as ever, even as he redirected his steps to approach Mari from his earlier destination, joining her to admire the flowers.

“Beautiful, are they not?”

“Yes.” She turned to meet his eyes, looking down when her face suddenly felt over-warm. “...Yes.”

“Walk with me, Miss Son?”

The request was an offer all the same; hardly demanding, like he would simply nod and walk on if she refused, but Mari wished to move—and enjoy his company—thus soon they were pacing side by side.

“I’m glad spring has arrived already,” he said. “Thus you have seen all four seasons in Barlnshore.”

“There's an attraction for each season—all year round vivacity blooms about the grounds.”

“Did you enjoy your time here?” Commodore Bang led her under the shades of the trees.

Mari smiled, turning to meet his eyes. “Yes, very much. You have such a beautiful house, sir.”

He laughed and looked at the house, its ivy-covered side, “The imposing thing.”

“Yes, it does seem so from here,” Mari replied. “Like a great cliff by the seas. But I don’t think you’d merit any less sir, with your titles and income. Your station.”

“No material flattery now, Miss Son. It’s hardly worth it.”

“It’s a contributing factor,” Mari insisted, and the Commodore merely sighed. “And I’ve had a good deal of time to make my judgement, and thus my admiration increases more each day. I think I like this grand house better than any other estate in the country.”

His eyebrows raised, “A bold statement!”

“I approve of the arrangements and the decorations—Minatozaki-san's tastes suit mine. But perhaps the warmth of the occupants endears me more to it.”

“You are fond of them?”

“I am,” Mari maintained with warmth. “They make this mansion a home, embracing you in a warmth we all so cherish from a humble cottage.”

“Chaos, if you consider the boys,” Commodore Bang added. Mari burst into a laugh, and their conversation paused as he joined her.

“But otherwise—or even with it!—they are superb company!”

“And in such company, you would remove yourself, Miss Son.”

Mari felt her chest tighten at the words—compressed from the previous ease she had been speaking with. She wrung out a smile, apologetic, and paced ahead of the Commodore, but then he was quick to follow her.

“Forgive me. I ought not to jab you with such flippant remarks when… it is clear…” Commodore Bang huffed, “Oh, why do I keep upsetting you with my words? My apologies would be meaningless.”

Mari slowed her pace, easing her lungs to breathe deeper against the lump in her throat and shook her head. “Sir, you’ve given me much joy and warmth to amend all those wrongs,” she said. “But we each have our obligations and changes to face—and the boys will grow up… and Lady Jang might have her preference as to who will attend them.”

Mari spoke no more, for she felt further words would betray her. Everything she wanted to say—how much she liked it here, and more so the people: the boys, him —felt extremely wrong to come out at such a time. In such a situation where promises had been agreed upon. She wishes not to say it, or to confuse her own heart and confound both of them with her wants. But it would be miraculous if she managed that much; if anything her tears would ruin everything first to a fluster.

“Growing up takes a lot of sacrifice, it seemed,” Commodore Bang hummed quietly in the silence. “A great deal of parting is one.”

They were standing by a tall, bush of roses streaming from a wall. The Commodore pulled out a small folded knife from his pocket, with which he cut a bloomed blossom and then smoothed the stem off any thorns. He held out the flower to her, peach and rosy and sweet. Mari felt her ears grow hot while she took it; her whispered thanks were certainly inaudible to the man. She dared not meet his eyes, and cleared her throat, “I hope you’ll forgive me too, sir. For any wrongs I did, especially that time before the piano.”

“Leave with little regrets, Miss Son. You must know I have only gratitude in your regard.”

Commodore Bang only chuckled at her questioning eyes. His words came out more measured as he continued, “You have done so much for us. You struck me awake that day and had revived life and joy back in the place, of the boys. It was necessary, even if I wouldn’t approve then. You were... involved, spiritedly, in a way I should have been but could never bring myself to be. I commend your senses and briskness. Such choice of action would be easily forgotten.”

“My gratitude in return sir,” Mari bows her head. “You have been kinder to me than what I ought to have deserved in my station.”

“Then let me take the pleasure of parting with you in good faith, better than how we met months ago.” Commodore Bang offered her his hand to shake halfway through his words, and Mari let a smile rise. She gently gave him his hand and revelled in his warm grasp.

“Do not laugh,” he scoffed at her mirth.

Mischief had sparked to Mari as she looked up then, “You were terrible!”

Commodore Bang sighed. “You know very well I was.”

She gazed over his face, admiring the way black strands fell over his brows, shifting slightly in the wind. Their eyes met, and she stifled a gasp and the urge to look away. His eyebrows were furrowed against the sunlight, but it didn't render his eyes as hard as that night when she first saw him. Mari could not help to smile at the soft crows at the corner of his eyes, more indented with his frequent smiles lately.

“Everything is well now, Commodore,” Mari said.

“As well as it could be,” he slowly replied. He lowered their hands, releasing hers. They resumed their pace, now turning to the front of the house. Some minutes passed in silence, but it was relieved from burdens or tensions—whatever had been contained in their chests had been said to one another. Mari looked up, turning to the man and found him regarding her. A flush might have trickled up to her face again, but she did not let his gaze deter her.

“Promise you won’t…abandon the boys again?”

“No,” Commodore Bang shook his head, sincerity in his warm eyes. “You have my word. Henceforward, I shall only seek to provide for their happiness and welfare. I have little else to do anyway. Furthermore, I have little intention of letting people coerce me otherwise. Will that do?”

“You have much love for you, sir. I have faith in it to lead you in your decisions,” Mari said.

They fell again into companionable silence. Mari realised she would speak to him no better than as a stranger after this, and the thought made her sigh, with much heaviness as the Commodore had done. Her companion walked on by her, warm and steady. Mari wondered who else would she have such pleasant walks with. The girls back home walk to town, not on one of her meditative, snail-paced ambling through the hills and groves. Mari and the Commodore returned through the front of the house, and into the inner hall, where some ruddy, pillow-marked faces stared at them with half-closed eyes.

“Why do you stare at us so from the top of that stairs?”

The boys were as still as disgruntled owls. Mari giggled; Commodore Bang huffed.

“She asked you a question, lads. Come down now. Dinner will be ready soon.”

The morning turned cloudy even after breakfast, instead of the warm brightness Mari so adored yesterday. It changed nothing of the day's planned events. She let her trunk be carried down, carrying her outdoor garb to enter the kitchen. She bid her goodbyes and bowed to the maids with her thanks: for they have been so kind and accommodating to her, and she wishes them well. She went out to the garden to see Bernard Park and his undergardeners, saying her goodbyes with her good wishes. Then she went to the front foyer, taking her time hooking up her robe and bonnet. A hand reached up to fasten to the bands of her bonnet, and Mari turned to find Minatozaki-san gently tying a ribbon under her chin. She finished, and Mari leaned to hook her head over the housekeeper's shoulder and wrapped her hands in a hug. The housekeeper stilled for a moment, but soon her hand came round Mari, rubbing her shoulder and enclosing her in warmth.

“I wish you well, child, wherever you go,” Minatozaki-san said.

She slipped a soft packet into Mari’s hand as they separated, and told her that there was another basket in her carriage (Mari laughed)—filled with condiments and jellies and a few salted goose eggs, like the parcel she had given Mari for the Ahns last time at Christmas. Mari rubbed her eyes as she looked at Minatozaki-san’s face, unabashed but unwilling to cry so early in the separation.

“May I write to you?” Mari asked, relieved at finding her voice still steady.

Minatozaki-san smiled, “I’d like that, Mari.”

Delighted at preserving a friend, whose counsel she cherished, Mari kissed the housekeeper on her cheek with her thanks and received a kiss in exchange. Mari stepped further out to the foyer. Mr Kang Younghyun was there, taking her hand for a cordial shake, smiling as he gave her his parting good wishes—it was like the time they first met at the inn. Mari wished him good health and blessings in return, grasping his hands warmly. Commodore Bang was by the door, in an easy stance as he waited for her. There’s an uncomfortable lump in Mari’s throat already, swelling into fullness in her chest as they face one another. But his lips were set in an easy smile, the light making a halo of his dark hair, and though reluctant, Mari was less intimidated to approach him.

“One last payment, for Miss Son Mari,” said Commodore Bang, before she could phrase anything of sense. There was an envelope in his hand, which he placed upon her hand gently, “Sealed and stamped, with good faith.”

Mari looked up, finding his eyes upon her already. Brown and warm, the lines around it kind, not stern and shadowed as when she had first seen him.

“Thus, I release you from my service.”

Mari was glad they had spoken the afternoon before, for at this moment she knew not if she could make an apology as well as she had. Her lips let out a whispered thank you as her form hesitates to pull away. Commodore Bang offered his arm. Mari did not refuse him, and they walked out of the front door, descending the stairs to the gravel. The boys had assembled there, chattering and giggling at Mr Bambam’s jokes, but they turned upon her approaching form, and soon their eyes turned mellow. Behind the Mari’s trunks are being tied atop the carriage.

“Let me go first, but I’ll make it short. I’m less significant in your company after all, Miss Son,” Mr Bambam spoke up when the eight of them hesitated; and he gave Mari his hand to shake. “My good wishes for you, Miss Son. God-willing, I’ll be very pleased to meet you again.”

Mari’s heart ached and his earnest eyes; as much as Mr Bambam had implied that they were not close, she always cherished the cheer and friendliness he extended when they shared company.

“That would be delightful, Mr Bambam. Thank you,” she said. “My good wishes for your wife as well,” Mari added quietly.

With a smile, he inclined his head to her and moved beside the Commodore.

The boys came before her; the older holding the younger ones before them, much like how Mari had met them in the dark drawing room. But nearly a year, and so much had happened, so many things shared and more familiarity built between them. If her heart had swelled before, now something tightens around it. Mari knows not if it will survive today.

“All right,” she sighed, stepping closer to them and kneeling with extended hands. “One last time. As promised. Come.”

Hyunjin was first, bursting into her hold with such force it tilted her bonnet askew. He said nothing, but Mari let him hold her as tight as he wished.

“I got excited thinking about your paintings, little one,” Mari murmured. “You keep doing what you love, alright Hyunnie?”

Hyunjin nodded mutely, but he gave her a small peck and held her again with a shuddery sigh. She thanked him; there was a wry smile as he made way for his brother. Jisung latched to curl under her neck and sighed deeply as she kissed his brows, somewhat content to nestle into her as he promised to practise his piano better.

“I’ll keep those words, you know?” Mari hummed.

“I suppose you can—I’ll try not to hurry as much.” Jisung leaned back, looking up at her, “Do you think Appa will let me go to that music school if I want?”

Mari heard Commodore Bang shift behind her. “To a conservatory?” she asked. “Do you want to? I think it only matters whether you want to.”

“I do,” Jisung whispered, his nod firm.

“Then you only have to tell him.”

More assured, Jisung kissed her cheek and stepped away. Then Yongbok bounded to her—she had expected him to join Jisung, but this was just better. Like his twin, he tucked himself under her, and Mari laughed for then it was as if he purred under her. Then he looked up, in all his soft brown eyes and pale-haired cheerful being, and whispered, “You must never take a grave illness, Miss Son, that’s all I ask.”

Her smile came with a laugh and a sigh, the long breath she took to ease her tears back, “I’ll do my best, sweetling.”

It satisfied Yongbok, for then he gave her cheek a long kiss and separated from her for Seungmin. The second youngest toddled to her, making Mari laugh as she held his warm form.

“My strawberries got flowers already,” he declared quietly.

“It did?” Mari asked, a spark of excitement lighting in her.

“I just saw them earlier.”

“You’ll get the fruits in June then, I think.”

Seungmin hummed, muttering that he’d eat them well, then gave her one last warm grasp before letting go. Mari kissed his forehead and rose with a chuckle from where she had been kneeling towards Changbin’s outstretched—with grabby fingers—arms. He was just as tall as her shoulder, so his hands could rest about her waist while she kissed the top of his head.

“Our Changbinie,” she sighed, squeezing his form closer. “My handsome, steadfast, Binnie. I shan’t worry as much knowing you’re here—you’re a very good hyung you know?”

He looked up at her, those dark eyes in soft light, “Do you know you’re a pretty lady, Miss Son? Has anybody told you that?”

Mari chuckles, “I don’t think so.”

“Well, you should know that much. But then I like you more than that,” he finishes, cuddling into her one last time before releasing her.

Jeongin looked up at her from where he was clutching Minho's hand. He had walked into her room as usual this morning. It only took him five seconds to remember that this was her last day with them. He sat on her bed the entire time she brushed her hair, fingers fidgeting over her bedcover. Mari had seen the eldest earlier this morning when they were all dressing up; ushering the others quietly into a huddle and overheard him telling them not to be very distressed about the parting—Mari could not blame him, it would be very hard if the eight of them all cried. But Jeongin took a lot harder time to contain it; his brothers can put on some good humour, restraint or distraction despite the sombre eyes they shared; and Mari would not blame the youngest either for his downturned lips and red eyes. She kneeled back and reached out for him, smiling as she met his watery eyes, just a drop away from flowing out.

“I’ll cry for the last time. But I promise I won’t again,” he whispered, then throwing himself into her arms. “I’ll be a good boy, I promise. I’ll be better.”

She rocked his shaking form and brushed his strewn hair and tears. “You are a good boy, Jeongin, whether you cry or not,” she assured him. “Remember that.”

She could not hold him long enough until his tears subsided; Minho’s hand on his back reminded him of it. But despite his tears, the boy was not in a fit of cries, his shaky sniffles restrained. Mari kissed his brows and touched their foreheads, finding it harder to tear away from the boy. Hyunjin offered his hand, and the two stood away side by side—the elder being most affected by the younger, thus they shared their sadness leaning toward one another.

Minho approached; grave yet assured. His trembling lips could not speak much, but steady enough to give a smile. Mari pulled him in; being nearly as tall as her, he could hook his head easily upon her shoulder.

“I think I’ll miss you the most,” she whispered.

There was a hum. “Thank you,” he said after some pause—words did not glide easily out of him today. “I don’t think we’ve said much about how grateful we are. But…—thank you, for everything.”

He nodded, as if assuring himself. But Mari waited. His mouth opened, then he pressed it close and licked his lips, took a breath. “I might as well add that we love you. Lots,” Minho added, a whisper to her hearing.

Mari’schest tightened, so she pulled him close and kissed his brows, with all the love and blessing she might return to the boy. But soon they parted let—and the lack of his warmth alarmed her with the realisation that this was the parting. She had barely comprehended their goodbyes.

The seven of them had assembled back together, and Mari only needed to turn on her heels and step into the carriage to have it done with. But she took one last look at each of their faces; duty reprimanding her to not linger while fondness beseeched her for just five more minutes to remember the lines and angles and the warm light over their tresses. She tried picturing their gleeful face, those days she let them run rampant on the fields. But in the present sombre ambience, they would not be provoked to. Unless she proposed it.

“Do you know? If a ground mole was to poke his head out of the ground today, I believe it would have shaken itself and declared this day as sunny as any other grand one.”

Their blinks seemed to happen together, and soon bewildered frowns or gaping mouths appeared before her. Mari bit her lips to hold her smirk, letting them stare at her long enough before easing her still face into mischief.

“He can feel the warmth but the clouds would have been very blurry to him. If you get the nonsense I’m saying,” she shrugged.

She would have left them in confusion, but it only took one second for Minho to snort out a laugh, and Jisung followed him in realisation—and soon the understanding was shared with everyone. Half of them might have remembered the amusing picture books they read a few days back, and the others might have not a single knowledge or recollection about it, and merely found decent hilarity at her sudden declaration. Ridiculous, but it does the work, for once Changbin made a strangled whimper in holding back his laugh, and everyone bursted into cackles—even Jeongin could not help the smile through his tears.

"Boys?" she called, steadying her smile as they all looked at her.

"I love you all very much."

Yongbok made a noise between a surprised laugh and a cry, but he nodded even as his fist pressed to his eyes to stop the tears from flowing. Jisung steadied him, and with blotched-faced Hyunjin murmured their love in return. Seungmin and Jeongin stared, the second youngest's tears now breaking out. Minho and Changbin could only smile through the tears. The eldest raised a hand in a wave, and with a warmer heart, Mari turned to the carriage.

Mari lets Commodore Bang help her in and settle inside. He stood by after closing the door, watching her with a smile and sorrowful eyes. Again, his hand rested upon her window as he shut her door, and it was nearly thoughtless how her hand reached out to it and how he grasped hers back in return. His hold was familiar, and his gaze no less assured and steadfast as it had been the past few days. Some pull compelled her to reach for him, to hold and kiss him as she did to the boys. But no. She blinked away the unbidden thoughts. But the warmth of his palm remained enclosing hers—selfishly she savoured it, the strength and warmth it gave her. Mari looked again into his eyes and saw in them... an urgency. She waited for a breath, then another. But nothing came, and her hand slipped back to her lap. The Commodore let out a heavy breath. She cursed her thoughts upon the man, engaged and promised to a fine lady as he was.

Still, his shadow loomed over the window, and Mari found his eyebrows now raised in concern to her. Mari would have laughed at the prospect that she might never find another man as attentive, had this day been more humorous. She let out a smile to assure him all was well, while her eyes trailed over that kind face—pale and lined as ever—but loving; nothing less but love and fondness emanating through it. She feared she would forget it.

He seemed alerted by the lengthy pause they had made by the side of the carriage, so Commodore Bang sighed with a shudder and forced out an easier facade. “Safe journey, Miss Son,” he said.

Commodore Bang stepped away and bid the carriage to drive on; as it shook with motion, her heart felt as if a great hole had been punched into it. Before she knew it they were turning around the fountain. She looked out of the window, turning back to the eight figures behind her.

“Thank you!” she cried out, despite her tightened throat. When she could no longer look from the side window, she turned to the small window on the back. Jisung and Yongbok were running after the carriage, running past the Commodore. They did not make it far until they could only stand still, but Mari looked on—until the carriage turned north, out of the gate, and the house and the parks were completely obstructed from her sight.

For some moments she did not let herself think of anything—neither despair nor disappointment nor happiness. Her eyes trailed over the moving fields and rising hills, until she became aware of the bundles in her hand. Slowly, she opened the one from Minatozaki-san and found inside the softest handkerchief of linen, embroidered with cornflowers in the corners, alongside her initials. She knew it would be a treasured kerchief, to remind herself of the kind housekeeper, a dear friend. The other is from the Commodore, her payment. She could not help but open the flaps, just to savour an item they exchanged. But to her shock, it contained not only the fourth part of her payment but also a cheque for four times the amount. ‘For a good service’ was written on the flap, and for the hours proceeding she could do little but stare at the note, emotions clashing inside her.

sure. talk about flowers, give her one, give her an outrageous bonus, hold her hand, but don't vomit your feelings, chan.

their handholdings would have been outrageous for the time except for the fact that aside from the handshakes, one of them wears gloves when the others don't.

my girl mari and her sense of obligation and her deep longing. we're nearing the end of the tale folks, how are we feeling? please look forward to the grand finale, if I can attempt to conclude it this semester break.

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