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post-apocalyptic-fantasy-au · 6 months ago

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Tango started sneezing about twenty minutes after leaving the lab. By the time they reached the city's outskirts, six hours later, he was a sniffling mess, eyes burning and nose running, throat tight. Every part of his skin not covered in scales was covered in rashes. On top of that, his legs felt like jelly, there was a sharp pain tearing his sides open, every step hurt his feet and his lungs felt like they were on fire.

"Maybe we should stop for a bit," Torchy suggested, concerned. The little dragon was flying around Tango's head since his touch irritated Tango's skin even more.

"We should... get somewhere less... open... first." Tango was gasping, every breath a struggle.

But he refused to stop. It was just allergies and a lack of exercise, it would all calm down once his body got used to being outside the lab's sterile walls. The best thing to do was to keep pushing, keep, walking, force his body to adapt. He would survive allergies, he would survive being unfit. He wasn't sure he would survive what wandered around out here, beyond the city limits, where laws barely applied and civilisation ended.

Sometimes, when the scientists in the lab worked late, they'd come into Tango's room at night and he'd light a little fire in the middle and they'd sit around telling scary stories. He was told it was a human tradition older than time. Far too often, those stories included werewolves who refused to abide by the palace's laws, vampires who were so consumed by their bloodlust they'd lost all their humanity, human-born sirens who had forsaken community in favour of luring travellers away from their paths.

Cub had once sworn up and down that a garden faerie had tried to gouge out his eyes, killing every plant in a ten-foot radius in the process, and to this day he still didn't know how he'd escaped intact.

Doc had then scoffed and claimed it was all hearsay, but the tale had stuck with Tango. He was rather fond of his eyes, and preferred not to risk losing them.

"I can keep going," he said to Torchy. "I can... I'll be fine."

They had barely walked another hour before Tango was forced to stop by his feet - which were dragging on the floor - hooking on a rock, sending him plummetting with a yelp.

"Tango!" Torchy gasped, swooping down to join him on the ground.

"I'm- I'm fine," Tango assured him, running a hand across Torchy's scales. "I'm fine."

Tango allowed himself twenty seconds of rest - he counted each one - before pushing himself back to his feet.

"Just a little further," he told himself.

He could see a small copse of trees in the distance. If he could just make it that far, he'd be fine. It was close. Just a little further.

When, after a few seconds, it became clear his feet weren't moving any time soon, he sighed and sank into a crouch, absently itching his arm.

"I'm fine," he whispered, staring at the trees, like repeating it will make it true.

He shook his head, shaking that thought out of it. He was fine. This was just a normal bodily reaction, and it would pass. It wasn't like he was dying or anything. He was fine. He just needed a few more seconds to rest. Then he'd be able to command his legs to move again, and he could keep going.

He was fine.

That was when he heard the voice: "Hello! What do we have here?"

Tango leapt to his feet, twisting around and staggering back and falling onto his butt as he yelled, "Hagagah!"

Hovering in front of him was a garden faerie with pink hair and eyes, and a dress made out of a brown leaf that seemed to be clinging to life by the fingertips - leaftips? The creature was a little more than three inches tall, his hair short and messy.

"What're you doing all the way out here?" he asked, flying a little closer to Tango's face.

Tango squeaked. "Please don't steal my eyes!"

"Steal your eyes?" the faerie chuckled. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know!"

The creature laughed again. "I'm Zedaph. What are you?" He spoke the question slowly, drawing out each word.

"Don't you mean who?" Tango couldn't help but ask.

"Nope!" Zedaph flew a few laps around Tango, faster than he could follow. "I've never seen anything like you before!"

"I'm Tango."

"RIght. Aaand, what's a Tango?"

"Well, me, obviously!"

"Right! Of course, why didn't I think of that?" He was laughing again.

Zedaph's voice was strange, quiet and high-pitched and buzzy, and he spoke English like his mouth wasn't meant to ever have any of these sounds in it. And yet, every single sound came out clear and amost easy. Sure, he spoke slowly, drawing out most of his words, but he never faltered and stuttered, only paused and hesitated now and then.

"And this is-" Tango paused to sneeze. "-Torchy."

Torchy landed on Tango's head, peering at Zedaph through the flames. Zedaph grinnged at the little dragon.

"Very nice to meet ya, Torchy!"

"Of course it is," Torchy muttered, getting comfortable on his perch.

Zedaph's grin faded and his tiny features twisted into a frown as he looked at Tango.

"Hey, you don't look too good," he noted.

"I'm fine," Tango insisted again. Then immediately was wracked by a sneezing and coughing fit, barely managing to find time in between to breathe. When he emerged, his throat hurt more than ever, his eyes itched like they were full of powder and his chest burned. He leaned over his knees, which were pressed against his chest, and panted for breath.

"Yes, I can see that." Even when he was concerned, his voice seemed to carry a laugh, like he couldn't help but find a joke in every detail. "Hey, I think I know something that could help!"

And, before Tango could say a word, the little faerie flew off.

"Well, that was... weird," Tango said to Torchy, who merely grumbled. He'd been thrown off Tango's head during the coughing fit, and was instead curling up on the rock that had sent Tango crashing to the ground minutes ago. Tango poked him. "Don't get too - ACHOO - comfortable. We need to get moving again. Just cause this faerie didn't steal our eyes, doesn't mean the next one won't."

"He's fetching something!" Torchy protested, like he was settling down for any reason that wasn't bedtime. "We should wait for him!"

"He's probably fetching a swarm to pick us apart piece by piece. We can't just hang around here." He glanced up at the trees. They just had to make it to there.

"Just a little further," Tango pleaded.

"Give me ten minutes," Torchy insisted. Seconds later, he was fast asleep.

"Oh you-" Tango reached out to grab the dragon by his tail to shake him awake, but was interrupted by Zedaph's voice.

"Here we are!"

Tango looked up to see the faerie flying over, his wings struggling to lift both his own body weight, and the small glass vial he was clinging to.

The vial was a good inch taller than Zedaph, and filled with a dark purple liquid. Tango didn't know where he'd gotten it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"What's this?" he asked instead, holding out a hand to let Zedaph drop the vial and land, giving his poor wings a rest.

"Medicine!" Zedaph looked proud of himself. "It should fix you right up!"

Tango frowned, looking at the liquid sceptically. "You want me to... drink it."

"No, I want you to pour it on your toes. Yes, I want you to drink it!"

Tango sighed, lifting the vial with his other hand so that Zedaph could stay where he was. He sniffed the medicine. It smelled... bad. Fake. Human.

He sighed. What did he have to lose, at this point? After only a second's hesitation, he downed the whole thing in one gulp, trying to get it out of his mouth as quickly as possible. Zedaph flew off his hand as his entire body jerked involuntarily at the taste of the stuff.

It tasted, somehow, even worse than it smelled. Like every piece of artificial food he'd been given over the centuries rolled into one disgusting mixture. Tango shuddered and hurried to pull a flask of water from his bag to wash away the taste, first rinsing his mouth and spitting out the water, than swallowing to clear his throat, as well.

"It's not that bad!" Zedaph protested in that strange, laughing voice of his.

"It definitely is that bad." Tango coughed. He didn't feel remotely different, better or otherwise. If anything, the swallowing had made his sore throat worse. "And it didn't even work!"

"Well, give it time!"

Tango huffed and started trying to get up again, but Zedaph flew right into his face.

"No, no, stay down until it kicks in!"

"I need to keep moving."

"We can keep moving in about twenty minutes. You might fall again if you get up now."

"I'll be fine."

"Tango."

Tango sighed. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath that was sliced to pieces by another coughing fit. Wiped his runny nose. And leaned back onto his elbows.

Zedaph stayed with him, chatting away about something Tango paid no mind to. He was too busy trying to breath without coughing his guts up to listen to a word that was said.

Until finally, slowly, the pain lessened. His throat opened up entirely, all pain vanishing, and his nose dried up and stopped running. When he breathed, it was without the constant scratching he'd been dealing with all day, and he didn't even nearly cough.

Tango let out a jubilant, incredulous laugh. It had worked! It had really worked!

"That sounds promising." Zedaph flew back up to his face. "Feeling better?"

"Loads. How did you do that?"

"Secrets of the trade, my friend."

When Tango stood up, the only shakiness came from the exhaustion of walking for a full day. When he crouched down to wake Torchy, he didn't nearly collapse at all. Somehow, in twenty minutes, Zedaph had fixed him completely.

The faerie accompanied them when they started moving again, Torchy flapping along sleepily beside Tango's head.

The excitement was short-lived, however, because halfway to the trees, without any change in the weather, Tango was suddenly freezing. With shivering hands, he grabbed the coat that was still draped over the bag and pulled it on. Both Torchy and Zedaph watched him, confused.

Torchy settled on Tango's head, leaning forward so his face was upside down in Tango's vision. "Tango?"

Dragon's weren't built to be cold, and Tango was no exception. He could feel himself weakening by the second.

Zedaph went to land on Tango's hand, but quickly shot back up into the air.

"Holy moly! You're boiling!"

"N- no?" Tango frowned. "I'm freezing! Hence the coat, genius!"

He just had to make it to the trees. He could collapse there, when he wasn't so in the open. Just a little further.

"Maybe you should sit down," Zedaph suggested.

Tango shook his head, then stumbled, losing his balance. The whole world had tipped, leaning wildly to the right for a second.

"Maybe you should listen," Torchy told him, his claws clinging into Tango's scalp to stay on. He was still upside down.

"Just a little further," Tango muttered, his words slurring together. "Juss a lil-"

A figure appeared at the treeline, all the wrong shapes and sizes, built all wrong. It seemed to watch them, though it was impossible to tell properly from so far.

Zedaph spotted the figure at the same time as Tango, announced, "I'll go get help!" then zipped off at top speed towards the figure.

Tango took one step after him, then another, then went careening wildly forwards, just barely catching himself before he splatted. Torchy shrieked as he was flung off Tango's head, flinging out his wings to stay in the air.

Just a little further.

The next step had him falling to his knees. The world was still dancing circles around him, and now its corners were fading away to blackness.

He struggled to get back to his feet, but the best he could do was one foot before falling to the side as the world gave another sickening jolt. He stomach turned, and he leaned over and emptied its meagre contents onto the ground.

He was vaguely aware of someone calling his name, then two someones, as his vision faded completely to black.

The last thing he heard was a feminine voice gasping, "I'm sorey I took so long!"

Then everything stopped.

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#did i proofread this?#no #no i did not #story #pafau #mcyt #hermitcraft #life series #tangotek #tango #zedaph #Torchy

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deafsignifcantother · 1 year ago

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if music be the food of love chapter three

♥ here you go lovies, it's series time | chapter one, chapter two, chapter four ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (queerplatonic to romance) ♥ word count: 2.4k ♥ pinterest board ♥ notes: chapter summary: alastor is a bit uncomfortable with how close he is with reader, which has never happened before since their friendship was private, but now that she is in the hotel he realizes that he has a potential weakness ♥ no tag list rn :3

Every now and then, in the room across from you, quiet jazz would play, rich only under the sound of your music, but it still reeks of exclamation uncharacteristic of the music's Earthly presence. It's a blistering noise that requires the knock on a door to stop. The sight of Alastor whenever he opens his bedroom door at the interruption of a knock strikes fear into the other residents. His smile is deadly, and his eyes burn into his peers. They get reminded of his power.

His charming mystery.

And he made the dress less than six inches from you when you slept. After a stirless sleep, you wake up to a dress draped on the mattress by your feet. The first thing you notice is the lace layers that are guaranteed to itch your skin. Tonight is your welcome party, a last-minute plan (due to your sudden appearance). There will be no dress code, no inch of modesty, but Alastor decides himself that you will be covered. Suffice it to say it is not a surprise, especially considering he isn't a fan of modern nudity, puffy skirts with breasts peeking out, heels too high to walk comfortably on dirt, and so forth, and would throw up if he saw you in such. Possessive or protected?

What you want to reveal is no business with him (as if you really would). But you are ready for your life to be led by his smiles and soft touches, as your new public appearance will need guidance; you are ignorant of current times. Or that's what you tell yourself.

Your old clothes, once your trusted companions, are now reclined over the lounge chairs by the fireplace. They have transformed like you (how did you end up at the Hazbin Hotel after being a fierce overlord?) into something different, something less familiar. But still, a better thought fuels you: this is a chance to renew.

After dressing, loosening your collar, and fidgeting with the length of your sleeves, you enter the hallway, not at all shy but not confident enough to assert your presence. The first good morning to Alastor is the hardest. You quickly discover that it flusters you to greet him so close to the time when you wake up. By his smile, you just know that your music is playing a symphony; curse that thing.

Your mind wanders into a world of memories, the fancy clothes you used to dress him in, the smile he would give you, and your music conjures the same smile; that's where you remember it from.

"See?" He motions up and down you. "The most exquisite lady I've seen in my death."

You almost finish an eye roll before he grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. The movement is not prolonged at all but so swift that you barely have a chance to process it. The way he swiftly turns around, his head going before his body, hints as to why. He must pull away before anybody spots the affection.

There could have been a better banner, but Angel spilled paint over one of the corners, and Charlie spent a few minutes crying in the limited time. You stare up at it with amazement anyway. Whose handwriting is that? It's better than most of the overlords.

"I don't think I've ever painted a banner before," you sign to Alastor. He nods, looking up at it, his smile growing. You continue, "I wonder if they would have let me help."

"Your own welcome sign? Not a chance, though Charlie loves a group activity, perhaps it was a bonding exercise."

Charlie hops over at the sight of her name sign, finally overcoming the awkwardness and not wanting to interrupt a conversation. Somehow, she thinks ASL feels more personal. Well, as do most hearing people.

"Do you like it? Do you like it?" She signs in only two motions, her eyes bright when she sees you understand her.

You give a small smile, placing your hands on hers to calm her down, her touch is extremely warm, before signing. "Thank you so much for this, I feel very welcomed. You're so kind."

"Yes," a simple word as her eyebrows furrow slightly with frustration at her small vocabulary. "I tried!"

Your eyes look around at the people, each patiently waiting for you to initiate a conversation by walking up. Since when did they get so awkward?

The moment you walk away, Charlie turns her attention to Alastor.

You give Nifty a small smile, looking at the cookies she impatiently holds. In contrast, Angel holds onto her waist, ensuring she doesn't rush over to you the moment she sees you. She drops the tray when you approach conversation stops, and they rattle on the metal. Angel lets her go with a slight look of hesitation. He doesn't even acknowledge you.

"A dress! A beautiful one!" She runs her fingers down her own dress as a classifier.

You nod. "That's due to Alastor, he—"

"Worked his magic? Your red matches his."

"Does it?"

You turn around, glancing for a second at the shade of his suit and then down at your dress. You suppose, but it is a bit darker, though that might be due to velvet. What you notice is your matching sleeves. While looking back at Nifty, she immediately starts signing again. Angel stands awkwardly, unsure if he should walk away, but he pays attention to the signing anyway. Would he be willing to learn? You hope.

"How full is your closet? What do the dresses look like? Are they naughty?"

You pick up a cookie awkwardly, giving it a small bite and signing with one hand only for the first sentence. "Well, Alastor is the one who needs to fill my closet and he hasn't yet. I doubt he'd let me wear something he would consider distasteful."

"How dare he..." she squints her eye at him.

"Right?" The slight smile on your face is contagious enough to lighten her face.

"How's the cookie? Do you like it? I didn't put any roaches in it this time." An invisible laugh leaves her lips.

You look down at it momentarily, a bit skeptical, lifting it again. No insect legs are visible, but you still put it back down, no longer taking bites. You started the day with the same soft classical music from your heart, but now it is a more jolly sound. Praying that you don't start making Angel uncomfortable, you give a small wave, which he returns. Then Husk comes to save the day with a freshly opened bottle in his hand while he signs with the other.

"Ain't seen a lick of sign language before."

"You hadn't either."

He smirks, the friendliness catching you a bit off guard. "First time for everything."

With the most neutral face you can muster in such a friendly environment, you begin to turn away. "Of course there is."

The air lightens as you turn back around, letting Husk and Angel have their conversation. Charlie is still excitedly talking to Alastor, copying his signs, and surprisingly so is Vaggie.

Once they notice you're watching, they stop. Charlie puts her hands behind her back and smiles awkwardly as if she had been caught in an act.

Less than ten minutes later, the event feels tiresome. Having Alastor interpret for you and dealing with hearing people attempting to sign becomes unbearable. Just like at the overlord meetings, you and Alastor side-eye each other constantly. The only positive you can think of is that Husk is not hiding away.

"Awfully tiring," says Alastor, crossing his legs from the couch where he sits next to you. "Why must I be subjected to these superficial conversations."

His claw circling around his knuckles is smooth enough to allure your interest. His hands are so careful, so lovely. Hiding your interest, you give him your usual small smile.

In your imagined scenarios, you can force a yawn and say you are going to bed, and Alastor would be there to tuck you in as he did years ago. Perhaps you'd wake up to a bouquet of dead roses. Foolish girl, you can almost imagine him telling you if he were a mind reader.

As you look around again, scanning to ensure no one has been trying to get your attention, Vaggie's eyes connect with yours. Her brow raises in recognition, understanding. Your shoulders stiffen, and the shame pulsating in your heart is the worst feeling in the world. But that is before Charlie captures your attention again, flashing her same old smile and hopping up and down.

And then she motions behind you. Angel brings out a cake, holding it steadily, looking down at it with a bit of jealousy. Instead of helping when the cake was baking, Angel stood at the kitchen doorway and watched how the residents came together. He was invited to help of course, but he hated what they were celebrating.

You can't help but let your eyes widen. The cookies and now this?

While you wait for Charlie to get ahold of herself and her squeals (as if the cake was made for her), you stand and hold your hands in front of you, not exactly understanding what to do at this moment. Nifty comes to distract you, climbing up your body and fiddling with the collar of your dress. You let her.

"I hope it's good," Charlie figures out how to say. "We cooked together, for you!"

Charlie believes in ending a day with something that can make somebody smile. And here you are, smiling at her, not caring to hide your facial expressions. Your music exposes your emotions enough.

The cake gets placed on the table in front of the couches, and you sit on the carpet, legs folding under you. Your soon-to-be friends huddle around. Will they trust you with a knife? Apparently so, and you make sure to hold it carefully. You're not going to let your status as an ex-overlord scare them enough to not trust you with something as simple as a knife. It slices perfectly, the cake having a perfect texture, looking so soft inside. Your hand twitches, your claws digging a bit into your palm, but not noticeable enough to worry anyone. Is this a trap? No, Charlie wouldn't allow that. But what if this is why Husk has been so friendly.

You finish slicing, managing to cut it evenly. It reminds you of the living world, the times you've watched people cut cakes, especially as a kid. Alastor doesn't mind your souring mood until he notices that your melodies are transitioning into a minor key. In an instance, unconsciously (well, regrettably subconsciously), he uses his shadows to form next to you, leaning in close while taking the knife from your hand and spinning it, making it disappear into flames. The overall mood hasn't changed, but the moment he moves to summon a plate, your eyes lock on his movements. Alastor has gotten so considerate towards you that he touched something so sweet, holding the plate in his hand with a fork.

It happens, something unpredictable.

Everybody watches as he lifts a bite and holds it to your lips. You blink before your eyes brighten. Just like that, you lean forward and wrap your lips around the fork, your focus sharpening; everybody is watching. It distracts you from basking in the enchanting taste.

"Excellent," he puts the plate down and puts all his effort into not grimacing at the sight of it. "Wasn't that nice?"

You hold your breath, determining whether that is rhetorical or sarcastic. You go along with it, shrugging and leaning a bit forward, tilting your head, something you used to do when you wanted him to touch his forehead with yours.

You pretend he does, closing your eyes to ignore his stiff posture, and you pull away.

Charlie mends you with a gaze as kind as an innocent child. Something passes between you two. Is your attraction to him that obvious? Curses.

That's the most sinister part of Hell.

He walks you to your bedroom just as you hoped he would, but he doesn't step inside. He does wrap his arms around you, though, his voice vibrating against your body. Stop speaking, you want to say, but you don't dare pull away. All you can do is drown in the gratefulness of the once-ordinary affection. His constant withdrawal is obvious, and of course you understand why. But you assumed behind closed doors he would revert back to the lovely language you two share. But no, he doesn't. He doesn't even try.

Pulling away involves letting go of the warmth of his body. You already miss the feeling of his breathing. He puts a hand behind your neck and does what you crave the most, rests his forehead against yours. His bangs brush your hairline, and you smile.

"Thank you," you sign. Alastor's smile grows, becoming soft, and his eyes flicker around, his shadow spinning down the hall before he takes your hand, just like in the morning. He presses his lips to your knuckles, closing his eyes and exhaling while he pulls away. With the moment of eye contact, his hand slips away from you, and without further words, he leaves into his room.

Your bedroom feels especially empty when you close the door in front of him. That's not the way it should be.

The large window attached to your room hardly offers a view of the beautiful city. This hill should be high enough to spot the different sections, but the huge buildings within the middle of the city shields a lot of the environment.

You only get three steps closer to the window when you worry he's just standing in front of your door. It's such a pointless thought, a momentary wish. Maybe he is waiting for you to realize his presence and offer him entrance. But when you open it, you're met with nothing, nobody. Unfortunate.

You need to stop fantasizing like a little girl.

You decide to distract yourself with the privilege of staying at such a prestigious building.

You cut through the sign on the roof toward the dark red lining of the end of the roof. Awestruck, your eyes widen, and you halt in place. You can see the entire Pentagram Circle from high above, and your music gets loud enough to hear from the ground. The different gradients of red you would have never been able to see until now reflect in your eyes, the same way moonlight would. A cool breeze messes with the lace on your sleeves and rubs against your skin as you knew it would when you put the dress on.

When the rare clouds begin to hide the lighting from the radiant Pentagram above, the breeze starts to freeze, and Heaven's clock becomes the brightest light. Back inside you go. As always.

#x deaf reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #x reader #alastor x reader #if music be the food of love

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hajimsblog · 2 months ago

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It's Midnight Again (Part 1)

It's said that, when the school hallways go dark and quiet, the natural ambience is replaced with something else. Should you be bold enough to trespass after hours, you'd be treated to a personalized symphony.

Naturally, Iowa had heard nothing about these rumors. The only reason why they sped down vacated halls was to clear their own mind. The best way to do that was exercise. Although their original plan was to make a beeline to the gym, a certain melody had caught their attention. It was unfamiliar, but nostalgic. It was something that only served to frustrate them further. They change directions, if only to silence the source.

The music lead Iowa to a kitchen flooded with a purple haze. It smelled like lavender and something else Iowa couldn't discern. They grit their teeth, expecting a familiar itch to creep onto their skin. But the sensation never came. Instead, their previous frustrations became lesser as their eyes scanned the dark room. They noted that they shouldn't have been able to see at all, but the haze surprisingly helped.

Although the music had grown louder as they approached, it soon started to fade after Iowa entered the kitchen. Just as they were about to leave, the haze began to solidify directly in their path. As if condensing into a single area, a humanoid silhouette formed from the haze. At their sides, Iowa balled their hands into fists, but they were tired. They just stared into the eyes of the woman towering over them. They mused that their face looked friendly enough, at least.

Despite her human appearance, Iowa noted that she was glowing even brighter than the haze that made her flowing hair. Despite their exhaustion, Iowa forced a lazy smile onto their face.

"You're not here to kill me for trespassing, are you?"

"Of course, especially since I lead you in here," the woman said in a soft tone. It caught Iowa off guard enough to release the tension in their fists. When Iowa doesn't respond, the woman continues. She was analyzing Iowa just as much as they did to her, but the purple woman was more obvious about it. She floated circles around Iowa, burning their every angle into her mind.

"I hadn't expected you to look like this. Your dreams were so dark, and yet," She said, frowning.

"Didn't realize you had the power of dreams, Girly," Iowa finally spoke. The woman only frowned deeper.

"Of course. The dreams of students are what I'm made of. They are what I strive to protect."

"You're some kind of fae, then? What's your name?"

The woman gasps, and immediately stands in front of Iowa again. She curtsies, grabbing a hold of her cape.

"I am Divinitas, the unofficial guardian of the students here. I'd like to be your guardian too."

Upon hearing the intro, internally, Iowa scoffed.

"My guardian, huh? That's hilarious," Iowa says in their usual tone. Dismissive. Guarded.

Divinitas held both of Iowa's hands to her own chest.

"We have never met face to face, but your dreams are very important to me. Please, let me aid you Morada!"

Iowa's gaze drifted towards their own captured hands. They felt numb.

"You wanna help my dreams huh? Help me raid the fridge. I'm hungry."

#tales of grandier #iowa morada #Divinitas #my writing

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thedelilah75xl · 1 year ago

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03/03/2024

My Saturday was ok, but I had an allergic reaction to my meds. My whole body was itching....so took allergex and that helped. My wound was uncomfortable today.... my girlfriend visited me and brought some grapes and flowers....she knows I love my fruit. But I shouldn't because it makes me gain weight. But I ate it anyway....I made us chicken salad again. Red meat is giving Me inflammation.

This will be my go to meal and it's healthy. My collagen is finished and I ordered some on line, hopefully it won't take too long to get here hopefully it will help with lightening my scars ..it's good for skin and hair. So my friend visited me is 8 years younger than me...but I actually are jealous of her life. She's divorced from her husband, she told Me she just married him for his money. But they got divorced and she moved out when her baby was 3months old. He gave her a House, until her son is 18.

She's pretty, have a to die for body and she's engaged to a new man...spoiling her rotten.

Paying for Botox every 3rd month. Doing her nails at the most expensive nail salon. Because she's so high maintenance I'm her only girlfriend...she a threat to other woman.....it was with her birthday I opened a video of my master and she saw it and asked me about it ....

I'm feeling so guilty eating all the grapes plus my chicken salad ... especially when I'm not allowed to exercise I want to eat as little as possible.

So my master are better with me. Just the feeling of him on my side makes Me extremely happy . I mastrubated but I did not cum easily...I did not enjoy it .I think it's because I did not feel well ......my face is still burning today from the allergic reaction. And I did not drink enough water, I feel my kidneys is suffering with the pain meds....

I hope today will be a better day

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leiawritesstories · 3 years ago

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i was reading about people whose very cheap aliexpress smart watches exploded or caught on fire and i thought it’d be a good prompt? burned wrist and rowan was a hot doctor or maybe it turned into a serious fire?? idk i just thought you’d be amazing at writing an avoidable explosion leading to romance lol if you feel like it?

OMG THIS IS HILARIOUS AND IT'S SO THEM THANK U SO MUCH MARIA

word count: 1,895

warning: language, non-severe injuries

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a completely normal day, the morning sun warm but not uncomfortable against Aelin’s skin as she jogged along the familiar trail with Fleetfoot’s leash clipped to her waist, getting in her morning exercise and letting the excitable golden retriever expend her boundless energy. She glanced at her smart watch, an imitation Apple watch she’d impulsively bought off Aliexpress because the price was too damn good to resist.

No matter Lys’s warnings. Bitch, you better be ready for the thing to be worth the five dollars you paid. Goddamn, girl, you trying to hurt yourself? You know about all those people whose Aliexpress shit exploded! And finally, just her best friend’s famous eyeroll when Aelin got the package, opened it, and promptly started wearing the watch everywhere. Because it looked like the real deal. And, if she was being honest, it worked like one too. She’d barely noticed the difference, and Aelin Galathynius wasn’t one to not recognize when something was a fake.

She spared a quick glance at the watch as she jogged around the trail’s loop, half-propelled by her energetic pup. 2 miles. Time to loop back. Whistling to her enthusiastic dog, she circled all the way around the loop, pulling Fleetfoot back into course as they headed home.

A few minutes later, Aelin’s wrist started to itch beneath her watch. She shifted the little screen, thinking it would relieve the itch. To her mild surprise, the screen felt...hot? Shrugging, she dismissed it as the sunlight heating up the black glass and kept running.

Her wrist got hotter beneath the watch. She glanced down again. And did a double take. Was that...steam curling off the screen?

Right as she reached to take it off, there was a crack and a pop of smoke, and the cheap-ass watch belched out a handful of sparks and a whole lot of steam and heat and cracked into pieces.

“Shit!” Aelin shrieked, tossing the shattered pieces of her discount watch onto the ground. At her feet, Fleetfoot whined, sensing something wrong. “It’s okay, pup, I’ve only been proven wrong. Again.” She sighed. “Ugh, Lys is gonna have a fucking field day.” She moved her hand, testing. “Shit!” she exclaimed again, seeing the bright red burn on the back of her wrist and a couple of cuts from the watch breaking apart.

She’d better take care of that.

Mentally calculating the distance home, Aelin swore, realizing that her wrist was beginning to drip blood and she should really go into urgent care and make sure there wasn’t anything very wrong with it. Luckily for her, the urgent care was only about a quarter-mile from where she was, not far from her apartment complex. To keep her injury from getting worse, she took off her headband and wrapped the fabric gingerly around her wrist, keeping it covered.

It wasn’t long before she’d arrived at the urgent care building, fastening Fleetfoot’s leash to the bike rack before entering the building. After a quick exchange with the receptionist, showing the kind older lady her wrist and filling out an intake form, Aelin waited a little anxiously on an ugly green chair, forcing herself to take deep breaths.

“Miss Galathynius?”

Aelin rose and followed the young woman in navy blue scrubs into one of the exam rooms. The woman gently unwrapped her wrist and examined it, her brows scrunching as she tried to determine if there was anything seriously wrong with it.

“I’m gonna go ask the doctor to come in,” she told Aelin. “See, I’m only a med student and it’s my first urgent care rotation and I’m not sure if I should call for a scan or anything.” She was almost babbling.

“Hey,” Aelin said softly, unable to help the part of her that wanted to soothe the clearly nervous student. “It’s okay, go ahead and get the doctor. Nobody’s going to blame you for wanting to be certain.” She grinned. “And I think you’re doing amazing, I would never have been able to tell it’s your first rotation.”

“Thanks.” The girl blushed. “Okay, we’ll be back in a minute.” Less than five minutes later, the student was back.

With one hell of a handsome doctor behind her.

Aelin covertly pinched herself with her good hand in a vain effort to keep her gaze from sweeping over the doctor. Tall, muscular, eyes the precise shade of the Oakwald Forest, tanned, and with silvery hair that either meant he was as old as Emrys and she was a creep or he was a silver fox. And she still looked like a creep, checking out the doctor at urgent care.

“Miss Galathynius?” the doctor asked.

Aelin snapped herself back into reality. “Yes?”

He settled himself on the wheeled stool. “Doctor Rowan Whitethorn.”

“I can read your nametag, you know,” she joked before she could think better of it. Dammit, Galathynius, do you have to be so stupid?

Surprisingly, Dr. Whitethorn chuckled. “Yeah, force of habit. I spend too much time at the hospital introducing myself to patients that I forget my name’s literally embroidered on my coat.” He tugged on a pair of blue latex gloves. “Evangeline here says you’ve injured your wrist?”

All business, then. “Yeah,” Aelin sighed, holding out her arm. Rowan’s touch was firm but gentle as he examined the burn, the cuts, his gloved hand expertly feeling for any serious damage.

She wouldn’t mind those hands feeling other parts of her.

Mentally, Aelin slapped herself. Pull yourself together! This is a professional interaction, not a bar! “So?” she asked, unable to keep a faint edge of worry out of her voice.

Rowan--no, Dr. Whitethorn--flashed her a charming little grin. “No major damage,” he reassured her. “Eva, grab me gauze, aloe, and antibiotic cream.” He turned back to Aelin. “I’ll clean you up and get you bandaged, and you’ll be all set to go.”

“Thanks,” Aelin murmured as he wiped her wrist with a warm washcloth, cleaning away any dirt that might have slipped into the injury. He took the ointments from Evangeline and dabbed some onto her wrist, covering it up with gauze and wrapping a stretchy bandage around it.

“Change the dressing before you go to bed,” he instructed. “Keep it covered for a couple of days, then you can leave off the bandage. You should be all healed in a week or so.”

“Thanks again,” Aelin grinned. “It’s a relief to know it’s not serious.”

Dr. Whitethorn chuckled. “Well, these kinds of injuries usually aren’t.”

“What?” She blinked. “You’ve seen people with this exact kind of injury?”

He just winked at her as he disposed of his gloves and stood up to leave. “The next time you want a smart watch, Miss Galathynius, you might want to buy the real thing.”

Well, shit.

A week and a half later, Aelin’s wrist had healed nicely, just like Dr. Whitethorn had said, and she, Lys, and Elide were out for drinks. She’d worn one of her favorite dresses, a form-fitting gold piece that made her ass and her tits look absolutely spectacular, and she was giggly from the shots they’d taken.

“Psst.” Lys elbowed her in the side. “Don’t look, but there’s a fuckin’ hot piece of ass staring at you.”

“What?” Aelin’s head whipped around, scanning the dimly lit bar, the place buzzing with conversation.

To find a pair of pine-green eyes locked on her.

A wicked little smirk curled the corner of her mouth. “If he’s so hot, Lys, why aren’t you going over to meet him?” she inquired, turning back to her friend as she dropped a tiny little wink in Whitethorn’s direction.

“Because he’s looking at you like he wants to rip that dress off, that’s why,” Lys snickered, sipping at her drink.

“Lys!” If the lights were brighter, Lys would have seen her blushing.

“What?” The brunette winked at her. “You don’t want to get laid?”

Aelin snorted, taking a long draw of her drink and sliding off the stool, her purse in her hand. “I’ll venmo you for drinks,” she chirped, heading onto the small dancefloor, Lys’s rather rude comment following her.

It took all of three minutes before she felt hands slide around her waist, a pine-scented cologne drifting into her nostrils. “Miss Galathynius,” Rowan Whitethorn purred. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Same to you, Dr. Whitethorn,” she returned, keeping her hips swaying to the music.

“Rowan, please,” he murmured. “Doctor is my working name, and sometimes it’s good to get away from that.”

“Rowan,” she agreed, turning to face him, her hands looping around his neck. “Then I’m Aelin.”

“How’s the wrist, Aelin?” he asked.

“Almost totally healed.”

“Good.” His voice took on a hint of a drawl. “I like seeing my patients well taken care of.”

“Then you’ll be glad to know you took very good care of me,” Aelin smirked. Two could play this game, oh yes they could.

Rowan’s hand flexed against her waist. “Your friends are staring at me,” he murmured into her ear. “It’s throwing me off.”

Aelin couldn’t contain her snicker. “Lys and Elide are extremely protective, as well as extremely meddlesome.” She grinned at him. “They’re probably just making sure you’re not as old as your hair suggests.”

“I’m thirty-one,” he sighed, “not ancient.”

“And I’m twenty-six,” she replied.

He grinned at her. “Want to go somewhere without protective friends?”

“And here I thought protection was everyone’s friend,” she mumbled.

Rowan snorted, clamping his lips together to contain the laugh that threatened to erupt. “Gods, Aelin.”

She just winked. “Yes, I’d love to.”

He linked his hand with hers, pulling her out the doors and down the street to another bar, this one a little less crowded, and led her to a booth as he waved to the bartender. “Vaughan’s an old friend, he’ll bring us whatever we need.”

“Okay.” Aelin slid into the worn, comfortable booth. “So tell me, Rowan Whitethorn, how much do you like this dress?”

They stayed at that bar until almost one in the morning, sharing stories and jokes and a couple of drinks, talking and laughing until Rowan glanced at the clock and swore. Time to get home. Like the gentleman he was, he drove her home, since she’d carpooled with Lys, stopping at her apartment building to let her out.

“Thanks for the night, Rowan,” she murmured, impulsively kissing his cheek as she reached for the door.

He caught her before she could step out, cupping one hand around the side of her face and pressing a slightly hesitant kiss to her lips. She melted into his kiss, bracing one hand on his broad shoulder for balance. When they parted, both of them were grinning.

“When can I take you out again?” Rowan asked, his soft voice stuffed full of boyish hope.

“I’ll text you,” Aelin promised. “My schedule gets awful at this time of year, what with so many publishings and launches scheduled. But I’ll make time.”

“Okay,” Rowan grinned, kissing her again.

She blew him a kiss as she walked into her building, that golden dress clinging to every curve and line of her body. In the elevator to her floor, her phone pinged with a text from Rowan.

>Can’t wait.

>And Aelin?

<Yeah?

>Wear that dress again.

Her lips curled into a sly smirk. Wear that dress again.

Oh, she would.

~~~~

TAGS: please lmk if you want to be added/removed!

@charlizeed

@cretaceous-therapod

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@flora-shadowshine

@nerdperson524

@claralady

@fireheartwhitethorn4ever

@julialovebooks

@morganofthewildfire

@rowanaelinn

@wesupremeginger

@story-scribbler

@mackenzieclutt

@stardelamode

@gracie-rosee

@shanias-world

@mybloodrunsblue

@swankii-art-teacher

@cookiemonsterwholovesbooks

@violet-mermaid7

@holdthefrickup

@goddess-aelin

@rowaelinismyotp

@dealfea

@irondork

@elentiyawhitethorn

@live-the-fangirl-life

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@chronicchthonic14

@whispers-in-the-darkest-heart

@sweet-but-stormy

@hanging-from-a-cliff

@jorjy-jo

@rowaelinrambling

@thegreyj

@silentquartz

@tomtenadia

@backtobl4ck

#my writing #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #tw: injury #doctor rowan #heeheeheehee #answered prompt

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luveline · 4 years ago

Text

in the morning, afternoon and night [Fred Weasley x Reader]

tags: reader-insert, hurt/comfort, self esteem issues, low self esteem, reader has acne, sad reader, insecure reader

pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

word count: 1.8k

You glared at your reflection.

You'd think with such amazing magical medicine available, some witch or wizard would've invented a cure for acne, or at least a spell that covered it up.

You'd struggled with it since your third year. The muggle doctor you'd seen with your mother had suggested it was hormonal, and would calm down as you got older.

That was years ago.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. It wasn't, really. It wasn't usually very painful, though it was itchy as a stinging nettle and twice as unsightly. A large part of you knew it wasn't your fault, that acne was something that simply affected people at different times in their lives. You'd tried topicals and changing your diet, you'd tried losing weight and exercising and dermaplaning and everything they suggested in your mams fashion magazines.

Nothing worked.

Tears welled in your eyes and you sniffed them back, blinking rapidly.

It might've been silly, but it honestly made you want to hide away. You'd skipped dinner without really thinking, finding your way into the girls bathroom you inhabited now. You straightened your tie and robes, dusting down the sides. You leaned forward again, dabbing under your eyes with your sleeve.

The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know you'd been crying, because then someone might ask why. You didn't want to talk about it, ever.

If Fred saw you like this...

You and Fred Weasley had been almost dating for a few weeks now. Almost, because you hadn't talked about the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing yet.

It had been years of thinking he was the fittest boy in Gryffindor (besides George) and months of meeting his gaze in the corridors and catching his eye over dinner. Gradually it had become something more; he started carrying your books between classes and opening doors, touching your arms and your hair and your face.

You cringed at the memory. He had been so caring, moving to wipe an eyelash from the skin under your eye. You'd violently flinched from his hand, afraid he might feel the bumpy texture of your skin, feel the acne beneath your makeup. He'd been apologetic and a little confused, filling you with guilt. You hadn't been able to find a way to tell him it wasn't him, it was you. Of course you wanted him to touch you, the thought of him cradling your face had been the subject of many dizzy daydreams, but you just couldn't tell him this one thing.

It was your deepest insecurity.

The stress had only made it worse. Redness was easy to cover with muggle make up and even some wizarding tricks you'd learned over the years, but there wasn't a way to smooth your skin, and the acne was textured.

It was depressing. You didn't want to use that word, it felt ungrateful to compare your skin issues to something so severe, but it made you miserable.

You but down on your quivering lip, pushing away from the mirror unhappily and opening the bathroom door, a frown on your face.

"Y/N!" a familiar voice said.

You jumped, startled but unsurprised. Fred had a talent of always knowing where you were. You'd find it creepy if he wasn't so endearing.

"Fred," you said, plastering a smile over your frown. "I was just coming to find you."

"What a coincidence, ma chérie, I was doing the same."

"Well," you began, easily sidling into his space, "you found me."

"Yes, I did," Fred hummed, wrapping his arms behind your neck, grinning.

He took a long look at your face, his forehead creased. "What's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong, Fred."

He moved his hands to your shoulders, looking down into your face searchingly. "Have you been crying?" he asked.

You shook your head, lying without thinking. "Something in my eye,"

"Both of them?"

You stepped backwards. He let go of your shoulders accordingly.

"Y/N?"

"It's really nothing," you said through a forced laugh.

He frowned at you for a few seconds more and his face cleared. "Alright," he said slowly, rolling the words in his mouth, "if you say so, doll."

You opened like a blooming flower at the pet name, your whole face softening. You smiled, hoping he understood that the smile meant, oh I just so adore you, Fred Weasley.

He threaded his fingers through yours, dragging you down the corridor beside him and waxing poetic about their newest lot of Peruvian darkness powder as you went.

It got so bad you couldn't go to class.

Okay, so you definitely could've gone to class, but the thought of leaving your curtained bed was enough to make you sick with anxiety, so worried that everyone would see you - see your face.

NEWTs were coming fast and hard. Everyone who wanted to be anyone was working hard studying their asses of, on top of Professor Umbridge's million new rules you had to abide by, including her newest life-ruining rule: Boys and girl are not to be within 5 inches of each other.

What a joke. You struggled through classes, wrote essays so long your hand burned at night and now you weren't allowed to sit next to your almost boyfriend at lunch? It was miserable. It was making you miserable, and now you may as well have sharpied on your forehead how equipped your body was to deal with it.

Fucking badly.

You groaned to yourself, rolling on your side to face the wall. You were at your wits end. It felt endlessly unfair that the thing that was stressing you out most was getting worse from stress.

Your stomach growled hungrily.

You threw your arm over your eyes in defeat, eyes finally filling with tears. You felt so hopeless. There was nothing to be done except keep up your routine until the flare up was over, or until your mothers next 'miracle cure' popped into existence.

The tears felt too hot against your sore skin. You couldn't help but sob quietly to yourself in self-pity.

A knock sounded at the door. You gasped, wiping the tears away in panic.

"Y/N?" It was Alicia. "Are you alright? Can I come in?"

"Yes," you managed. "Yes, of course. It's your room too, after all."

The door clicked open. Alicia appeared, tanned skin completely clear and glowing, though each perfect feature was marred with empathy. "Fred's been begging every girl in the common room to come fetch you, but I told him to leave you be."

"Thank you," you said.

You cleared your throat. Alicia moved her weight from foot to foot, twisting her hands.

"I- Y/N. I won't pretend to know how it feels, but I promise you, Fred won't care. He's beside himself worrying that you're bedridden and dying or-" she laughed to herself, "or that you're still mad at him for the itching powder. What I mean is... he's a good guy, and you're upset. Maybe you should tell him what's wrong. He won't care."

You sniffed. "I know," you admitted, feeling the weight of her shifting the bed. "I know he's a great guy. I just wouldn't blame him if he, if he didn't like me anymore. If he found it ugly. I would understand it, and I think that makes it worse," you choked on your words, heat building behind your eyes.

"Oh, Y/N," Alicia said, placing a tentative but comforting hand on your shoulder.

You lay in quiet, listening to your own ragged breathing.

"I'll go talk to him," Alicia said.

"No! I mean, no. Thank you, but no. I... I'll speak to him myself."

Alicia nodded, rubbing your arm kindly.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind her finally spurred you into sitting up. You dressed in a hurry, chucking a wool jumper over last nights pyjamas.

He wouldn't care, would he? You cringed. Yes, he definitely would. Whatever was between you would stop. He'd have the grace to let you down slowly, drawing away his affections. He was a polite guy, he'd probably even say the whole spiel of "it's not you, it's me". But he would, eventually.

Well, you figured. Let it be quick. Like ripping off a bandaid.

You tread lightly down the steps, hoping to see him before he saw you.

Of course, when the slightest groan on the bottom step sounded, his lovely face whipped to meet yours. He smiled in relief, but it was mixed with something else. Disgust, your brain supplied nastily. He was disgusted. He rose to his feet, smiling smiling smiling. But something in his eyes was different, now.

"Y/N," he said.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi yourself, beautiful. Where've you been all day?"

"I'm... sick. Bad cold," you settled on.

He raised an eyebrow. "You sound okay," he said, not unkindly.

"I..." you looked down at your hands.

A siren was sounding in your head. You didn't think Fred had seen you without make up for the last 3 years. Fight or flight was leaning heavily towards flight.

"Well, are you hungry?"

You shook your head.

"Are you sure? You haven't eaten all day. You need something in your system if you're gonna fight this cold."

"I'm not actually sick, Fred," you admitted under your breath.

"I know."

You looked up. He was still smiling kindly. It was infuriating.

"Look," you said finally, rushed and all at once, "if you don't want to- if you're grossed out. Then it's fine, I'll understand if you don't want to see me anymore."

Fred was stricken.

"I know it's - ugly."

"Ugly? Nothing about you is ugly."

"Fred, my face-"

"No, listen to me, Y/N. It's not ugly. It's not gross. You're not any of those things, are you kidding?" he said, grabbing your hands. "You're beautiful. All the time, in the morning, afternoon and night. You're beautiful in charms and transfiguration and care of magical creatures. You were beautiful yesterday and you're beautiful today and you'll be even more so tomorrow." He stopped suddenly, looking down at your joined hands. His cheeks had turned bright red.

"Smooth, Freddie," came George's voice, from the sofa behind them.

"Shove OFF," exclaimed Fred, growing more red by the second. Heat filled your own cheeks.

"It's skin, Y/N. That's all it is."

"Okay," you said tightly, trying not to cry.

Fred breathed out, his hair shifting in response. His corded arms pulled you tight to his chest. You breathed him in. He smelled sweet and rough, like burning caramel.

He thought you were beautiful.

You smiled into his shirt.

<3<3<3

tag list: @msmimimerton

if you’d like to be added to a tag list, please ask ! for in general or for specific characters, i don’t mind

#fred wealsey fic #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley #harry potter imagine #fred Weasley imagine #fred Weasley x reader #reader insert #reader has acne #reader is an unreliable narrator #reader x fred Weasley #fred Weasley fanfic #fred Weasley fluff #hurt/comfort #Fred weasley x reader

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fruitcoops · 4 years ago

Note

I loved your fic about Logan having a panic attack and I’ve seen a lot of fics about Sirius having a panic attack, so I was wondering if you could write about Remus having one?

Oof, yes. This fic is near and dear to my heart. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove !

TW for panic attacks, past medical trauma, and past injury

Remus licked his lips for the third time in as many minutes. A faint ringing had started in his ears, and he took a shaky breath through his nose as his throat began to tighten.

Fingers brushed against his wrist. “Mon loup? You okay?”

“We need to go,” Remus said, much quieter than he intended. The lights were burning his eyes; they were too bright, too blue, too close. “Sirius, we need to leave.”

Sirius stood in a smooth motion and wrapped an arm around his waist, casual to anyone else but solid as a bar of iron. Remus fought the urge to let his knees give out as phantom pain lanced through his shoulder and made his heart slam against his bones.

“We need to leave,” he said again.

“Deep breaths, you’ll be alright.”

“I can’t be here. Sirius, please, I can’t.”

“I know.” Sirius’ voice was soothing, but laced with tension. The world blurred and Remus trained his gaze on the speckled floor; another human-shaped blur came into his periphery and let them aside after a quick murmur from Sirius. The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and the tacky tang of medical tape seeped into his nose, dulling every other sense as Sirius practically carried him down the hallway.

A door swung shut behind them, and Remus was on the ground.

A hand wrapped around his upper arm and he smacked it away, crushing himself into the corner between two cold tile walls. He didn’t like hands. Hands poked, prodded, trapped. They connected to voices that brought only bad news and more exercises that hurt. They were always cold.

A panicked wheeze escaped his chest as he wrapped his arms around his knees and let the first tears roll down his face. He never cried in the hospital, not around other people. He could taste the cleaning solution; it burned his eyes, or maybe that was just the salt he couldn’t stop.

“I can’t breathe,” he blubbered. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not going to die.” The voice was gentle and low, and so, so sad. “Remus, can you open your eyes?”

“Don’t wanna look.” Looking meant he would see everything around him. It would break the illusion that he was home in his bed, safe and sound. That it was all a nightmare. “I wanna go home.”

“We can go home, but you need to breathe first.”

“I can’t.” He sounded pathetic. More than anything, he wanted his mom. She would sit next to him and hum under her breath, no matter how quiet or covered in fear sweat he was. His dad would soothe Jules whenever he tried climbing onto Remus’ hospital bed and let him squeeze his hand when the pain meds wore off. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Sweetheart, can I touch you?”

He nodded. A warm, callused hand slid into his and gave it a light squeeze, drawing out a fresh wave of tears that soaked into the knees of his jeans. “Thank you,” he managed in a thick voice. “Thank you, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, shh.” Steady weight settled against his side and he curled into it, blocking out the screeching in his ears. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Hurts.” The dull ache had spread to his elbow and into his chest.

“What hurts?”

“I can’t move my arm.”

“Yes, you can.” A kiss pressed against the top of his head and a broad palm rubbed warmth back into his bicep. “You’re all healed up, love.”

“We’re in a hospital.” Remus sniffled and nuzzled closer to the soft t-shirt under his cheek. His blinding panic was fading into exhaustion.

“We came here with our friends to read to some of the patients,” Sirius said. His heartbeat was calm next to Remus’ hammering pulse. “The kids in long-term care.”

“Why did I do this?” he whispered.

Sirius sighed. “You said you wanted them to feel better.”

Remus took a slow breath, letting the air fill his lungs for the first time in a while. “Did I lose it in front of them?”

“No, they had just left.”

“That’s good.” He scooted impossibly closer and wrapped a shaky arm around Sirius’ mid back. “That’s good.”

“How can I help?”

Remus stifled a yawn as the ringing finally subsided, leaving them in a silent bathroom. “I need a minute, but then I want to go home. I don’t think I’m up to lunch with everyone.”

“Okay.”

“And I need a shower.” He knew he smelled fine in real life, but his skin itched with the clinging memories.

“Okay.”

“And—and I need you to stay,” he finally said, choking the words out. “I need you.”

Sirius’ chest rose and fell with a slow breath. “Okay.”

#remus lupin #sirius black #coops #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #hospitals #panic attack

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duskandstarlight · 4 years ago

Note

POSSESSIVE PROTECTIVE CASSIAN PLEASE

This is possessive, jealous Cassian and Helion’s flirting is the culprit! I wrote this ages ago on my phone and is incomplete. The gist is that Nesta and Cassian are visiting the court so Nesta can learn more about their education system. They are not together, but sleep together with no funny business… I wrote this ages ago and it was going to go in E&L. Now it doesn’t fit, so here’s a very long bit of it…

Cassian had drank himself into a stupor and by the time he’d stumbled back to his room, it was well past midnight.

What he found surprised him: Nesta, curled up on her side of the bed beneath the covers. He heard her even breathing turn lighter. She couldn’t have been out long but her expression was riddled with sleep as she rubbed face against the pillow.

He turned away from her before she opened her eyes, the anger from earlier still clinging its sharp teeth into his gut. But he could feel her stare burning into his skin and he suddenly flushed hot with it.

He pulled off his shirt, glad of his brother’s lifelong enchantment which meant that the buttons around his wings automatically unbuttoned themselves, and started to tug off his pants.

Usually he wore loose pants and a tunic to bed but he was too drunk to care. There was also a part of him that wanted to make Nesta uneasy, just so she knew how fucking terrible he’d felt all day watching Helion flirt with her.

A fresh swell of anger burst through him and he found himself speaking before he could check himself. “Why are you here?”

He dared to turn to her then. He expected her fury and it was there, but underneath it was hurt. It made him feel like a prize prick.

Nesta sat up and his eyes automatically flicked to her cleavage that was on show in her low neck nightgown - he couldn’t help it - and she hissed at him through the long, golden hair that hung down her face in waves before she tucked it behind an ear.

She studied him for a moment. “You left.”

“Yes,” he said, but the way he said it he may as well have said, and what?

“You didn’t say goodbye,” she embellished.

Cassian made his shrug loose but he knew he wasn’t fooling her. “You were busy with Helion.”

Nesta snorted. “When has that ever stopped you from interrupting before?”

“You looked like you we’re enjoying the attention.”

Even in the darkness, Cassian saw Nesta’s eyes flash bright with anger, but she only said, “Yet here I am.”

Cassian clenched his jaw. He knew she hadn’t bedded Helion - he’d have scented it on her the moment he had stepped into his room. Hell, he’d have probably known prior to that. He’d seen flashes of roiling flesh and the sounds of panted moans from her before, even if it was over a year ago. He couldn’t go through that again. His heart couldn’t take it.

His eyes hardened at the thought and he stared her down. She looked right back, unflinching, as he told her with bite, “I don’t care. Fuck who you want.”

Lies, lies, lies. And Nesta - his unflappable hellcat - flinched. Her answering snarl was soft and menacing. He could tell he wasn’t far off from being blasted with that power of hers. He could feel the pressure building.

“You’re being a territorial bat,” she hissed, a finger stabbing through the air between them. Silver sparked like stars before fading into nothing.

Tossing his clothes onto the armchair beside the bed, Cassian made his voice distant and uncaring, even as it dropped an octave, “I left you with Helion to do what you wished. You have no idea how territorial I could have been.”

“You growled multiple times,” Nesta pointed out coldly.

“I can’t help it,” he snapped.

Closing his eyes, he willed the red hot blood in his veins to cool, but Nesta had already fought right back.

“I’d have thought the General of the Night Court Armies would have a little more self-control,” she bit out with equal fervour.

But that’s where she was wrong. Cassian had never exercised such restraint, apart from when he had bedded her himself and stopped her from touching him. Even though he had never wanted anybody more. He still didn’t.

The thought sobered him and Cassian looked away, his jaw working again.

“I did the least amount of damage, considering,” he gritted out.

Nesta snorted. “Considering what? Helion’s a shameless flirt who thinks he can bed whoever he likes. He’s just moved on to me now he can’t have you, Mor and Azriel. You should know better.”

It was a loaded comment that Cassian ignored. It was the next statement that hurt more than anything.

“I’m not yours.”

The truthful agony of it swept over him and suddenly it was hard to breathe.

“I know that, trust me,” he said hoarsely.

But now Nesta had started she seemed to have no intention of stopping. “You’re jealous.”

Cassian made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and fisted his hands at his sides. He strode towards the dresser - anything to not look at her - and pulled out some loose pants.

“Of course I’m jealous. Everyone knows I’m jealous. I’m fucking transparent when it comes to you.

“He showed me the library. Not his bedroom.”

“He may as well have,” Cassian muttered, pulling his hair out of its tie. He ran his fingers through his knotted hair, not wincing as they snagged on the tangles. “I could tell what he wanted from you.”

“You are being insufferable,” Nesta hissed.

Cassian threw the tie at the armoire. It missed and landed on the floor. Somehow his inability to do something so simple had his temper breaking completely.

He didn’t dare look at her as he snapped, “Then go away. I didn’t ask you to come here. I’ve drunk too much and I want to go to bed.”

Her answer was defiant. “No.”

Cassian’s nostrils flared at her refusal but he just disappeared into the bathroom to wash up. When he came back she was still there, already curled up towards the middle of the mattress.

He turned the bathroom light out so he didn’t have to look at her, even though his heart leapt that she was still here with him.

They lay in the dark for a long while, neither of them sleeping. Usually just having Nesta beside him, her heartbeat wrapped around his, was enough for him to surrender to sleep, but today it didn’t help - not with their disagreement still hanging thickly in the air around them.

An hour must have passed until Nesta’s hand brushed his. Refusing to react, Cassian clenched his jaw but then Nesta wound her fingers through his own and he felt his resolve melt slightly at the touch.

“I don’t want Helion,” Nesta said, her voice close to his ear.

“Fine.”

“Stop being angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you.”

“You seem it.”

“I’m not,” he assured her, even though he struggled to quell the green-eyed monster that was raging inside of him.

“Helion is showing me the education system. I can’t be rude.”

Cassian snort was rude. “That’s never stopped you before, sweetheart.”

“This is important to me. I want to learn and improve the camp schools. I thought you out of everyone would understand that.”

His fingers itched to pull her flush against him but he didn’t. He couldn’t speak or form words because he felt selfish and horrible for caring about Helion’s flirting when Nesta was trying to do good. But his love for her was too fierce now to hide. Just the thought of her even being interested in another male had him wanting to rend apart the sky.

And if Cassian was being honest, he was terrified that she would reject him and everything good that had ever happened to him would come to an end.

So he didn’t say anything.

It took him a long time to get to sleep.

#acosf #acotar #nessian #cassian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #embersandlightfic #nessianfic #acomaf #duskandstarlightwrites #helion

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teklarn · 4 years ago

Text

𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓫𝓸𝔂𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾 (𝓹𝓽. 2)

character(s): katsuki bakugou x gn!reader

a/n: ok so i just started writing on tumblr and honestly in my opinion for my first time posting smth on this the first part did really well thank u for all the likes :) (told from second pov; e.g you, your) reblogs are greatly appreciated :))

summary: bakugou x gn!reader. they have feelings for one another but have no idea how to express them, however y/n has someone pining for their attention.

genre: a lil bit angsty

warnings: cursing, jealousy, mutual pining, slow burn romance, aged-up to third year, love triangle (square?), physical injuries, kirishima gets a little toxic, also shirtless bakugou (awooga), a crap ton of time skips bc i can’t write action scenes for shit, bakugou is a flirt (lowkey but yeah), mentions of blood

word count: 2112

pt 1 , pt 3

- - -

kirishima had broken the skin on his lower lip with how hard he was biting it. he stood in the bathroom, rinsing his mouth, ignoring the slight sting the water brought.

y/n was currently being blasted by bakugou, and they were fighting back.

jealousy panged in his chest.

bakugou had never let him know about how he felt about you, however kirishima was sure he felt something for them. you and bakugou were both a jumble of prideful and longing stares towards each other from across every room. the tension was thick enough to slice through. and while kirishima would never make a move in fear of ruining the friendship between him and bakugou, as well as him and y/n, gosh it didn’t stop him from wanting to.

he’d stood on the side, cheering you on to no end. the sports festival last year, the year before that, training exercises, he was always there. kirishima was always there.

whenever you needed him, whenever you wanted his company. so what did bakugou have over him? sure, the blond was strong and had bigger goals than kirishima, but why should that matter?

what did bakugou have? why would you want him more when he was never near you? never made an effort to see you to be there when you asked for help.

it was popular belief that bakugou was a noisy idiot, but he was actually quite a quiet boy. he didn’t bother to raise his hand in class, however he always knew the answer. he spoke rarely and only made conversation with those he was close with if they were the ones to make the effort to converse with him first.

jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. kirishima despised it.

whenever did he begin wanting to beat bakugou at something?

the cloud of guilt welling up in his chest was going to become unbearable, and soon everything he ever wanted to say was going to come up like word vomit at the worst possible time.

you swiped at your cheek, brushing off the crumbling dirt. your timing had been off, and their flip backwards had landed you in an awkward position. a vulnerable one.

honestly, though, it wasn’t like it really mattered. bakugou was a bit transparent himself. he wore a smug look like a golden medal, and held back his power just enough to keep you on your feet.

his cocky attitude was irritating and it drew you in like a moth drawn to a lamp.

sweat was beading down your temple. the day was exceptionally hot, the sun beaming down on your back like a proud child.

you and bakugou had been at it for a while. with anyone else, you would have quit by now. it’s not that you gave up easily. no, not ever. but fights could get boring, especially if you were just smashing away at them with your quirk and they were acting like they could take it.

perhaps you were being cocky.

this fight, though. this was interesting. not only because it was bakugou; also because you knew so little about him.

it was likely he never shared anything important to anyone. he was quite introverted.

it was interesting for another reason.

it was hot, bakugou sweats a lot. gosh, he looked delicious without a shirt on. he had a built figure accompanied by strong arms and a broad chest.

he’d filled out quite nicely the past few years. you hadn’t noticed until now how much he’d grown.

“don’t get distracted.”

your eyes snapped up from his chest to his eyes. bakugou became a blur, shooting himself off the ground and flipping once in the air before propelling himself back down.

before you could do anything, bakugou had you pinned, one leg pinning yours, both his hands wrapped around your wrists. he’d ditched his gauntlets, leaving the metal assistants in the sweltering heat, claiming he wanted to give you an equal fight.

he panted atop you, hands tightening.

tokage didn’t bother to leave her dorm today, thank goodness. it had just been the three of you. you, bakugou, and kirishima.

the red head had suspiciously vanished halfway through the fight, though.

bakugou’s crimson eyes bored into yours. neither of you blinked for a moment. perhaps just a small eternity each of you silently reveled in.

his erratic breaths slowed, and so did yours, although you stayed the same. unmoving, faces neutral but eyes giving away long-held secrets.

your ears flushed, and butterflies came rising up uncontrollably. you should have pushed him off. instead you gave him a wicked grin, which earned a look from him and you couldn’t tell if he was confused or annoyed.

“your big ass forehead is blocking the bright-as-hell sun. stay like this,” you mocked, wrenching your wrists from his grasp and snaking your arms around his neck.

his cheeks burned red. “w-what?”

“you heard me.”

he scoffed, tugging you off his neck and standing. “shut up, shitface. we aren’t even done yet.” he readied himself in a fighting stance once more.

“i thought you said you wanted to stop when you won?” you brushed yourself off as you stood.

“i know what i said. you probably weren’t even giving it your all.”

“’course i was.” you cocked your head. “why wouldn’t i?”

“you’re strong, damn idiot.”

you feigned surprise, pressed a hand to your fluttering chest. “the bakugou, dynamight himself, complimenting a humble soul like me? oh, i really must be good, then.”

“not as good as me.” his face dropped from a smile. bakugou never got enough training no matter how early or late he stayed up, or how many hours on the weekends were spent kicking a bag or sparring with friends. hard workers did all of the work there was a still wondered if they were doing enough. the number one spot wasn’t empty, but it was still reserved for dynamight.

y/n had collapsed on their bed. kirishima was itching to tell them how he felt, however he was stuck at the doorway.

they weren’t even dressed for bed, nor were they showered.

he settled with leaving his friend alone, and shut the door softly to find bakugou standing right behind him.

kirishima jumped back, closing his eyes in relief. “bakugou. what the heck man?”

“you’re creepy as shit.”

“i- what? you were the one staring at me while i-”

“while you peeped in on y/n?”

“i wasn’t peeping. i walked them back after the fight and they just collapsed. you were off doing something else and you worked them too hard.”

it wasn’t a shock that bakugou was still riled up from the duel. this boy had the energy of a mad man.

when bakugou didn’t say anything, kirishima said once again, “you overworked them.”

bakugou swat away the comment. “only because they’re not working hard enough.”

kirishima raised an eyebrow. “they work hard. they’re perfectly fine.”

“fine?”

“they’re amazing.”

“i know that, shitty hair. you think i’m blind?”

“everyone can make improvements at their own pace.” kirishima’s voice dropped.

“you train with me.”

“it’s an hour before curfew.”

bakugou jut a thumb in the direction of the door. “so? maybe you need some more practice, too,” he joked.

“you’re an ass, bakugou,” kirishima released a breathy chuckle.

the two wandered off to one of the training grounds. it was open, a wide court where they’d both kicked someone else’s ass.

the sun was just setting, a new cool breeze coming to fill the spot of the violent sun rays.

it was routine to fight each other out of nowhere. kirishima was usually quite playful, spewing jokes once in a while and taunting his friend.

this fight was different. his face was stone-cold. kirishima often took the defensive role, as his quirk didn’t allow him to project any direct attacks to bakugou.

it wasn’t like kirishima was angry at bakugou, but as soon as they started charging towards one another, he couldn’t hold back. his chest tightened, arms hardening and joints becoming strong and stiff.

with one clean sweep of his arm, bakugou was backing away from kirishima, propelling himself to the edge of the arena with a small blast. he’d always been up for a challenge. kirishima was willing to give him one.

his sudden competitive demeanor seemed to be egging on bakugou’s. the blond tongued the inside of his cheek, grunting as he shot forth, hair flying wildly.

swiftly, kirishima dodged, just barely missing a blast. his torso wasn’t hardened, so if he’d dodged any later, his stomach would have been scorched.

bakugou always took their fights seriously. he knew better than to underestimate the boy who had put together his very own rescue mission.

kirishima’s opponent stumbled from the momentum. he took his chance and brought a hardened elbow down on bakugou’s back, hearing a satisfying crack.

bakugou was crushed to the ground with the hit. his face smashed into the sandy ground. he coughed, turning over and spitting dirt to the side.

it took a moment for him to register what he did, but kirishima was at bakugou’s side within seconds. the sun was nearly gone, a pale blue sky flickering with the first sights of stars.

it was hard to make it out at first, but not impossible. kirishima saw the blood dripping and smeared just above bakugou’s lip. he groaned, cupping his face in both hands as he sat upright.

“argh” bakugou gasped. “shit, kirishima. what the hell?”

“i...i’m sorry dude, i didn’t mean to.” i wanted to, but i didn’t mean to.

bakugou raised an eyebrow and let a smile seep through his pain. “you’re improving, though.”

“are you alright?” kirishima traced the small cut on his lip from earlier with the tip of his tongue.

“i’m fine, i’m fine.” bakugou swatted his hand away. he struggled to get up, refusing kirishima’s help.

“we should head back before this gets any worse.”

bakugou kept his large hands hovering under his chin to catch the dripping and occasional chunks of blood.

although he wanted the duel to continue (it was finally interesting) bakugou wasn’t stubborn enough to keep going. so he nodded, once again denying kirishima’s efforts to help him out.

you were in the common area, fiddling with a rubik’s cube. it was just you, as everyone else was spending the night among each other. ashido had invited you to her dorm a while ago, but you’d denied, wanting to spend a few more giddy moments to yourself.

the door rattled, and in came your two friends, one with furrowed brows and the other with blood drenching the front of his shirt.

bakugou’s head was tilted up in an attempt to stop the blood from flowing down. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the blood trailing down the back of his throat.

“oh my gosh,” you gasped out, racing to the bathroom. you came back with sanitary wipes in one hand and tissue in the other. “what happened?”

“we were training,” kirishima started, taking a few tissues from the box and handing them to his friend, “and i accidentally hit him too hard.”

“you didn’t hit me that hard. you barely did any damage!” bakugou objected. you approached him, and through his fingers, bakugou peered down at you.

you asked him with your eyes, and he gave you silent permission to pry his arms away from his face. “are you okay?”

“i’m just dandy,” he scoffed.

“dude, i’m really sorry—”

“shut the hell up kirishima. i don’t want your pity. i swear this is the only time i’ll surrender to you, you asswipe.”

you didn’t laugh, not even a chuckle. “bakugou, you need to see recovery girl.”

“what the hell? no way. all she’s gonna do is give me one of those shitty slobbery kisses and scold me for being careless.”

“your nose is broken,” you said gently.

“so? can’t you fix it?”

you raised a questioning brow. “you want me to help you?”

“can you or can you not?”

“i can try to set it but you’re better off going to recovery girl instead of settling with―”

“all i need is possible. i don’t want to deal with that old lady’s shit right now.” using the tissues kirishima had stuffed into his hand, he caught the remaining blood dripping down his nose. “let’s go.”

you were more than unsure. he would end up with a crooked nose if you made any small mistake, but he didn’t think twice as he grabbed your shoulder and led you in the direction of your dorm.

kirishima wished he hadn’t broken bakugou’s nose. not because he felt bad, though.

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bubblegumbeech · 4 years ago

Text

Time Just out of Reach

Prompt fill for @sailor-toni and @ghostlyhabato

Pssst hey, hey you. Ship this with me.

He didn’t have his crown when he awoke. It was the first thing he noticed, and it had confused him as he blinked back flashes of fighting, desperate and vicious as cloaked figures, all too familiar yet made strange and unknown, locked him away. Relying on ancient magics and powerful spells, the traitors had been unable to defeat him properly, as warriors, and Pariah curled his lip at the memory.

But he’d still had his crown then and it took him a moment, having stormed away from the accursed coffin and it’s nauseating sleep, before he remembered the first time he’d awoken. There had been a child, incredibly powerful and with the kind of support Pariah hadn’t had since the peak of his reign’s popularity. He’d been the one to defeat him in the end, alone, in a battle that no ghost could say was anything but fair.

It settled something in him, almost. It was frustrating, naturally, to be defeated by a child. But in the Infinite Realms such things were rarely as they seemed, and it was unlikely that despite everything the one who had defeated him was truly as young as he looked. And he had defeated Pariah, unlike those before, in a proper fight.

The loss of his crown was only a natural progression of such, and while Pariah knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he would have reacted differently had he awoken earlier in his sleep, or even with the crown still atop his head, it was clear there was little to do either way. His ring was gone as well and there would be no commanding of armies this or any day.

Instead, he decided to work on himself. To stretch out half formed and aching muscles from their prolonged and unnatural sleep and to walk once more throughout his own keep.

There was much to be done, frankly, the castle itself had fallen into a horrible state of disrepair, and the grounds had become entirely overrun with all kinds of ghostly and dangerous plants.

Once, just to see what would happen, Pariah had tried calling upon his skeletal army, but no matter how much power he pulled into the spell or how much he strained his core to its limits, the ground slept beneath him. It was almost freeing, knowing there was nothing to be done but to work and ready himself.

He spent the mornings getting reacquainted with his form and its abilities. The ectoplasm of the zone felt cleaner than he remembered it, and it helped energize him. It wasn’t long before he slipped easily back into his previous exercise routines and the strain was pleasant after so long sealed away.

There was so much he missed, in the little things. Taking the time to prune and shape the weeds and vines around his grounds helped him to feel accomplished, like he was finally doing something after so long doing nothing. So much so, that going into his castle, using the energy he had to restructure and rebuild where it had started to decay and fall apart, felt worthwhile.

It was nice, learning how to exist all over again. Without the need for conquest or dominion, there was a focus on the mundane and simple. Pariah had hardly remembered what that was like. If he had ever known at all.

The feelings and moments of quiet, by himself in his own keep brought back memories. Memories of certain people, certain events, things he’d lost long before. But like everything else that caused pain or bitterness to build back up within him, he pushed it aside and got to work, releasing the feelings out into the realms and focusing instead on what was before him, what he could touch with his own two hands.

One day, as he was carving a particularly sturdy vine into a new possible weapon design, he was interrupted. Rather rudely in fact, by someone who thought it somehow acceptable to storm into his keep.

Fortunately for the ghost, Pariah’s isolation had gifted him an unusual amount of patience and he’d let it live, if barely.

That had, naturally, been a mistake.

It turned out that ghost was only the first of many, many, ghosts that thought to challenge the great Pariah Dark for his title and crown. A title and crown, Pariah thought with no small amount of annoyance, that he’d already lost.

The ghosts were rare and few between at first, a momentary interruption in the mundane rebuilding that had become Pariah’s world. As such, he took those moments to remind himself what it was like to spar again, his core humming in his chest at every cross of blades, seeking challenge.

Rarely though, did the ghosts that had the blind courage to attack him, Pariah Dark, the first and only High King of the Infinite Realms, also have the strength to back up their bravado. So he’d held back.

Another mistake.

It led to some of the more foolhardy ghosts returning to challenge him again, barely any stronger than they’d been when they first attacked. It was pathetic truly, to be so constantly accosted by those so clearly weaker than him. Then again, someone strong enough to match his strength would know better than to challenge him, would know better than to want that crown on their head.

Pariah sighed, he was expecting the dragonling to arrive at any minute now. She was excitable and easily riled in a fight and Pariah had been using it against her in an attempt to desensitize her for a true battle. Soon, he’d move on to teaching her how to block more quickly and then how to use her powerful transformation abilities more smoothly in combat. It was a beginner’s mistake to think that the larger you are the greater your advantage at all times.

After he defeated her he’d have enough time, he thought, to start exploring the far tower. He’d been avoiding it so far, the memories present in that place were strong and could be overpowering, but there was only so much more work he could do on the rest of the castle while leaving it untouched as it was. Pariah disliked leaving a job undone, it itched under his skin, grating.

“Behold Pariah Dark! I have come once more in my eternal quest to defeat you!” ah, there she was. He unsheathed his sword, it was time to see how much she had retained from their last bout.

Pariah was cleaning the tower, starting with the bottom and working his way up. Not avoiding anything, just… prolonging the moment where he would reach that room. The one that held enough memories to start a flood, dammed only by Pariah’s firm refusal to open the door just yet.

He should have known that wouldn’t work.

“It seems out of character for you,” said an achingly familiar voice from just behind him. Pariah didn’t turn around, he didn’t know what he’d do if he met those eyes, and he couldn’t risk it. Not against this fragile peace that had formed in the time outside of his coffin, as short in comparison as it was.

“You sent them to me didn’t you?” Pariah realized, pulled a particularly stubborn purple weed that had been growing through the cracks of the elegantly carved stone that made up the inner walls of the room. “This is another one of your schemes.”

It had been some time since they had last spoken and longer still since they had done so with no swords or weapons between them, and Pariah refused to allow it to affect him. He’d felt the burn already that came from trusting that voice. It was better, certainly, to keep the door locked.

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” his uninvited guest said. His voice was closer and Pariah flinched, quickly turning around only to see him there at the door, Clockwork.

He was, unfortunately, still achingly beautiful. His features fine and chiseled, though his hair was hidden entirely by his hood, a practice he’d kept up after one too many comments about his unnecessarily alluring appearance. Many times he’d contemplated simply cutting his hair or doing something else equally horrid, but every time Pariah had talked him out of it, mumbling soft compliments as he combed through it in the mornings or tangled his hands into it at night.

Had he cut it then? Since Pariah was locked away?

Since he locked Pariah away?

“It’s always one of your schemes” Pariah hissed. He walked deeper into the tower to get away, but it was useless. Clockwork simply glided along behind him, not acting at all like the bitter enemies they were, “you conniving, backstabbing pawn of those who watch and never act.”

Clockwork rolled his eyes, they were red. When had they become red? They used to be a deep purple, soft and mischievous and full of knowledge that even Pariah would never hope to match. Pariah had thought, once, that they were equals. He wondered now, if Clockwork had ever thought the same.

“I am simply visiting an old friend, surely my leash is long enough for that?”

His leash. So it was true then, Clockwork had been tied to the Observants’ will, just as the rumors suggested. It explained, Pariah supposed, why he had not been there when he had woken up before. “Is that what I am then? An old friend?”

Clockwork took mercy on him and shifted forms into his older self. His eyes were just as sharp, just as keen, but the urge to touch, to take for himself, lessoned as he watched muscles deteriorate and a beard grow long and knotted from the other ghost’s chin. “How would you describe it then, Pariah? Enemies?” Clockwork chuckled, “no, of course that’s how you would describe it.”

Heart of the Realms he needed to get away, there was too much between them and the small moments of interaction he’d had sparring with random ghosts or seeking out current knowledge of the realms were hardly enough practice to deal with someone like Clockwork.

But he didn’t stop following Pariah further into the tower and the familiarity of walking these halls, Clockwork at his side, was enough to force him into a stop. Why was he here? Just to make Pariah miserable? That seemed something he would do, conniving as he was.

“It’s rude, you know, to enter a ghost’s lair uninvited,” he tried.

Clockwork smiled, tilting his head in the way that meant he was being obnoxious on purpose. Pariah had, foolishly, assumed it would not be the kind of thing ever aimed at him. How bitter, to be proven wrong in such a way.

“I was under the impression that I had a standing invitation,” because he had. Because if anyone, Pariah had trusted this bastard the most and had not wanted even a day separated from his side.

“I am not the one who betrayed his King.”

The time around them stilled, the realms silent in their entirety for just a moment. Clockwork’s expression was sheltered when Pariah had turned to look at him and he smiled bitterly, “The realms were never meant to be tamed Pariah. Not even by you.”

A familiar argument, one they’d had countless times, one that Pariah had thought unimportant in the scheme of things. He’d thought at the time, that if he could get the entirety of the realms under his control, infinite and expanding as they were, he could make Clockwork understand. It was his duty, it had been entrusted to Pariah. Just as the time stream had been entrusted to Clockwork.

He should have known better really.

“Then I rescind your invitation, you can leave now.”

Clockwork bowed, deep, formal, and it made Pariah grit his teeth. He’d never bowed to anyone but those pathetic eyeballs and Pariah knew what it truly meant to receive formalities from an Ancient. “Then I shall take my leave.”

Finally. Pariah refused to watch him go, and instead turned back to the walls he’d been so studiously clearing of their overgrowth before he’d been interrupted.

The weeds had returned, covering every single inch of the room, just as they had before Pariah started clearing them away almost a week prior. Damn him.

Pariah had finished the entirety of the tower’s first floor when he had returned, entirely unwelcome. “I don’t recall inviting you in,” he said, focusing on his work. He was restitching a cloth that had once been beautifully embroidered. Pariah’s own hands were hardly any good for delicate details but he made do through endless trial and error. He had all the time in the realms afterall, and it was in his nature to complete a task in its entirety.

“No?” Clockwork said, his voice dry and purposefully pitched to piss him off, “so you don’t have an open door policy? You seem to have so many ghosts that come and go.”

He scowled, “they are fools, young and easily excited. They hope to defeat me and earn the crown for themselves. I am simply teaching them the error of their ways.” This stitch was particularly difficult, and in order to do it properly he’d need to focus. Something unlikely to happen with his current guest.

There was something uncertain in the ambient ectoplasm around them. A gentle wave gliding back and forth between a tentative hope and a deeper, darker mistrust. Pariah ignored it. There was no reason he should be so intune with another ghost’s moods, especially not this ghost.

Unlike Pariah, who wanted this conversation finished and to be left once more to his peace, Clockwork was an instigator, clearly here only to frustrate. He floated closer, just out of reach, “teaching them? It’s been some time since you bothered to take an apprentice.”

Pariah set down his work and stood up properly, Clockwork had shifted into an adult form since showing up and the mischievous tilt of his lips left Pariah frustrated and frazzled. There was no reason for him to be here, except to torture with his presence, precise and devastating.

“They aren’t apprentices, you of all ghosts should know better than to think I would ever be so patient as to take someone under me.” as King, he‘d always been too busy, too easily frustrated, too stressed. Clockwork had been there, the nights where Pariah had wished he could give it all up, had spoken in whispers about what could have been if only he’d refused the crown.

Clockwork smiled, a show of his fangs, and Pariah clenched his fist to stop from reaching out. If he tried, he could close the distance between them quick enough to pull Clockwork towards him entirely. Perhaps he’d end this game if Pariah called his bluff. Pariah wondered how many futures he saw, where Pariah did just that. He wondered how confident he was that those futures would not be his own.

“I just thought to inform you,” his smile only stretched wider and Pariah wondered what had him so delighted, for surely it meant nothing good, “that I have taken on an apprentice myself.”

That had not been what Pariah expected at all. Clockwork was rarely around children or younger ghosts in the time Pariah had known him, and while many of the more powerful inhabitants of the zone spoke often of their desire for children, he had not heard such from Clockwork in the times they had known each other.

Was that simply another truth that had been hidden from him, was the ghost he’d known nothing more than a lie, perfectly catered to Pariah’s own desires in order to trick and to trap him?

He looked over at his unwanted guest, unease threaded through his core. The mischievous smile had yet to fall and as much as Pariah wanted to bite it, he turned away instead, “are you hoping for us to meet? I should think you wouldn’t be so foolish to bring someone you care for anywhere near me.”

“Not at all,” Clockwork answered easily, floating closer once more, “besides, you’ve already met.”

Already met? Surely Clockwork wouldn’t have taken one of the foolish, eager ghosts that thought to challenge him in his time awake as an apprentice. They were hardly suited towards him and his subtle manipulations.

But he hadn’t met anyone else since waking, few ghosts that remembered his reign wished to meet with him, and there was little reason for someone that had caught Clockwork’s discerning eye to seek out a failed king. Unless he had come to spy on him? No, there was little Clockwork did not know, and even less that he could not simply discover for himself using those accursed mirrors.

Clockwork tilted his head, a mischievous smile still in place, “you don’t want to know his name?”

So it was a him, that narrowed it down marginally, “I wouldn’t know it either way.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have known the name of the ghost that defeated you, too busy getting stuffed into that coffin of yours.”

Pariah reached out, a blast built in his palm, to attack. But Clockwork, as always, had expected it and floated easily out of his reach, dodging the ectoblasts Pariah released after him as he fled the keep.

Good riddance.

The next visit, Pariah had been the first to speak, “where is my crown?” he asked.

Clockwork had shifted into his older form and gently stroked his beard, pretending to think about the question Pariah had asked. As if he didn’t know the answer, as if he didn’t know everything.

“Would you really like to know?” He didn’t. Not truly, but he had wondered, if he asked, what Clockwork would say. He should have known it would be something cryptic and aloof. He’d never once bothered with straight answers before, it was unlikely he’d start now.

Pariah walked over to him, his steps steady and measured. He stopped just out of reach, as Clockwork had been doing to him in their visits and wondered, fleetingly, if it affected him at all. Surely not, as aloof as he’d been. If he felt as tortured by Pariah’s presence as Pariah felt by his, there would be no need for these games. They would simply avoid each other and that would be that.

He grabbed a book from a nearby shelf, they were in his study, private as it once was, and Pariah had been reading with the intention of catching up on the things he missed. Such as Clockwork’s new ward, the Half-ghost child that had been dead hardly a year before defeating Pariah.

“Does your ward have it? Has he been claimed king? If so I’ll be sure to tell the fools that still visit to go after him instead.”

Humming, Clockwork floated over to Pariah’s desk. It was freshly carved, intricate designs by Pariah’s own hand. “There are some that do so already, but no, Daniel doesn’t have your crown Pariah. No one does.”

So there is no king.

“I see,” he said, opening his book to a random page and feigning interest. It was difficult, to be sure, when the most interesting thing in the whole of the infinite realms was here, sitting on Pariah’s desk. “You haven’t gotten any better at answering questions.”

Clockwork laughed.

And Pariah left the room.

The next time Clockwork came to visit, it was just after a spar he’d had with one of his regular guests. It had been an improvement on her part, her control of her natural abilities was getting better and she had actually attempted to use technique instead of her admittedly limited brute strength.

But it had also been one sided, as all these matches were, and Pariah found himself itching for something more exciting. For a fight worth the effort of keeping his core lit.

“Your teaching methods could use some work,” Clockwork had said, his voice smooth with an echoing touch of gravel, as he leaned over Pariah’s shoulder to see the weapon he was sharpening.

Pariah almost knocked him away, but as always, Clockwork was a moment ahead. Somewhere in the future. Never truly there, where Pariah was, always waiting instead where he would be. He growled.

“Then it is for the best I was not teaching.”

Clockwork smiled, “my mistake.”

There was little doubt in Pariah’s mind that Clockwork had never made anything as simple as a mistake. There was too much that he knew, too much he could see. The decisions he made might not always lead to exactly what he wanted, his obsession unwilling to compromise the free will of others, but Pariah had no doubt that each and every one was perfectly calculated to the smallest minute detail. Mistakes were off the table.

He grabbed the weapon he’d been working and felt the weight and balance of it in his hand. His core, fresh from an unsatisfactory fight just moments before, hummed with energy.

It would, Pariah mused, be enjoyable to catch Clockwork in a fight. But it was not something he did lightly, his powers, as grand as they were, were rarely suited for battle, and Pariah found himself wondering if he attacked now, would Clockwork fight back? Or simply stop time and flee, coward that he was.

“The scar suits you,” Pariah said, stepping closer. Clockwork didn’t back away, but his expression twisted into something cruel. Pariah didn’t think about how well suited his features were for it, didn’t think about other expressions Clockwork might make and how Pariah had once made it his mission to see every single one.

“Admiring your handiwork?” he said, his tone brittle and biting.

Pariah was within an arm’s length now, “I had aimed for them both. I suppose it’s fortunate that I failed, seeing that you gave as well as you received.”

There was a tense silence and Pariah felt it almost like a physical barrier built between them. If he lifted his sword now, would it shatter?

“I like to think I gave much better,” he said, nodding at Pariah’s eyepatch, “seeing as out of the two of us, I succeeded.”

He lunged, but by the time the blade struck the ground, Clockwork had long disappeared.

“Sever yourself from the observants,” Pariah demanded once he’d seen Clockwork again.

There was a beat, a moment of time, and then Clockwork sighed, “and what, put myself into your less than merciful hands?”

He was in his youngest form, by all rights he should look vulnerable, weak, but he only looked tired. An expression Pariah had grown all to familiar with in the twilight of their relationship. Pariah scoffed, “better I than those useless snakes, they know not what they have. I’ve heard what they call you now, pet, attack dog. It’s demeaning.”

Clockwork looked up at him, his eyes deep and endless, “you are no longer a king Pariah. You hold no sway over the realms any longer.”

Said as if it were a gift, a token granted to him for his service. Then again, in the eyes of one such as him, it may very well be. Clockwork had always been bound in core and form by the duties required of him.

“What hold do they have over you?” He asks, in need of an answer. Of something. Why would someone so powerful, so immeasurable, bend to the yolk of another? Especially those slimy optical wastes of ectoplasm.

But he wouldn’t get an answer, not from Clockwork, and they both knew it. “The realms exist as chaos, those who seek to find order, or try and force their will upon it seek to destroy chaos. Everything that exists, exists with a sense of its own self preservation.”

Yeah, in no way was that an answer, and judging by the soft smile on Clockwork’s youthful face, he knew it too. “Yet you ally yourself with those things?”

Clockwork hummed, “everything is the way it’s supposed to be.”

Because of course it was.

“If you take a picture it will last longer,” Clockwork said nonsensically.

Frustratingly, he was here, again, in Pariah’s keep, his personal lair, floating just an arm’s length away from him. Out of reach. “Is that supposed to make sense?” Pariah growls.

But Clockwork remained aloof, “you’re staring.”

Of course he was. Clockwork was in his adult form, all well-formed muscle and casual strength, soft skin blemished only by the scar Pariah had given him that fateful night. The claim he had carved.

“I’m admiring my handiwork as you said.”

Clockwork tensed, “are you now? Looking to repeat the performance?”

He had been reading a book. Just, casually there, near Pariah in his own lair, reading a book. As if he owned the place himself, as if it were his. As if he were welcome here, to sit there carefree and out. of. reach.

“Perhaps, if you wish to spend all of your time in my keep, I can leash you here.” he said, taking a page from Clockwork’s own book and ignoring the question. He stepped closer.

Clockwork floated away, casual as ever, infuriating as ever. “I’m afraid I do have duties to attend, outside of babysitting you.”

“Is that what this is then?” Pariah growled, “your new masters sent you here to keep an eye on me? To make sure I am truly beaten, unwilling to rise again?”

“Something like that,” Clockwork drawled, “are you, Pariah?”

He crossed his arms, “Beaten? Am I not?”

Clockwork frowned, Pariah wanted to grab him by the chin, tilt his head up towards him and pull that infuriating hood away so he could no longer use it to avoid Pariah’s gaze. He held himself back, the other ghost was too far out of Pariah‘s grasp for now. Reaching for him too soon would only cause him to float away.

“You exist still,” he said, ignoring Pariah’s scoff, “you exist. Is that not what matters?”

Yes, he existed. He spent his days sparring with ghosts too weak to give him proper challenge, fixing a crumbling castle one single brick at a time, and waiting, with unwanted anticipation, to see if the ghost that had taken it all from him would bother to visit.

“And what a glorious existence indeed,” he spat.

Clockwork was a child again, floating around and above Pariah’s head. He’d asked him once, if the changes were voluntary or natural, and Clockwork, true to himself as he ever was, had given a vague answer that hadn’t actually answered the question at all.

“How is your ward?” Pariah asked, his eyes never leaving Clockwork as he circled above him.

He hummed and gave a noncommittal answer, likely unwilling to speak too much about the young phantom, unwilling to place him in the line of Pariah’s sight. It was an unnecessary caution, Pariah held no interest in the boy outside of his relationship with the Ancient.

The crown held little interest either, with how much Pariah had lost to keep it the first time.

“I’m sure your new masters are thrilled you have taken in such a powerful ward,” he had meant it with mostly dry sarcasm. It was clear, in all the actions of the observants before, that they disliked things that were different, things that didn’t fit neatly in their pathetically limited labels.

He hadn’t expected Clockwork to growl as if it were a threat. It caught him off guard. He'd known Clockwork was hardly loyal. It was, if anything, the most predictable aspect of who he was. A being created in chaos was not going to ally itself to any one doctrine for long, and especially not to the doctrine of another.

It was why, Pariah thought, the observants kept him chained so thoroughly with responsibilities and rules, unable to go against what they demanded and busy with pointless, petty tasks. Had he been wrong?

“He is my responsibility,” Clockwork scowled, aging into an adult, “as he is meant to be.”

So they didn’t know. It was likely, knowing Clockwork and his propensity for twisting language to his advantage, that they had said something threatening or demeaning towards either Clockwork or the boy and he had simply taken it to mean what he’d like.

It also meant that it was something he was keeping hidden from them. An advantage, Pariah thinks, that a better man would refuse to take advantage of. But Pariah was no king anymore, there was no proper way to get what he wanted, no code of honor and chivalry. And what he wanted, was kept tantalizingly out of his reach.

Why shouldn’t he grab what he could, to pull it closer to him?

Pariah had not slept since he awakened the second time from his slumber. The idea, while once a pleasant excuse to ignore his responsibilities for the sake of rest, was no longer appealing to say the least. He would not admit, even to himself, the fear that crept upon him at the thought.

He was not scared to sleep, he did not lie awake, staring at the swirling mist and ectoplasm of the realms around him in fear that if he closed his eyes they may never open again.

“You should sleep Pariah.”

“Clockwork,” he greeted, not bothering to stand, “you of all people do not get to tell me that.”

There was a soft shuffle of fabric and Pariah felt the subtle change in the ambient ectoplasm of the zone as Clockwork sat beside him on the ground of his once grand courtyard. It had taken some time, but Pariah had managed to tame the plants and vines that had claimed the land for their own.

In his impatience he had sheared more than was perhaps necessary, leaving much of the ground barren and lifeless entirely. There was nothing to be done, but to keep the plants tamed and wait for the rest to grow again.

“It was supposed to be the merciful option,” Clockwork lied, “You always liked to sleep in, if I remember correctly.”

Pariah refused to look up at him, he didn’t know what he would do, should he see him, softly glowing and silhouetted against the sky, close enough to touch, and he was unwilling to test his own resolve. “I had a reason to stay in bed then, if I recall correctly myself.”

Clockwork didn’t rise to his bait, “if we had planned instead, to take your core… we would have failed. You would have won and gone forth to take more of the realms as your own.”

Because of course he would have, fresh from Clockwork and the other Ancients’ betrayals. He would have been angry, vindictive, the scar he had now would have been nothing in comparison to what Pariah would have done in retaliation for such betrayal from those he’d trusted so thoroughly.

“You would have lost your resolve. And without it, the others would have fallen to my blade.”

Clockwork didn’t answer, of course. But he didn’t need to. One didn’t need the ability to look into the branching paths of the future in order to know someone else well enough to predict. And Pariah felt the truth in his words hit as Clockwork hesitated.

Without thinking, Pariah reached towards him. His hand had gotten almost close enough to grab the edge of that damned cloak before Clockwork was once more out of his grasp.

The weeds around him had grown back, his work entirely undone. Petty bastard.

“Fright has yet to bother me as you do.”

Clockwork floated towards him, grabbed the book from his hand and floated away. Pariah didn’t resist, any hope of actually reading had fled at the other’s sudden appearance.

He hummed, flipping carefully through the book. It was on gardening, Pariah had read through to the section on encouraging natural growth, methodical as always in any task he undertook. “You can hardly blame him, with the pumpkin and all.”

Pariah scowled, “he can’t still be trapped by that.” It was rare, quite frankly, for his royal knight to be trapped for long at all in that thing.

There was always some foolish ghost or other entity that wanted to test their courage, and it only took one before Fright would be freed to roam the realms under his own power. The sorcerer that bound him in the first place had learned that lesson quickly and was now spending their time trapped in a tailor made dimension of their own.

“He’s not.” Clockwork answered easily, then he paused, mused something over, and said, “he’s been training with Daniel. But he won’t come see you after your last time awake, not after what he and Vladimir did to trick you.”

That was a new name, “Vladimir?” Pariah asked, voice deceptively soft, “am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You are,” Clockwork smiled, never a good sign, “he was the one who woke you up after all.”

Frowning, Pariah walked over to grab his book back, Clockwork let go of it easily, not having read a single passage and for some reason this frustrated Pariah further. Why grab the book at all if he wasn’t going to even pretend to read the damn thing?

“I suppose you were behind that as well then?” He asked.

But Clockwork just shook his head, that infuriating smile still on his face. Pariah could have fixed that once, wiped that damn smirk away with naught but a touch or a well spoken word. He held his ground instead.

He was clearly enjoying this somehow, basking in Pariah’s torment, “not every aspect of your existence is meticulously planned I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure,” Pariah said dryly, “there’s many decisions I’ve made in my time that have led you in unplanned directions.”

“As was your goal,” Clockwork floated back, away from Pariah. He stepped closer in response, unwilling to allow the distance.

Pariah forced his posture to relax, it wouldn’t do to look the part of predator stalking prey. The goal, after all, was not to scare him away. And Clockwork had always been skittish, in moments like this.

It had taken time, in the beginning, to get as close as he had. It would take time again.

He had all the time in the realms.

“It gave me great pleasure to see you flustered,” he was almost within reach, almost close enough to touch.

Clockwork’s back pressed against the wall, Pariah stepped forward, caging him in. “Surely there were easier ways to seek your joy.”

Humming, Pariah stepped even closer, naught but a moment between them. “When has a challenge been anything but enticing to me?” He reached up to finally pull away the horrid hood that had been obscuring the other’s face, but his hands closed around empty nothing.

Clockwork had once again slipped through his fingers. Damn.

Vlad Plasmius.

A stupid name that reeked of a grandiose sense of self importance and naivety. And, knowing that he was the one to wake Pariah in a foolish, short sighted attempt at his crown, it was likely apt as well.

He’d turned one of Pariah’s most loyal against him. Stolen what was Pariah’s and had yet to see due consequence.

“I’d warn that your face might become stuck if I wasn’t so sure it already had, is a scowl the only expression you can make these days?”

Pariah’s scowl deepened, “what is this Plasmius to you?”

Clockwork blinked, a moment of genuine surprise flickered across his expression before it melted back into his typical neutral expression.

“A nuisance mostly. His exploits tend to disrupt the flow of the realms and he rarely thinks about anything as dull as the consequences of his actions,” he tilted his head, allowing his gaze to wander, “and his determination to steal Daniel as his own has become grating.”

Pariah’s scowl lessened, he’d thought for sure, with the Half-Ghost’s penchant for chaos, that Clockwork would have a more favorable opinion of him. Often, it was the most obnoxious, frustrating, logic defying, gremlins of the infinite realms that caught his eye, and his affections.

Things that existed beyond the simple calculations of his sight, wrenches in the works of otherwise well laid plans. They were Clockwork’s favorite, his desire for mischief surprisingly genuine for one so ancient and omniscient. Though, perhaps that was why. The Ancients may not be chaos themselves, but they had certainly been born from it.

“You haven’t thought to share custody?” Pariah asked, curious. It was uncommon amongst ghosts, as obsessive as they were, but not unheard of. Especially when obsessions were involved, it was difficult after all, for a ghost to let go of something their core had claimed as their own.

Clockwork’s smile was tight, “I don’t think I have it in me to share.”

Pariah looked over at his companion, the ambient soft blue of his glow and its contrast against the shadows of his hooded cloak. He watched as the watches, clocks, and other time keeping devices embedded and decorated throughout his form ticked, discordant from each other; each one a slightly different pace from the others.

He watched as Clockwork’s face, as handsome still as it was the day he locked Pariah away, softened from sardonic and annoyed to something more gentle as the silence stretched on.

“Neither do I,” he said.

“You shouldn’t seek me out, if you have any desire at all to keep what limited freedom you have,” Pariah warned.

He had walked down one of the winding stairs in the far tower only to see Clockwork there, halfway down and leaning out of the window. His legs were fully formed for once and Pariah had to bite back a remark involving just how long it had been since he’d last seen them.

It was novel, to see Clockwork in his entirety.

“I have little choice, my duties as they are,” he lied. It was unlikely the Observants had any desire for him to leave his tower, poised at their beck and call. If they had demanded he keep an eye on Pariah at all as he claimed, it had been with the intention of using his screens. There wasn’t much that could be hidden from them after all.

Pariah stepped close, just enough to look out of the window beside him. It was like standing beside a lightning storm, as static and electric as the space between them had become.

“They do not fear I’ll steal you away from them?” He folded his hands behind his back, held them there, clenched tightly in restraint.

Clockwork’s smile was bitter, as it often was nowadays when he was reminded of his bindings, “there is little you can do.”

“There is little I would not do,” he countered.

He stepped away, his legs fading once more into a familiar tail and Pariah bit back disappointment.

“You assume I would return here? Should I be relieved of my duties?” Clockwork asked, snide.

“You assume I would not chain you here myself?” He would, with no hesitation at all, if he thought it would hold. If something as simple as chains and binders could keep something like Clockwork.

He walked towards him, internally rolling his eyes when Clockwork kept level at his height even as they descended. It was a small, petty thing, him not allowing himself to be vulnerable in any way, and it was very Clockwork.

“You could not hold me.”

“I could try.”

Pariah, finding more and more time to himself as the Castle’s restoration saw its completion, was looking into the observant’s laws. And their prisoners, and their actions after Pariah himself had been locked away.

It was boring, tedious work to shuffle through the information given to him. The countless detailed notes of the Observants countless boring meetings were beginning to blend together in his mind. It would be easier, he knew, if he simply skipped to the parts that were important to him. The ones that involved Clockwork and their claims to him.

But that was against his nature, so he read, and read, and fought down the rising urge to simply fly over to their courts of judgement and raze it to the ground. It would be quicker, and more enjoyable as well. But it wouldn’t give him the answers he needed, and it wouldn’t guarantee Clockwork’s release from his duties.

He continued reading.

“You’re calmer now, without the ring,” Clockwork said, once more stating the obvious.

Pariah put down the papers he was staring at, the words had long blurred together and there were more pleasant things here now to keep his eyes occupied. “I should hope so, with all the trouble you went through to separate me from it.”

His companion nodded, the hood shifting slightly with the movement to cover his face even further and Pariah frowned.

“You would have been more successful in your conquest had it never been gifted to you,” Clockwork said, “it is perhaps for the best, that you fell to its charms and lost your patience.”

Pariah doesn’t know why he brought this up. It could be to agitate or remind him of their animosity. It could be one of those strange roundabout explanations Clockwork used instead of apologies, or it could be his attempt at distancing himself. A reminder of how far Pariah had fallen in the end.

“Carefully planned no doubt,” Pariah said, his voice light. “A gift given to disrupt what goals I had, to speed up my fall and more quickly end my reign.”

“A necessary evil, to lessen the cost.”

Pariah smiled, sharp, “are you saying I’m a larger threat without it?”

Clockwork turned his gaze away, “you're certainly more meticulous. It’s terrifying really.”

“What do you see in those futures of yours?” He asked, not expecting an answer.

He didn’t get one, “many things. Different branches and paths, some brighter than others, some barely there at all…” Clockwork floated to the window and looked outside, “it would be easier, Pariah, if you bothered to be predictable.”

Ha, Pariah smiled, “If you truly struggled to predict my actions, we would not be here now. At least not as we are.”

Clockwork gave a hum of agreement, “it is what you are going to do next, I think, that I struggle to see.”

Pariah had taken the chance, with Clockwork’s back to him, to get closer. To crowd himself near without touching and spoke in his ear, “I disagree. There is no doubt in my mind you see exactly what I am going to do, what I have planned. What you fail to see, my dear timekeeper, is how to stop it.”

He disappeared before Pariah could get his arms around him.

But no matter, Clockwork had been correct when he’d called Pariah meticulous.

“I’d rather you not call me your ‘dear’,” Clockwork said, appearing far enough away that it was a wonder Pariah had heard him at all.

They were outside, the weeds and plants of his courtyard finally, properly tamed and pleasant. He lifted the petals of a particularly pretty purple plant to his lips and kissed it gently before replanting it into the ground.

“I could,” he offered, “call you by the name of a flower instead.”

Clockwork clicked his tongue, “I do think pet names are beneath you. You’ve never used one before.” That was certainly true, but he’d also had an image to uphold before, and many other ways to see Clockwork flustered.

If he had known how well something so simple had worked though, he would have started using them an eon ago. Ah well.

“Perhaps I grew romantic in my forced sleep?,” Pariah said, his expression slipping into a smirk. Clockwork’s careful distance was a set back and a hopeful promise tangled together and he didn’t bother trying to move closer. He knew better than trying to corner a startled animal, trying to corner a skittish Ancient would unlikely end any more in his favor.

There was movement out of the corner of his eye, ah, Clockwork had shifted to his younger, child form. Was that a defense mechanism of some kind? Or did he do it out of spite? It would take some time, and likely some subtle experimentation, if Pariah ever wanted to truly solve that particular mystery.

But he was finding he didn’t mind the thought of taking his time, slowly unwrapping all of the things Clockwork had long kept hidden from him. The imperfections and jagged edges. Patience was starting to become second nature, in his dealings with the other ghost.

“Are you saying you dreamed, Pariah?” Clockwork asked, disbelief coloring his tone. Pariah wondered, if he refused to answer, would Clockwork ever know? He could not read minds, would he simply look at a branching path where Pariah was less inclined to be petty and seek his answer there? Would there be one?

Pariah was stubborn afterall.

The silence stretched uncomfortably and Pariah reveled in it. How novel, catching Clockwork off balance like this. He wondered if he could make it worse. If a gentle push would break the tension or heighten it.

“Afraid that you’ll fall for me again, if I should be endearing towards you?”

Clockwork made an incredulous noise, something between a cough and yelp, and Pariah had to bite back a smile. Much of the fun would be lost, should Clockwork realize he was being messed with.

His form aged as he started to rant, his low, deep voice colored with irritation and sang like music to Pariah’s ears. He didn’t even bother listening to the words, content instead, to feel Clockwork’s frustration in the ambient ectoplasm around them. Perhaps this feeling was why Clockwork had started these visits, marveling in Pariah’s own flustered discomfort. His mistake.

“-An obsession with conquest, control-“

“Obsessions change,” Pariah interrupted softly.

He was met with only silence, and when he looked over again towards Clockwork, the ancient had frozen entirely. His gaze was locked on Pariah himself, before he broke it away, looking instead at the keep around them. The rebuilt castle, the carefully manicured courtyard, the area set aside for his spars with the younger ghosts that returned so often, so ready to prove themselves. His posture softened.

“Yes, I suppose they do… if you allow it.”

This time, when Clockwork left his presence he didn’t bother to stop time and sneak away. There was no need likely, Pariah had not bothered to get close enough to stop him from simply flying away.

He leaned back into the grass, his core humming in satisfaction and anticipation.

It had been some time since Clockwork’s last visit. Too much time.

The visits had become regular, expected disruptions to Pariah’s rather dull afterlife, and their absence soured on his tongue. He tried not to let the frustration show in his lessons with his students, hitting one harder than necessary would hardly teach a ghost how to better dodge, and attacking faster than they could keep up with would hardly help them plan their next move.

So he put all of his frustration towards renovation once more. Sure, the castle had been properly rebuilt and looked as grand now as it ever had, but Pariah had learned of more modern comforts in his studies, as detailed and meticulous as they were, and desired to have some for himself.

He just needed to figure out how to implement the overly complicated designs to something that had long been simple. First he would start with an aqueduct of some sort. It would be nice to have regular access to more purified ectoplasm with which to bathe or shower himself, and the well in the center of the courtyard that dug deep enough to access the steady supply at the heart of his lair only allowed for him to pull up so much before it would be depleted.

If instead, he built some kind of purifier, something that could take ambient ectoplasm or even throwaway energy from the realms around him, he could imitate the water systems mortals had invented for their own homes. Perhaps he could create something similar to this ‘sauna’ he’d read about. A room packed full of purified ectoplasm for the sole gain of sitting inside to relax.

There was nothing more rewarding, Pariah thought, than working towards a goal and seeing that work bear fruit. Patience and perseverance were all a ghost needed to succeed.

Pariah worked as he waited for Clockwork to return.

“You seem to be in a bad mood, your majesty,” the dragonling said. She had long learned to use the most advantageous aspects of her abilities without fully shifting her form, but her speed at doing so needed work and Pariah had started leading her into Katas specific to each trick she had developed.

He glared at her, “I don’t have moods,” he lied. “But if I did, it only makes sense that I would be irritated to find my day interrupted by your foolish challenges.”

There was another young ghost there as well, a small dokkaebi that looked like it had once been a broom or something similar. He had attacked Pariah alone multiple times himself and had apparently convinced the dragonling to team up with him in their next attempt at Pariah’s nonexistent crown.

It had been nice, the extra bit of challenge it took to defeat them both without causing serious damage to either of them.

The dokkaebi scoffed, “if you really didn’t want us here you wouldn’t have this time in your day set aside.”

Pariah frowned and threw a gentle ectoblast towards him. It grazed his shoulder and he yelped in response. That should teach him not to sass his elders. “It is a foolish decision for a ghost to make plans when those around him seek to ignore them so entirely.”

The dragonling chuckled at the dokkaebi’s misfortune and Pariah snapped at her to concentrate on her own training. It was a poor showing of his self control, that even ghosts as young as they had noticed something off.

He was building a blueprint for the aqueduct’s filter when a feeling not unlike that of being covered entirely in slime settled around him. He scowled, “I don’t remember inviting you into my keep, watchers.”

“We are the Observants,” Pariah rolled his eyes, “we have come to judge you for your deeds.”

Entitled bastards.

They likely thought themselves more powerful than they were, Clockwork having lowered himself as he did for whatever nefarious, long term plan he was no doubt biding his time to implement. But Pariah was not bound by contracts or schemes, and even without his crown a handful of inactive ectoplasmic waste such as these were hardly a threat.

An annoyance though, considering what would happen should he actually shatter their cores. The last thing he wanted was for them to send Clockwork in their stead, even if it would break the impasse he’d caused with his prolonged absence.

“I have done nothing worth being judged,” Pariah said, his knowledge of what was and was not mentioned in each of the Observants’ ridiculous laws was encompassing and complete. There was somehow, despite their likely efforts, no laws against rebuilding one’s own lair or meeting challenges set against oneself.

Even in the rules of their contract with Clockwork, there was nothing that confined him permanently to his tower. It was stated, quite plainly, that he could leave in the performance of his duties as given by the Observants themselves.

Clockwork had stated many times that one of those duties had been to watch over Pariah.

The Observants, predictably, disagreed, “you have left the realms in terror and abandoned your duties as King.”

“What I did as king is not under your jurisdiction, and you know well that I was dethroned. You wouldn’t be here now, attempting to threaten me otherwise.” He stood to his full height, towering over his uninvite guests.

They wavered, giant, bulbous eyes that never blinked, Pariah held back his revulsion in favor of allowing his fury to take stage instead. “The clause of the King, as I remember it, was right by conquest. The fate of the realms to be given to the hands of whomever defeated me under their own power. The crown is no longer mine, it does not heed my call. I have no duties to be found in remis of.”

“Your reign of terror-”

His remaining eye twitched, “I did as King. To whom such laws do not apply.”

It was tedious, dealing with their repetitive denials, their attempts at enforcing laws that did not exist to their standards. But Pariah calmly shot down every accusation, every mentioned offense, citing written laws and countless examples of other ghosts and their versions of compliance. He had done nothing since he awakened, and it was this nothing that both infuriated them and protected him now.

“How does it feel, I wonder, to have been so thoroughly outsmarted by a child? Less than a year dead at the time, as I’ve been informed. Did your council throw a fit, when he absconded, erasing the position of High King from the realms until someone else should attempt to take up the mantle from the start as I had? Did it affect your plans? Were you hoping, when I awoke a second time, that I would start once more on my trail of conquest, crown or not?”

One of the Observants glared daggers at him, a nerve clearly struck, “we had hoped you’d stay true to what we believed you were. You left the task incomplete.”

Pariah grinned, “I don’t know what you mean, are the lands of the realms not united now?”

It squawked, “in what way?!”

“Why, against me, of course.”

The conversation with the Observants had been long, tedious, and mostly fruitless for both sides. They could not make anything stick against Pariah, not without breaking their own vows as they stood and making themselves powerless entirely. Yet all the same, it would not stop them from attempting to pass new laws and regulations, with the sole intent of catching Pariah out on it.

They would fail, of course, he had painstakingly sorted through every record and law, every court decision ever made since the foundation of the Observants’ Order. There would be no ghost, Observant or no, as thoroughly knowledgeable as he, in what could and could not be done. He was meticulous like that.

It had been a flaw, in their eyes. Made him slow to action. And the reason, he suspected, he had been gifted that ring. They had thought to use his rage, to falsify impatience, to more quickly advance their plans.

Their mistake.

Taking a moment to relax and stretch his limbs, Pariah stood to leave.

“Pariah!”

He had opened the door to see a flustered looking Clockwork on the other side, easily within reach. His hood had been mussed, likely caused by him rushing over to Pariah’s keep after so long purposefully ignoring him, and Pariah could see wisps of long white hair peeking through, no longer completely hidden. He’d kept it long.

“Where- I- I couldn’t see-,” Clockwork’s eyes darted around the room, looking for something that had long left, before settling on Pariah, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks.

Realization dawned quickly as Clockwork noticed just how close they were to each other and attempted to create space between them. Not quick enough though, as Pariah curled his hand around a gloved wrist.

He stepped close, Clockwork moved back, almost like a dance, until the stone wall of the corridor blocked his retreat and he had nowhere left to go but Pariah’s arms.

Marveling in the feeling of finally, finally having Clockwork exactly where he wanted him, Pariah purred. When he looked down to admire his prize, Clockwork had ducked his head further beneath that damned hood, avoiding his gaze still. Annoyed, Pariah lifted his free hand and tugged it forcefully away.

It was a view easily worth the wait, Clockwork’s flustered expression, framed beautifully by soft white hair, even longer than Pariah last remembered and tangled in a mess by the constant presence of his hood. Pariah longed to card his fingers through it, to gently brush away the knots and feel the silky strands beneath his fingers. So he did, drinking in Clockwork’s gentle shiver like fine wine as he leaned closer, trapping him against the wall.

Once he was done, he allowed his arms to lower, circling around a tapered waist and pulling the other ghost closer to him. Even stopping time, it would be impossible now, for Clockwork to disentangle himself and escape. Pariah’s grip was as gentle as it could be, but it was unyielding.

“You did not tell me they could block your sight,” he muttered gently into Clockwork’s hair.

“It is not my job to tell you things you already know.”

Pariah hummed, trailing his hand along Clockwork’s back, documenting in his mind every soft hitch of unneeded breath, reacquainting himself with the more sensitive places now available to him. “Once I destroy that useless council of theirs, I will have to find a way to cage you for myself,” he mused.

Clockwork bit him, fangs sinking into Pariah’s unarmored shoulder.

Well, he would at the very least attempt it.

Final comments

#Danny Phantom #Clockwork dp #Pariah Dark #Pariah/Clockwork #Phic Phight #Bee's writing #yooooooo I'm not kidding my goal is to drag as many of you fuckers down with me as I can #@floralflowerpower #That includes You

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pearlsephoni · 4 years ago

Text

The Trial of Shoyo Hinata’s Rising Heartrate, Evidence Four: The Trim

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: G

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Kagehina (Kageyama/Hinata)

Characters: Shoyo Hinata, Tobio Kageyama, brief appearances from Coach Ukai and Daichi

Word Count: 1,773

Summary: A close call at practice becomes a source of confused embarrassment for Hinata.

A/N: Inspired by this very sweet, very good fanart by @fauxmeeks. Further author’s notes can be read on AO3.

It wasn’t that Shoyo had ever doubted Karasuno would make it through the first Spring Interhigh qualifying rounds. He’d known they would win. But that still didn’t lessen the thrill of victory.

And that especially didn’t lessen his excitement over facing Aoba Johsai again. With every passing practice, the new freak quick was becoming more reliable, and the thought of using it to get around the very block that had lost them the last tournament made Shoyo’s palm itch with anticipation.

He could see that anticipation mirrored in Kageyama. He saw it in Kageyama’s eyes whenever their gazes met, saw it in the way he ran across the court, the way his fingers curved around the ball before a set. He could see it in the entire team, but his eyes always sought Kageyama’s, searching for the distinct glint that told him, “Now.”

Not that he could let his duties as middle blocker lag behind either. He didn’t know what kind of practice Tsukishima was getting with his brother’s team, but the blonde beanpole had started playing like he actually wanted to be on the court. On the days that Shoyo was a little too focused on refining the freak quick, Tsukishima could actually give him a run for his money when it came to blocking.

It was unnerving, but also a little thrilling. And Shoyo would never turn away from a really good competition. Tsukishima was suddenly playing with a burst of motivation? Fine. Shoyo would fight just as hard.

The thing was, volleyball went so far beyond just what they did on the court. There were drills, strength building exercises, eating the right food, getting somewhat passable grades, stretching and warming up and cooling down, and taking care of his nails. He did his best to keep up with it all.

But sometimes things slipped through the cracks. And he didn’t notice until it was a little too late.

It happened near the end of August, during a 3-on-3 practice match. On one side were him, Kageyama, and Sawamura. On the other were Suga, Azumane, and Tsukishima. The entire match, Tsukishima had been tracking the quick with freakish accuracy, and even though Shoyo had been able to dodge his blocks, he still felt the burn of competition lighting a fire under his feet. He felt like he was seeing everything a little clearer, his eyes tracking the ball from Suga’s dig, to Tsukishima’s messy set, to Azumane springing into the air.

There.

Shoyo’s hands managed to touch the ball, and he opened his mouth to shout, “One touch!”

But what left him instead was a surprised yelp. When the ball bounced off his hand, he suddenly felt a sharp stinging pain in the side of his middle finger, as though someone had nicked him with a tiny blade.

To his dismay, he heard Sawamura call out, “Wait, time out!”

“I’m okay!” Shoyo tried to reassure him.

“It didn’t sound like you’re okay,” Sawamura hummed with furrowed brows. He moved towards Shoyo, but Kageyama beat him there, blue eyes looking dangerously stormy.

“What’s the deal?”

“Nothing!” Shoyo glared back up at Kageyama. “Just…my finger hurt suddenly.” He squinted at his hand, but all he could see was a line of raised red skin on his middle finger. “I’m not even bleeding, I’m fine. Wait- hey!”

Before Shoyo could even look up, Kageyama was grabbing his hand and pulling it up peer at his fingers. “The hell? Who cuts your nails?”

It took Shoyo a beat to respond, his attention narrowed in on the feeling of Kageyama’s calloused fingers handling his own. “U-um…I do.”

“Of course you do,” Kageyama sniffed. “You ever seen a nail file, dumbass?”

“Yeah!” The effect of his indignant voice was ruined by the way his cheeks heated up at Kageyama’s disbelieving frown. “…Maybe.”

“Doesn’t look like you have. Look at how sharp the edges of your nails are.” He pushed the offending fingers into Shoyo’s face. “I dunno how you haven’t cut yourself before.”

The embarrassment that was bubbling up in him clashed with his confusing happiness over Kageyama’s fingers wrapped around his own, making a cocktail of emotions that felt dangerously like anger. “It’s not my fault I don’t—”

“Hey, lovebirds.” Their heads whipped around to see Coach Ukai watching them with a bemused smile. “Can we continue the practice? Is everything ok, Hinata?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d called them that nickname, but it was the first time it made Shoyo’s cheeks feel like they could catch fire. “M’fine,” he mumbled, tugging his hand out of Kageyama’s. “Sorry, Coach.”

“It’s alright, just be careful.”

It was a weird, embarrassing moment, but as soon as Azumane served the ball, all of Shoyo’s embarrassment was forgotten. They had a match to win.

He didn’t get hurt again for the rest of practice, though he did get stopped by Coach Ukai before he could leave for the club room. “Can I see where you got hurt?”

“Yes, sir. But you can’t really see it now.” Shoyo still presented the offending finger, and Ukai peered at it before nodding.

“Alright, I’m glad it wasn’t serious. Kageyama’s right, though. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it is important to keep your nails smooth. It’s already easy enough to get hurt in this sport without you creating more chances for that to happen.”

Just like that, Shoyo remembered the feeling of Kageyama’s fingers around his own, handling them with a gentleness that belied his grumpy nagging. Shoyo’s cheeks warmed with…anger? Was it anger? Anger was the only response to a big jerk nagging at him that made sense, right?

“Hinata?” He was startled out of his thoughts by Ukai, who once again looked both amused and confused. “You ok?”

“Yeah! I’m fine!”

“Alright…well, go get changed and go home, get some rest. Good work today.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The warmth in his cheeks faded as he jogged to the clubroom and got ready to go home…only for it to return when Kageyama suddenly nudged him. “Oi.”

“What?”

“Sit.”

Shoyo blinked at him. “Huh?”

“Sit down.” Kageyama plopped down onto the clubroom floor, as if he wanted to provide an example.

“Why?”

“Quit asking questions and just listen to me!”

Shoyo scowled, but obeyed, mirroring Kageyama’s cross-legged position. “Why’re you being so weird?”

Kageyama glared in the middle of digging through his bag. “I’m not being weird! I’m trying to help!” He tugged out a small pencil case with Vabo-chan printed on it and unzipped it, before holding his hand out. “Gimme your hand.”

“...You’re not gonna cut it off or something, are you?”

“I will if you keep being stupid.”

That was hardly reassuring, but Shoyo still placed his hand in Kageyama’s. The setter tugged Shoyo’s hand closer and pulled out a nail file from the Vabo-chan case. And then, while Shoyo watched in disbelief, Kageyama isolated one of his fingers and began carefully filing away the jagged edges of his nail. “You…wanted to do my nails?”

“Someone’s gotta do it when you’re doing such a shitty job.” It was almost funny, how much the harsh words clashed with the gentle way Kageyama worked. Shoyo didn’t know he was capable of handling anything as gently as he handled his fingers. It was like Kageyama thought he was made out of glass, like he was a fragile thing that needed to be handled with the utmost care.

At any other time, from any other person, Shoyo would’ve been insulted by the idea. But now he could only sit there and watch as Kageyama worked, his dark fringe hanging over his eyes and his ears slowly turning a bright red that matched how hot Shoyo’s cheeks felt.

Shoyo Hinata wasn’t a shy person, and he wasn’t easily embarrassed. He wouldn’t have stuck with volleyball if he were.

He wasn’t very good with words, either. So he sat there, with burning cheeks and a feeling like electricity skating through his body from where his fingers met Kageyama’s, and felt utterly confused over the emotions bubbling up in him. It wasn’t just happiness, and it wasn’t just embarrassment, either. He wanted to both hide away from Kageyama and never leave this moment, wanted to pull away and wanted to weave their fingers together. His heart felt like it could pound out of his chest, and if he tried to speak, his throat felt sealed together from how dry it was.

So he didn’t speak. He just sat there, mutely watching Kageyama work, only managing to speak up when some of the team began trickling out of the clubroom with shouted “Bye!”s.

He didn’t know how long it took for Kageyama to do all his nails. It felt like it could have lasted five seconds or five years, he couldn’t say. Eventually Kageyama brushed away the dust with his thumb and nodded in satisfaction, his lips pressed thin around a secret smile. “Alright. M’done.”

“Oh. Thanks.” For his flustered shyness, Shoyo felt a little reluctant to pull away, but Kageyama settled it by gently dropping his hand into his lap.

“I’m not gonna do it again, dumbass. You better learn to file your own nails, or you’re gonna keep scratching yourself.”

“So mean, Kageyama-kun.”

Blue eyes flashed up to meet his, only to soften at the wide smile that stretched across his face. “...Whatever. Let’s go.” With that, Kageyama packed away his Vabo-chan case and pushed himself to his feet, swinging his bag across his body. “This took way longer than I thought it would.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Shoyo grumbled.

“I’m not gonna let you get hurt when we have to beat Aoba Johsai and Shiratorizawa.”

“I’m not gonna be taken out by a scratch!”

“You don’t know that!”

Shoyo’s cheeks couldn’t seem to cool down, not during the trim, and not during their walk from the school. He couldn’t help it. Kageyama just seemed to keep saying things that made the blood rush to his face, even though everything he said was as stupid as usual.

The weirder thing was that Kageyama’s ears had stayed red from the moment he’d pulled out his nail file to the moment they parted ways on their way home. The whole thing had just been…weird. Shoyo couldn’t think of a better word for it, and he couldn’t figure the whole thing out.

Still…as he replayed the feeling of Kageyama’s fingers holding onto his, Shoyo felt a smile push at his red cheeks. It was weird, yeah. But it was also nice. Really nice.

Maybe he was turning a little weird, too.

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kaiparker-avengerssmut · 4 years ago

Text

Their Doll 6

Righteous and Condescending

B.Barnes x Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis: y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: Tony and Steve are dicks

Warnings: angst (I think), swearing

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"You're kidding, right?" Tony drawled, chewing obnoxiously on another blueberry. When Bruce didn't respond, Tony frowned slightly, turning to Steve. "He is kidding, right? I mean, she doesn't even look like Lily!" Tony said harshly, but Steve wonky sighed heavily before closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he passed Tony the sheet of paper that held all of his answers.

Tony snatched the piece of paper from Steve's hand, eyes running over the black ink cynically over and over until he finally looked back up at the table of avengers. Bruce and Steve had hard expressions, whilst Thor and Clint looked genuinely amused with the situation, and y/n had a resentful glint in her eye.

Now that she met him again, seen him up close, she couldn't help her bitter tone as she snapped.

"How's Peter?" Her eyes were cold - colder than ice as she glared at Tony, hand balling into fists in her lap. Tony gulped, eyes darting around the room and avoiding her's.

"At school," he said slowly, "and living with his aunt May." Y/n scoffed, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.

"I'm surprised you even let that kid out of your sight. I mean come on, Dad, we're to too busy pampering your little protege to even spare a week to come and find me? Do I mean that little to you?" Y/n asked, a glint of tears now in her eyes. Tony made a face, as if he'd been wrongly accused, and held his hands out in defence.

"Come on, kiddo, that's hardly fair - he was only young, and struggling at that." Y/n gasped at her father.

"And I wasn't? After years of loving me you just decided he needed more than me? It hurt, dad, and I tried to tell you that but you didn't listen!" Y/n's voice broke on the last word, a tart finally slipping from her welling eyes.

"Maybe you should take this to another room?" Bruce asked weakly but his comment was lost the second Tony began talking.

"You think that kid didn't need my love too? His parents died, y/n! It's not like I just picked him up from the streets and discover he had superpowers!" Tony almost shouted, his raise in voice making y/n flinch. Her eyes blew wide at his statement and the man seemed to realise what he'd said the second her reaction was seen.

"I-I didn't mean to-"

"Mean to what, dad? Didn't mean to abandon me? Didn't mean to let HYDRA torture me, force me to kill for them?" Y/n interrupted, completely ignoring the bulging eyes glued on her and Tony as they bickered.

"Y/n, I-"

"You what? Are you sorry, dad? Do you feel bad?" She snapped, pushing harshly from her chair and standing inches in front of him. "Well fuck you, because you were so wrapped up with your little Spider-man project that you forgot me. And I deserve better than that." Y/n stormed away, fists clenched at her side as she tried not to punch her dad or anyone else in her fit of rage.

"Y/n!" Steve called after her, but the girl was already gone. Steve was out of his seat a second later, charging after the girl who he considered completely out of line. "Y/n!" Steve snapped, wrapping his nimble yet thick fingers around her bicep and spinning the girl to face him when he caught up to y/n.

"What the do you want, Rogers?" Y/n seethed, face burning with anger.

"You're completely out of line, cut it out." Steve grit through his teeth, grip on her arm only tightening as he pulled y/n closer to him. It was like they were sharing the same air, with how close he was now standing to her.

"So you're telling me that if you saw the man who left you to die - or worse - for the first time in years, you wouldn't be angry too?" Y/n demanded.

"Yeah, but unlike you, I wouldn't react so brashly." Steve countered. Y/n raised her brows.

"Oh, really?" She challenged.

"Really." Steve confirmed, jaw clenching and unclenching. "If you want to remain here, without rotting in a cell, I suggest you straighten out your attitude."

"Oh yeah? And what're you gonna do about it? I hardly doubt Natasha would approve, and Thor seemed very fond of me." Y/n smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. Steve's jaw clenched again and he quickly pushed her backwards.

Y/n made a 'hmph' noise as her back collided with the wall, air rushing from her lungs rather unpleasantly.

"I'd watch your mouth if I were you, little one." Steve was now the one seething, whilst y/n had become rather amused at his little 'lecture'. "I'm the one pulling the strings around here, so you better watch it." He continued, before pushing away from her and turning to walk down the hall. Before he was out of range, he called over his shoulder, "I want you down in the gym and ready to train in ten. Don't be late."

...

"Harder." He demanded, arms crossed as he watched y/n punch the bag. "I said harder, y/n, not faster." Steve scolded, frowning as the girl seemed to think speed was much better than technique.

Y/n's knuckles were sore from punching the bag repeatedly, the wraps that once acted as a thin barrier between her skin and the bag long gone as they'd unraveled after the relentless punching. Steve had scolded her about that, of course, remarking scornfully about how if she'd wrapped them better it wouldn't be an issue. He had done nothing but criticise her - from the way y/n wrapped her fists down the the damn way that her fist hit the bag.

She could do nothing right, in his eyes, and it was infuriating. They had been at it for three hours, and Steve had only allowed two drinks breaks over the whole course of that time. They started on hand-to-hand combat, and when Steve decided she couldn't even punch him right, he had taken it upon himself to teach her. And now here they were, two hours in and Steve was still making the same criticisms. It was hard to tell whether y/n just wasn't listening to him or if Steve just didn't like her.

It was most probably both.

"That's enough." Steve finally said and y/n came to a halt, breathing so heavily it was as if she'd been exercising for hours with no break-

Oh wait. She had.

"Let's take a look at your aim." Steve decided, already walking towards the target practice. Y/n finally caught her breath, striding over to join the super Soldier and picking up a belt from the rack on the nearby wall - one filled with an array of throwing knives that she'd been itching to use once she'd gotten in there.

Despite wanting to use them, y/n couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness - tinged with nostalgia - when she eyes the knives, the silver, glimmering blades only reminding her of The Soldier, and how he'd been left behind. Not that she figured he minded, after all, he never seemed to mind being HYDRA's assassin as long as he got fed.

"C'mon, Stark, let's hope your aim is much better than your punch. For your sake." Y/n clenched her teeth. Did he not remember she was a trained killer and assassin by HYDRA? Or was he just that self-righteous and condescending? The question was swiftly answered, and in the following moments y/n chose the latter option.

Y/n set herself up, pulling her shoulders back she made sure her stance was correct - just like the soldier taught her - and her wrist was loose - just like the soldier taught her - and threw. The knife pierced just to the right of the minuscule centre point, y/n's breathing steady and yet still heavy.

"Almost. Fix your stance."

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 5 years ago

Text

You’re Not Alone

heartwitchhouse request: Hey uh.. can I get Logan introducing Thomas to neurodivergent communities online?

Sure you can, babe! Thanks for the prompt!

Read on Ao3

Pairings: none

Warnings: also...none? there’s some discussion on having anxiety, depresion, and ADHD with some self-doubt but it’s not that bad

Word Count: 2899

It’s just a little off.

It’s not like it’s some big obvious thing that his parents immediately took notice of. It’s not something his doctor noted on his sheet and made sure to talk about. It’s not even something one of his teachers gently pulled him aside for.

It’s just…not quite right.

He knows that his classmates don’t struggle to stare at the board or their work for like…three minutes at a time, but he also knows one of his classmates who can’t do it for three seconds. He knows the others don’t lapse into gray hazes where doing literally anything feels like an insurmountable force, but he also knows the kids that can’t even come to school on certain days.

He knows people who are better, but he also knows people who are worse.

He has good days. Great days. Great weeks, even. It’s just…sometimes he’ll have a bad day and he can’t help but look at everybody else who’s having a worse day.

And here’s the thing. He knows how to work through it.

He can put his head down and just get things done. It doesn’t matter that he can’t focus for more than three minutes, he’ll do the work he can in those three minutes and then move onto something else. Maybe he’ll get to cycle back and pick it up again later. He can shake his head to clear it and squint at his work again, just to finish this one page through the haze. He can make it.

But it’s just that; making it.

He can’t deny the way the polite smile from his teachers settles heavily in the pit of his stomach saying that yeah, he did fine, but he could’ve done better. The way the list of things he needs to do gets checked off by just the bare minimum, something he’s going to have to redo in just a few days, makes his hands itch. The insecurities over all the things he could have done, could have done better, all the things he’s missed, pile up in his brain until he has to shove them all away just to breathe on bad days. But doesn’t everyone struggle with insecurity now and then? This is normal, right?

Or is it just a little off?

“Oh, I’m sure you’d feel better if you just exercised more! Get yourself a workout schedule, there’s no better free therapy!”

Running makes his chest feel like it’s going to explode. His arms and legs ache after the first round of whatever ‘beginner’ program he decides to try once. The gray haze only flourishes, steady as ever on bad days.

“Just focus on your studies, I’m sure once you’ve got more structure in your life it’ll help you feel better, sweetie.”

Work pounds into his head and he gets it done. All the things he could’ve done better stay there too, bold and bright on the page next to red slashes of ink. He puts his head down and goes, goes, goes. That doesn’t help the bad days, it just pushes them off. Then they get worse.

“Maybe you just need to go outside more often, sunlight can do wonders for you!”

Listen. He and the sun have an agreement. The sun doesn’t like him. He doesn’t like the sun. It’s better if they just…stay out of each other’s way. He could do without the achy headaches the bright light gives him.

“Are you sure you’re drinking enough water? Are you eating the right stuff?”

His budget quickly becomes strained with the amount of ‘healthy food’ he’s supposed to buy. The piles of ‘proper ingredients’ sit in his cabinet, unused, taunting him with how difficult it’ll be to figure out how to eat them. The guilt over not using them worries at his throat as he’s forced to toss them out as they go bad. He gets raised eyebrows from everyone with how often he has to go to the bathroom. The ensuing doctor’s visit is one he’d rather not repeat any time soon, even though at that point it’s just…you know those days where you’re like ‘this might as well happen? Adult life is already so goddamn weird?’

“At least you can get out of bed most days. You seemed fine yesterday!”

…yesterday was yesterday. And just because he got out of bed doesn’t mean anything. It wasn’t really a conscious choice, he just…had to do it.

“You’re not nearly as bad as—“

You know, it doesn’t really matter who they put at the end of that. The point is he’s not as bad as other people. So he doesn’t get the support that they get.

He doesn’t get the polite nods from professors when he needs an extension. He doesn’t get the medication prescribed to him for something that he shouldn’t need because he’s ‘healthy.’ When he finally tries therapy, the therapist compliments him on how easily he’s able to hold a conversation, maintain eye contact, and asks him if he’s tried keeping a diary.

During the nights when he can’t sleep, when the blankets feel way too rough, like sleeping on sandpaper that rubs persistently at his skin, he tosses and turns and thinks…would it be better if…

Would it be better if it were worse?

If it were more obvious, if he actually had depression, anxiety, ADHD, something with a name that people could recognize, or even just the freedom to say he had something…would that be better?

He doesn’t cry every day. He can still feel things most of the time. He eats. He drinks water. He sleeps. He goes outside. He doesn’t get high or drink or do anything to try and numb the pain or escape it. He doesn’t have suicidal thoughts.

But it still feels like he’s not quite right.

If he were worse…people would be more sympathetic. He wouldn’t be accused of milking anything for attention. He wouldn’t get scolded for making light of other people’s problems. He wouldn’t be faking it. Is he faking it? Is he blowing it up out of proportion?

Is it really as bad as he thinks it is?

He finds the perfect metaphor almost by accident. He’s over at a friend’s house one day and they’re in the kitchen, getting hot chocolate to drink before starting their movie night. He opens the cupboard and pulls out a mug with flowers all over it. As he turns to give it to his friend, he notices a chip in the rim.

“Oh, oh gosh, I, um, I’m sorry—“

“What? What’s wrong?” His friend takes the mug from his stuttering hands and squints at it. Her brow smooths out and she laughs. “Oh, are you worried about the chip?”

“…yeah. I don’t—I don’t think I did it?”

“You didn’t,” she says easily, filling it with hot milk, “it’s always been like that.”

“Oh, okay.” The black fuzzy things buzzing about his head settle at that as he leans back against the counter, ready to accept the mug of hot chocolate. It’s warm, pleasantly so, sending a rush of contentment up his arms as he cups his palms around it. “Where’s yours?”

“I’m almost done!”

He looks back down at the hot chocolate, shimmering brown with the kitchen light’s reflection. Tilting his head, he examines the chip in the ceramic. It’s not that big, barely noticeable, but there’s a sharp edge on the inside. He’ll have to be careful he doesn’t drink from that side. Wouldn’t do to burn his tongue and accidentally cut his lip.

“Alright! I’m ready, let’s—ah!”

Her yelp startles him out of whatever hot-chocolate-drinking-planning haze he’d been in, only to see his friend staring at the floor with her hands over her mouth.

“Hey, whoa, are you okay? What happened?”

“I, um—“ oh, no, she sounds so upset, let’s help her!— “I dropped my mug.”

Sure enough, as he hustles around the counter, he sees the broken mug, lying on the floor, hot chocolate spilling mockingly from the remains. He sets his mug—carefully!—on the counter, looking around for the paper towels.

“Did you get hurt?”

“What?” Her gaze doesn’t leave the floor. “No, no, it’s just…that was my favorite mug.”

A horrible sadness settles in his chest as he looks at her and he gently knocks their elbows. “It looks like it’s still got some pretty big pieces, we could…maybe we could fix it?”

“You came over here to watch movies, not to fix my mug.”

“We can do both, can’t we?”

So there they end up, with the lights on, newspaper spread on the floor, hot glue gun, superglue, carefully piecing together broken ceramic as Finding Nemo plays in the background. By the time the seagulls are all racing around the screen, frantically yelling ‘mine!’ they’ve set the now-fixed mug gingerly on the counter, out of harm’s way, and cleaned up all the spilled hot chocolate. As the night creeps on, their eyes growing heavier and heavier, they make it through Mulan, The Princess and the Frog, and The Nightmare Before Christmas. Just before they start The Black Cauldron, his friend gently taps the side of the mug.

“…I think it’s fixed!”

“Wait, really? That was fast!”

“Dude, it was like…at least six hours ago.”

“Is that how fast superglue sets?”

“Have you never used superglue before?”

“Hey!”

The sight of his friend with her favorite mug cradled in her lap makes him smile as he turns his attention back to the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her talking softly to herself, saying how she promises to be more careful next time, how she’s so happy the mug is fixed, it’ll be better now, stronger this time. And yet she still cradles the cracked, seamed thing with the same tenderness she did when they first picked up the pieces.

He looks back down at the chipped mug in his lap. The chip is so small. It’s barely noticeable. It doesn’t make the mug leak or anything. The mug still works as a mug.

He runs his thumb over the rim, feeling just the slightest pressure when he runs over the chip. If he tried to drink from that side, it would hurt.

She’s had this mug for…years?

He looks back over at the mug in his friend’s lap.

The broken mug gets fixed.

The chipped mug stays chipped forever.

“Thomas?”

Thomas blinks, looking up from his lap to see Logan standing next to him. Logan adjusts his tie.

“You took a moment to respond.”

“Sorry. Did we, uh, are we late for something? Did I miss a deadline?”

There’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it expression that flitters across Logan’s face. Then he adjusts his glasses and it’s gone. Thomas frowns.

“…you okay, bud? What was that?”

“What was what, Thomas?”

“You, uh, you made a face.”

“I have a face, Thomas, we all have faces.”

“But you made an expression.”

“…I believe I am…incapable of not making an expression.”

“Logan,” Thomas sighs, “please tell me what’s wrong.”

Well, he certainly takes him by surprise at any rate. Logan glances around—is he worried the others are going to show up?—and adjusts his glasses again.

“I suppose I was…perturbed,” he settles on finally, “that your immediate assumption when I appeared was that I was going to…reprimand you in some way.”

Oh. “Jeez, um, sorry, Logan, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Logan waves him off. “It’s quite alright.”

“But…no, it’s not.” Thomas shakes his head. “You…we gotta talk about this…more, but that’s not the only thing you’re important for. You know that, right?”

…well, Logan’s certainly making a face now. It’s the same one he made after Remus first appeared, after Thomas called him ‘cool.’ After a moment of savoring Logan looking a little flustered, he prompts him gently.

“Did you wanna talk about something?”

“Right,” Logan says quickly, shaking himself, “do you remember our conversation about neurodivergent communities?”

Right. They’d been talking about trying to find therapists during COVID and how it would be difficult since, y’know…going outside is more than kind of a no-no. Virgil had brought up how it’s almost impossible to get a good read on whether or not a therapist would be appropriate for them without a proper appointment, which…kind of led to everyone agreeing that maybe it would be better to try just the texting one first. Logan had mentioned trying to find a group of people to talk to, not just a single person, until Janus said something about not knowing how to navigate something like that.

Not one of their more productive conversations.

“Since your desire to try and see a therapist seems to have stagnated,” Logan says as Thomas nods, “I have found an alternative solution that I believe might be more suited to your current approach to your mental health problems.”

“I don’t—Logan, I don’t have—“

The look Logan levels at him is enough to get him to shush.

“What’s the solution?”

“One of the main obstacles for finding a therapist or seeking help in a group setting was an unawareness of how to properly navigate those dynamics, correct?” Thomas nods. “Then it seems that a solution would be to simply find a group where you do understand the dynamics, yes?”

“…how do I do that?” Thomas scruffs a hand through his hair. “I—look, I…I get that I should talk to someone, we made that clear but it’s just—I don’t—“

Logan waits patiently, his head tilted slightly, as Thomas struggles for words.

“…it’s not that bad,” Thomas says lamely.

“But we’ve established that—“

“I know, I know,” Thomas groans, burying his head in his hands, “but it’s just like—I don’t think I belong there.”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t that for people who have it worse?”

There must be some note of hysteria in that last word because Logan blinks and eases himself down onto the couch next to him, folding his hands in his lap and waiting patiently. When it’s clear Thomas isn’t going to be able to make words go for a while, he clears his throat.

“You don’t want to join a space in which you are not welcome, correct?”

Thomas nods miserably.

“This idea that you will not be welcome stems from the idea that your problems are not…severe enough?”

“Aren’t they?”

“Why must they be more severe for you to seek help?”

“I don’t know, I just—what if they think I’m faking?”

“Are you?”

That’s the kicker, isn’t it? When Thomas looks helplessly at Logan, uncertainty probably written plainly all over his face, Logan tilts his head.

“If you have to ask whether or not you’re faking,” he says in a soft voice Thomas rarely hears, “it’s almost certain that you are not.”

Thomas just nods dumbly.

“Mental illnesses can manifest in a variety of ways,” Logan continues in that same soft voice—and anyone who says Logan doesn’t understand emotion can get out—“and you do not have to fulfill a certain standard of ‘bad’ in order to seek help.”

“But then how do I find people to—who will—who are gonna—“

“…understand?”

“Yeah.”

Logan’s mouth quirks up. “When was the last time you were on Tumblr?”

Thomas blinks. “Excuse me? Also don’t you know that?”

“I do.” Logan gestures to Thomas’s phone. “You wanted a space where you understand how to interact with people and where talking about these types of things will not be a drastic breach of boundaries, yes?”

“…yeah?”

“You would be surprised at the amount of neurodivergent communities online.”

“So why’re you asking me about Tumblr?” The second it comes out of his mouth Thomas’s eyes widen. “Logan—“

“I am not suggesting that be your only source of help, by any means,” Logan says quickly, “but it might serve as a good starting point. You know what is to be expected from Tumblr—relatively speaking,” he corrects when Thomas makes a face, “and it will help you see that, despite what you may think, you’re not alone.”

Logan stands, giving Thomas one last look before he sinks out.

“…and you don’t have to be grateful it isn’t worse, Thomas.”

Thomas looks down at his phone. He opens the app and types something into the search bar.

Logan was right. People…people talk about stuff on Tumblr. Admittedly, it’s Tumblr, so it’s an absolute hellsite, but there is something a little reassuring about being able to just…word vomit into a post and see other people doing the same.

Friendly reminder that people’s symptoms are gonna manifest in different ways and you’re not allowed to judge someone who experiences something different than you

REMINDED THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO GRATEFUL THAT THINGS AREN’T WORSE WE DO NOT PLAY THE PAIN OLYMPICS IN THIS HOUSE

You’re not alone.

He’s still gonna have to figure out how to find a therapist. He’s still gonna have to figure out how to talk about this kind of stuff.

But for now, he can sit here and scroll and realize that there are words he can use to describe these things and it finally might start feeling right.

General Taglist: @frxgprince @potereregina @reddstardust @gattonero17 @iamhereforthegayshit @thefingergunsgirl @awkwardandanxiousfander @marshmallow-fluffy @creative-lampd-liberties @djpurple3 @winterswrandomness @sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes @iminyourfandom @bullet-tothefeels @full-of-roman-angst-trash @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind @demoniccheese83 @pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious @firefinch-ember @fandomssaremysoul @im-an-anxious-wreck @crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch @enby-ralsei @unicornssunflowersandstuff @wildhorsewolf @thefingergunsgirl @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @such-a-dumbass

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#sanders sides #character thomas #logan sanders #dragonbabbles #fic

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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Text

I Can Do Better

Prompt: Cockwarming Relationships: Valdo/Jaskier Rating: E Content Warnings: smut, humiliation, cock warming, dom/sub relationship, sub!Jaskier, orgasm denial Summary: After Jaskier disrupts Valdo's class at Oxenfurt, Valdo decides to treat Jaskier a lesson.

For @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Also a prompt fill for the wonderful @hailhailsatan. I hope I did your idea justice! Thanks to @officerjennie and @dani-dandelino for giving this a read through.

__________

Jaskier strutted down the corridors of Oxenfurt, tubes of parchment in his arms, whistling a merry tune. His long overcoat whipped around his legs when walked, giving him a dramatic flare that he adored. Honestly, the dress code for the professors at the university was one of the main reasons he kept returning each winter, that and the extra coin. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the infuriatingly handsome Valdo Marx, his rival since they were both teenagers and budding young bardlings. Valdo had always gotten under Jaskier’s skin. He was a year older and Jaskier had really looked up to him in his first year. That all changed when Valdo decided to steal Jaskier’s work. So naturally, Jaskier had stolen Valdo’s work right back, and thus their infamous rivalry began.

The sex had come shortly after.

There was just something about wrestling another man to the ground in a local tavern that made Jaskier feel flustered. It was inherently homoerotic, their hands grappling at each other’s clothes, gripping tightly as they both tried to get the upper hand, and well, Jaskier was easily seduced. He’d been hard by the time he’d managed to pin Valdo on his back, his heart racing from more than just the exercise. A bead of sweat had trickled down Valdo’s temple and his skin was glistening in the candlelight, looking completely and utterly debauched under Jaskier’s thighs. That had been his demise. Valdo had taken advantage of his distraction and overthrown him. The two bardlings had barely made it back to their room before they were kissing and panting, trapped in a heated embrace.

And it had never really stopped.

They’d snipe and snap at each other with every breath… until they were alone. Once they were alone then all pretenses went out of the window. Valdo easily took charge and to Jaskier’s surprise… he let him. The confidence that oozed from his rival turned lover was intoxicating, and Jaskier wanted to please him. He wanted to submit in a way that he rarely did. The rules between them were quickly established as they began to explore the new side of their relationship, making mistakes and finding solutions until it was almost as easy as breathing.

As adults and professors at the university, nothing had really changed from their days as students. Jaskier only taught for a term during the winter. He was still, primarily, a travelling bard, and barker to the White Wolf. So he liked to make the best of his time with Valdo.

Even if that meant harassing the professor in his classroom.

Jaskier pushed open the door to the lecture theatre, not attempting to be quiet. He wanted Valdo and his students to know he was there. The room fell silent as the door crashed against the wall, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to face him.

Perfect.

Jaskier smirked at the professor at the front of the room, winking at him as he gave a cheeky wave. “Don’t mind me, Marx. Please, carry on.”

“Julian, don’t you have somewhere better to be, instead of interrupting my classes?” Valdo sneered, dark brown eyes glaring daggers at him across the room.

Jaskier laughed, jumping onto one of the empty desks at the back of the class. “You would think, my classes are fully booked after all, but I have a free period and I find it ever so fascinating to see how others work. We can’t all have my natural charm and charisma.”

“Get out, Julian.”

“But Professor, can’t he stay?” Tilda, a sweet redhead, asked from her spot at the front of the class. She had signed up for Jaskier’s class this year but unfortunately there just hadn’t been space. “Professor Pankratz’s classes were full, and most of us missed out.”

“See,” Jaskier drawled, never taking his eyes off Valdo, giving him a coy smile, “even your students want me here. I suppose it must make a change from listening to you drivel on about… what are we supposed to be learning about? Iambic pentameter?” he scoffed. “I practically invented that, darling.”

Valdo had gone a delightfully red colour, his cheeks flushed, either embarrassed or enraged, Jaskier couldn’t quite tell. Either way, he was fucking loving it. Winding Valdo up was one of his favourite parts of winter. That and fucking Valdo, sometimes even both at the same time.

“Class dismissed,” Valdo hissed, a dangerous glint in his eyes that sent a thrill through Jaskier.

“Now, now, Marx, no need to stop on account of little old me,” Jaskier purred, a little too seductively for being in front of a room full of students but he really didn’t give a shit.

“I said dismissed!” Valdo snapped, and his students all hurried to scatter, leaving Jaskier and Valdo alone in the room together. “You, Julian, are in trouble.”

“What are you going to do? Tell the Headmaster?” Jaskier giggled, hopping off the desk as Valdo swept past him and out of the room.

They kept up the charade for the entire walk back to Valdo’s chambers, Jaskier teasing and taunting his lover, and Valdo steadfastly ignoring him. Being ignored stung a little, he preferred it when Valdo argued back, at least then he still had the older man’s attention. Having Valdo’s attention was like a drug, better than any wine or fisstech. Jaskier craved it. Every time he returned to Oxenfurt, it was like he reverted back to the sixteen year old boy that had idolised the handsome second year, so eager to please for just any scrap of affection.

“Valdo, please,” he whined as they approached his room.

“Just get inside, Julian.”

Jaskier grumbled but stumbled through the room. It was tidier than his own room, which wasn’t really saying much, but it was less of a tavern room and more someone’s home. There were little knickknacks, portraits hung on the walls and a collection of poetry books all over the room. It was clearly Valdo’s room, whereas Jaskier’s room always looked as if he was half way out of the door, which wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He did only stay for a few months at a time. There wasn’t much point in getting settled in, and he spent most nights in Valdo’s room anyway.

The door clicked shut behind them and Valdo slid the lock into place. Alone… finally. Dumping his tubes of parchment on the floor, Jaskier grinned and pulled Valdo into a kiss, trying to show much he’d missed the other man during the day, but Valdo remained a statue beneath him. That did nothing to quell the heat of wanton need that had been itching under his skin all fucking day, so he pulled back, pouting at Valdo with wide eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he cooed, stroking his fingers along Valdo’s collar, “Come on, I know you want me.”

“I’m busy, Julian.”

“With what?”

Valdo scoffed and gestured to the pile of parchments on his desk, an all too familiar sight. The desk in Jaskier’s room looked very much the same, probably even worse, but that was because he was here, with Valdo.

But Valdo was still fucking ignoring him.

“I’m in trouble.”

Valdo turned round, with fire in his eyes. “You humiliated me in front of my entire class, Julian. What else were you expecting?”

Shame burned through Jaskier, making him shrink back and he began to feel a little lightheaded, needing to submit to Valdo, wanting to right the wrong, to please him. “I-I just missed you, Valdo. Please.”

“On your knees, Julian. Under my desk.”

Jaskier nodded silently and did as he was told.

And finally Valdo’s fingers were in his hair, gently coaxing him into a more relaxed state despite the anger and the rage. Jaskier hummed and leant into the touch, nuzzling at Valdo’s thighs as he finally sat down at the desk. Fingers caught under his chin, and Jaskier tipped his head back to look up at his lover. Valdo quirked an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

Was this okay?

Jaskier nodded, turning to press a kiss to Valdo’s knee.

Yes.

And then all traces of concern were gone from Valdo’s face, replaced by a cool anger and his fingers tugged harshly at Jaskier’s hair. “I’ve never known such a needy little slut. You’re the reason that people mistake troubadours for whores, Julian. I bet you fall to your knees for anyone that asks.”

Jaskier shook his head, weakly protested but he barely made a sound before his head was yanked back and Valdo’s fingers were shoved into his mouth. “Hmmph.”

“Do not argue with me, little whore. The whole Continent knows your reputation, and you love it, don’t you, being my slut? So desperate for my attention that you have to act out in front of my students,” Valdo scoffed. “Pathetic.”

Jaskier whimpered, suckling at Valdo’s fingers and wriggling on the ground, trying to grind his cock down on his ankles where he was sitting down. He was achingly hard and desperate for some kind of relief. The world seemed to spin, all the blood going to his cock as Valdo continued to stroke through his hair. Valdo’s fingers were pulled abruptly from his mouth, and he let out a pitiful whine.

“Valdo, sir…” Jaskier pleaded.

“And why should I reward you?” Valdo tutted. “You’ve been nothing but trouble.”

Jaskier pouted, his bottom lip quivering. “I’ll be good, I promise. Please sir, I want you.”

He’d never begged for anyone else, Valdo was just his exception. He couldn’t help it. The older bard turned him into a wanton mess, begging and writhing in just a few choice words. It was the cocky arrogance in his dark eyes, almost black hair slicked back with undercuts on either side of his head. He looked every part the gorgeous arsehole that he was, and Jaskier loved him.

“Hmm, I suppose we can come to a compromise, sweetheart,” Valdo drawled, his fingers brushing through Jaskier’s beard.

“Please,” Jaskier repeated, not able to think of anything more eloquent.

“You can warm my cock whilst I mark my papers, but nothing else,” Valdo instructed. “Do you understand, Julian?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Good. Now get on with it. If you move or misbehave any more then you’ll be sent back to your room.”

Back to his room, alone. That could only mean one thing. If he acted out this evening then Valdo wouldn’t even let him touch himself when he got back to his room. Jaskier moaned, shifting again on the floor, as much as it was a punishment, the idea of having his orgasm completely controlled by this frustratingly beautiful man, fuck, it was only making him more aroused. He nuzzled against the fabric of Valdo’s trousers before untying the lace, his fingers well practiced even in the dim light. The bastard wasn’t even hard, which only made Jaskier want to try harder to seduce him… but he was only supposed to hold Valdo’s cock.

No moving, no sucking, no licking, swallowing, humming.

Dearest Melitele, he was going to die.

Valdo kept one hand in Jaskier’s hair but returned to his work as promised, steadily ignoring Jaskier as he finally got his mouth around Valdo’s cock. He was good at first, keeping still and working on relaxing his jaw until it was slack around the soft length in his mouth. Jaskier even managed to clear his mind and settle into his task… but not for long. The familiar haze never came and soon he was fidgeting, still hurt that Valdo hadn’t even been a little hard from his flirtations. Across the Continent he was known as an unparalleled lover, and he couldn’t even get his own partner hard.

It was bullshit.

And he could do better.

He hummed softly, tentatively taking Valdo’s cock deeper into his mouth, letting it push right at the back of his throat, before pulling back slightly. A hand pulled at his hair.

“Stay still, slut.”

Jaskier whimpered, falling back into a comfortable position, but he couldn’t resist trying again. This time he managed to suck at Valdo’s cock, flicking his tongue along the underside and finally he felt Valdo begin to swell in his mouth. He hummed in satisfaction but his victory was short lived and the other man pulled him off his cock with a sharp yank in his hair.

“No! No, no, no… I can do better, please!” Jaskier protested.

“You had your chance, Julian,” Valdo sneered. “Get out of my sight, I wouldn’t even pay five crowns at a brothel for you. You’re just pathetic.”

Tears pricked in Jaskier’s eyes but not even that could lessen his arousal. Valdo was absolutely right about him, and he fucking enjoyed it. Being treated like dirt just scratched an itch unlike anything else. He sniffed and wiped away the tears, brushing down his trousers and raising his head up high. “I don’t need you.”

“Yes, you do,” Valdo chided, raising an eyebrow and Jaskier could see the cold facade start to waver. He knew that if he needed it Valdo would open his arms and they’d spend the night curled up in bed together. It was unlikely that he’d be allowed to get off, but he wouldn’t be left alone.

Jaskier shook his head. “I-I know where I’m not wanted,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he tried not to cry anymore than he already was. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Marx.”

“What was that?”

“Sir,” Jaskier mumbled, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”

“Good boy, now get out.”

And he did. He scarpered back to his room, keeping to the quieter corridors to avoid bumping into any students that might be lurking. Sleep didn’t come easy that night, he was too keyed up, desperate to cum but refusing to let Valdo win. He curled up around his pillow case and hugged it, begging for the world of dreams to take him, to ease the burning swell of desire that threatened to consume him.

#the witcher #jaskier/valdo #jaskier pankratz #valdo marx #professor pankratz #wolfie's witcher writing

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theseshipsshallsail · 4 years ago

Link

There’s a new club in the Village - Infinity emblazoned in bright, neon letters - and naturally, the building is jam-packed with society’s outcasts on its opening weekend. Oliver grimaces, pressing his third beer to the side of his face, yet the condensation does nothing to soothe his overheated skin. It’s like a furnace of writhing bodies, and with every bead of sweat that bisects his neck to soak into his collar, he can’t help but wonder why he ever agreed to come in the first place.

“Drink up,” Vanessa says, brandishing a bright amber concoction as she slides into the booth opposite him. “You look like you need something a little stronger.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow as he returns the bottle to the table, then plucks the wedge of orange peel from the rim of the proffered glass. It’s been three years since he tasted a negroni, and the potent combination of gin, Campari, and vermouth sends his mind reeling in directions he usually fights tooth and nail to avoid.

“Remind me again why you brought me here?” he asks, trying not to wince at the bitter aftertaste. “This isn’t exactly my scene.”

Vanessa scoffs. “Well, if you ever left your study...”

“I’m up for promotion!”

“You’ll be up for an ulcer if you don’t slow down. Besides, you deserve to let loose after... you know.”

You know, meaning his divorce, and the eighteen month shit-storm that preceded it.

Vanessa has the office next to his, and in between general grousing about University politics they’ve become close friends. It helps, of course, that she understands his situation all too well, and even though her parents never tried to strong-arm her to the altar, she and her girlfriend still have to hide their relationship from the rest of their colleagues.

Oliver sighs as he takes a second sip of his drink. “It’ll take more than a one night stand to loosen me up,” he tells her, and the filthy smirk that curls Vanessa’s lips has him tempted to bang his forehead against the table.

“Whatever tickles your pickle, Professor.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Hell if I know.” Slurring somewhat, she taps their cocktails together, and Oliver laughs as she leans forward, poking him in the chest. “Listen, Ollie, you and Micol did a spectacular job of making yourselves miserable, but at least you stayed faithful ‘til the end. Why not enjoy yourself, yeah?”

“Why not indeed?”

He’s aiming for sarcastic, yet his tone falls somewhere short of exhausted. She’s right, he realises, but Oliver hasn’t had much interest in men or women for a while. He’s not so deep in denial to admit his heart still belongs to another, and being hopelessly in love with someone he can’t have has done a real number on his libido.

“Damn! This place is heaving!” Simone says, slumping in her seat when she returns from the bathroom. Slinging an arm around Vanessa’s shoulder she drops a quick kiss to her cheek, and Oliver averts his eyes, the casual intimacy leaving him yearning for the impossible. “A few too many student-types for my liking, though. Makes me feel like I’m back in the theatre department.”

“Makes me feel like I’m pushing thirty,” Oliver mutters, painfully aware of the significantly younger crowd as he tugs at the cheap material of his shirt. Too many curries and not enough exercise has made him self-conscious of the few extra pounds at his waistline, and depressingly, twenty-eight feels ancient in comparison.

“You wanna call it a night?” Vanessa asks, and Oliver nods absently as his gaze catches on a couple in the middle of the dancefloor.

Caught in a world of their own, they make a striking picture. The taller of the pair is bleached-blond and athletic, his arms wrapped tightly around the slim waist of the man in front of him in a surprisingly protective gesture. Oliver can’t see his partner clearly from this angle, but his skin is pale and shimmering as they move to the beat, dark curls falling in a tousled mess. Whether it’s by artful design or sweat-damp from dancing, he can’t quite tell, yet Oliver is hypnotized by the way they bounce as he loses himself to the music, obscuring his vision until the other man reaches forward, gently brushing them away.

The bass pounds in his rib cage, and Oliver’s throat feels constricted as he watches the brunette link his hands behind his lover's neck. Profile half in shadows, he raises up on tiptoes to whisper in the shell of his ear, and Oliver experiences a crisis of tenderness when he butts their temples together. Something squirms in his stomach. Something raw and envious. Memories flare, unfair and brutal, and he immediately blames the burning of his retinas on the relentless assault of the strobe lights surrounding them.

“Oliver? You okay?”

No.

Definitely not.

The jostling crowd causes the blond to alter their position, and Oliver’s head spins from more than just the alcohol as his blood runs cold in his veins.

“Elio…” he murmurs, vaguely aware of Vanessa’s stifled gasp when she tries to get a better look.

“Your Elio?”

He wants it not to be - wants his eyes to be deceiving him - yet there’s no denying the truth. All that he’s forgotten - all that he’s clung to - coalesces in a rush of unslaked longing, and between one blink and the next, Oliver remembers everything.

“Not anymore,” he whispers, but then, why would he be?

Elio was seventeen when they first met, and Oliver isn’t naive enough to think he hasn’t fallen in and out of love many times since then. He’s beautiful, intelligent, talented beyond measure. Was he really so arrogant to imagine he would still be single? Pining for him, maybe? Saving himself? And for what? A six week romance one too-hot Italian summer? Something his cowardice cut short with a long-distance phone call?

He was, wasn’t he?

Arrogant.

And so very stupid.

“Of all the gay bars in all the world…” Vanessa takes a swig of her piña colada as he continues to spiral. “I thought you said he lived in Italy?”

“He did,” Oliver replies, picking at his thumbnail. “He moved here for school.”

“And you didn't contact him?”

“To say what?” His ears ring from the shrillness of her tone. “Hey, Elio. Remember that time I broke both our hearts ‘cause I’m a gutless schmuck? How about I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

“It would’ve been a start.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” he says, tearing his eyes away. “He has enough on his plate with Juilliard. I’d only get in the -”

“Juilliard?” Simone’s low whistle interrupts his self-reproach. “Impressive.”

“Son of a professor,” Oliver explains. “I always knew he was a genius.” He gathers himself with a quiet huff. “Though he’ll probably say he knows nothing.” The spark of nostalgia is crippling, and it takes everything he has not to break down on the spot. “I should go,” he says, draining the remains of his drink as he rises to his feet.

“Oliver -”

“Why don’t you come back to ours?” Vanessa offers, making to follow, but whatever expression is on his face causes Simone to catch her by the wrist.

“We’re here if you need us, alright?”

“I know,” he says, eternally grateful for their support as he pushes some cab money into her hand. “Get home safe. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“You’d better,” Vanessa tells him, obstinate in her concern, yet all he can focus on right now is leaving.

The swirling thoughts inside his head are all-consuming, but Oliver is determined to reign in his emotions for a little while longer. Ignoring the way his shoes stick to the tacky vinyl flooring, he grits his teeth as he snakes his way through the crush of humanity. He needs space. Fresh air. Hell, a damn time machine wouldn’t go amiss. He has nobody to blame but himself, and he’s halfway to the exit sign when his pace grinds to a halt, his masochistic streak unable to resist one last glimpse.

A flash of irrational panic makes him breathe in deep - hold it for a count of three - and when he turns to scan the roiling bodies that fill up the dance floor, he finds them immediately. The shock doesn’t lessen, and if Oliver thought his heart had broken when they’d clung to one another on a train station platform, it’s naught compared to when Elio tips the other man’s chin up with the same fingers that used to play his body like a finely tuned instrument. White noise fills his ears as he ghosts a kiss to his lips - two chaste pecks at first - and then harder. Hungry. Mouths open. Tongues swirling. Deep and dirty.

Just the way he likes it.

Fool that he is, Oliver doesn’t turn away. But he’s not the only one. Their bawdy display has garnered a small audience of the jealous and horny, and when the cat-calls eventually die down he notices a clearly disappointed red-head stalk past them on route to her table of friends.

Time has not domesticated him, it seems, and Oliver feels like crying as the world returns frame by frame - the oscillating pulse of the dance track. The lightning burst of colour from the laser system above. An innate sense of powerlessness floods through him - the depths of which he hasn’t experienced since Elio sobbed against his chest in an attic bedroom - and a heavy weight settles in his belly as he recognises the cues and rituals that were once directed at him alone.

Elio has obviously flourished in his absence. His body language is looser, more relaxed, assured in a way his younger self could only dream of, and Oliver allows an almost-smile as the couple laugh for a moment before turning to walk away.

His fingers itch for a cigarette - a habit he’s struggling to waive - and the next thing he knows he’s taking a seat at the bar, a double shot of bourbon in his hand he doesn’t remember ordering, and a screaming admonishment from his better judgement to not do anything stupid.

All I had to do was find the courage to reach out and touch, Elio said once, rife with self-mockery, and Oliver’s advice was to try again later. Was this it? Their later? And if not now, when? Because whatever his feelings of bitterness - whatever his misguided envy - if he lets this opportunity pass him by, he will always wonder. Always look.

In truth, he already does.

Ever since Samuel mentioned Elio was moving to the States, he’s carried the idle fantasy of crossing paths in some random book store, eyes locking across a busy street, a name - his, theirs, both - shouted across a bustling coffee shop. Of all eventualities, though, he hasn’t prepared for an Elio who might not be happy to see him. Who might dismiss him. Cast him aside like some ill-fitting chapter in the editing process. The context is all wrong, and for it to happen like this is akin to being plunged into the icy waters of the berm.

“Accidenti!” an achingly familiar voice says from somewhere behind him. “Are all Americans incapable of taking a hint? Or is it just an East Coast thing?”

“It’s the accent, mio amico. Fries their brains.”

“Never mind their brains,” Elio replies in the same lazy drawl. “I think you’ve sprained my tonsils.”

There’s a snicker to his left, and like a moth to a flame, Oliver peers up into the mirror behind the bar, only to find his living nightmare mere meters away, sharing a cigarette. Elio’s still wearing the same bracelets he did that summer, and three years of sleepwalking collapses around him as Oliver hunches over, palms sweating.

“Seriously though,” the blond continues. “Look at this place! Wall-to-wall entreés, and you won’t so much as skim the menu. You’re spoiled for choice, compagno.”

Elio scoffs as he brings the filter to his lips. “Didn’t I tell you choice is an illusion?”

“As is time, according to Adams.” The man slings an arm over his shoulders. “And here you are, free as a bird, wasting the perfect opportunity.”

Elio flips him the middle finger. “Stronzo,” he says, leaving Oliver more confused than ever as he studies him over the rim of his glass. “It’s a curse.”

“Self-inflicted, maybe.”

“So what’s the answer? And don’t say forty-two.”

The guy chuckles. “Variety,” he says, signalling the harried bartender. “Things didn’t work out with the violinist - I get it. È la vita! You’re not in the mood for pushy red-heads? Fine. But don’t sell yourself short. Trust Fund Tina’s not the only one checking you out.”

“Perhaps.”

“What perhaps?” A knowing smirk shoots in Oliver’s direction. “See for yourself.”

It’s like experiencing the first tremor of an earthquake. Elio was always a force of nature, and bracing for disaster, Oliver feels the fault lines buckle beneath him. He thought he was done letting fear and shame dictate his life, yet even now, at peace with his true self, he can’t bear to witness the seismic shift between past and present. Instead, he falls back on avoidance, tearing strips off a frayed beer mat until the hair prickles at his nape.

He can feel it - the instant his fate is sealed - and taking a deep breath Oliver returns his eyes to the mirror, meeting Elio’s stunned features. Dark brows climb towards his hairline as the happiness on his face shifts into something else. Something measured. Unrecognisable. A blank slate, almost. For a moment, Oliver fears he’s going to ignore him completely, but then Elio straightens his spine, offers the half-smoked cigarette to his friend, and with a few whispered words strides forward with purpose.

His daring is a law unto himself, but the look he’s giving him now exudes superiority - omniscience, almost - as if he can read every thought that’s going on inside Oliver’s mind, and has already deemed them wanting. It shouldn’t be such a turn on, yet his heart skips a beat regardless. Then another. Every instinct in his body tells him to reach out, to hold Elio’s hand, tuck those wild curls behind his ear, but it’s no longer his place - if it ever really was to begin with - so Oliver takes a deliberate sip of his whiskey, scared and aroused simultaneously, before swivelling towards him.

“Oliver.” His name on Elio’s lips - three smooth syllables - and he feels reborn. “Long time no see.” Hesitating, he offers up a pack of Luckies. “Fumo?”

“I shouldn’t,” he says, dragging trembling fingers through his hair. “I told myself I’d quit. God knows it won't take much to -”

“Tempt you?”

Heat rises to Oliver’s cheeks. “Yes,” he admits, and Elio’s smile is a shallow, brittle thing.

“Well, you know yourself,” he says, returning the cigarette carton to his pocket. “Don’t let me ruin your good intentions.”

His flippancy is like a red rag to a bull, and Oliver’s hackles rise as he sets his drink on the counter, irritated enough by Elio’s calm exterior to try and provoke a reaction. “Is your boyfriend not the jealous type?”

All he receives is an eye roll. “Bruno’s not my boyfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me. From what I saw earlier.”

“You saw nothing,” Elio replies, defensive. “We’re friends. Roommates.”

“Roommates?” Rising from his stool, Oliver takes a step towards him. “That kiss -”

“Is none of your business. Not anymore.”

It hits him like a punch to the gut. Oliver’s lips part, but no sound passes between them. He’s being irrational, he’ll accept, but old habits die hard, and through sheer force of will he quashes down his guilt, knowing better than to use it as a weapon.

“Of course,” he says, chastened. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“Elio…” This isn’t how he wants the conversation to go. “I know it’s too much to expect your forgiveness, but please don’t be angry with me. We were friends, once. Before anything else.”

“I’m not angry.” A beat. “Not anymore.” Tipping his chin, Elio folds his arms in front of him. One more barrier despite the brush-off. “I’m processing.“

“Processing?”

“Yes, processing. Originates from the Old French proces. Related to the Latin processus, and from the verb procedere in Middle English.”

“Wise ass.”

“Sempre.” Elio shrugs, watching him openly. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“My friends saw the flyers,” he says, bypassing the here, specifically, when Elio’s attention drops a few inches lower, and he realises he’s staring at his ring finger.

At the white line that’s all but vanished since he signed his way to freedom.

“You’re…”

Oliver clears his throat. “Divorced,” he manages, shuffling his feet. “Almost three months now.”

“Divorced?” Elio’s mask slams back into place, the distress in his voice palpable. “Why?”

And there are so many things he could say to that - the stress of his job, money, differing expectations - but this is Elio. His first love. His forever love. He, above anyone, deserves the truth.

“I think you know why.”

“Do I?” That same phony indifference. “What the eyes see, and the ears hear, the mind believes.”

“The truth is never that simple.”

“Not for us, it seems. Not in this world.” Elio gives his head a small but firm shake, blowing out a frustrated breath. “You know, tonight was supposed to lower my stress levels, not raise them,” he says, granting them a temporary reprieve. “But then, you always were hazardous to my blood pressure.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” Oliver tells him wryly. “Might I recommend some deep breaths?”

“Deep breaths?” Elio rocks back on his heels. “If I had any peaches I’d be using my right hand.”

It catches him unawares, and Oliver can't help it. He snorts. Overcome by relief. Then he laughs - a weak sound, and damn near helpless - but a laugh, nonetheless. Cupping a palm to his mouth. Moving it to his eyes. Feeling the tears he’s been fighting since this whole debacle began.

“My God you’re incorrigible,” he mutters, the sharp stab of regret cutting him to the core as he glances over his shoulder, and the blond - Bruno - shoots him a wink. “When you said I saw nothing...”

The hesitant curve of Elio’s smile lights a fire in his chest. “There was a girl on the dance floor who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lucky for me, Bruno’s never been shy about putting on a convincing performance.”

Oliver winces. “Well, I bought it.”

“Mission accomplished, then.” Elio edges closer. “I could’ve said the same for you, once upon a time.” The air between them grows charged. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks. “Italy, I mean?”

“Every single day.” Oliver finds himself captivated by the smattering of stubble along Elio’s jawline. The touch of smudged kohl beneath his lashes that turns his gaze smouldering. “Do you?”

“In a way.”

“Just a way?” He’s not entirely certain they’re talking about the same thing, and Vanessa’s advice seems all the more pertinent. “Let me buy you a coffee?” Oliver asks, and Elio frowns.

“What? Now?”

“If you like.”

“It’s gone midnight!”

“Tomorrow, then. Whenever you’re available.” Suddenly desperate, he closes the gap between them. “I can’t excuse my actions, Elio - I know I can’t - but at the very least I owe you an explanation.”

“Oliver...” This time it’s Elio who reaches out, his usually steady hands uncertain as they entwine with his. “I was young, not stupid. What’s there to forgive? You left because you had to. You married because -”

“I was weak.”

“Cazatte!” The tension in Elio’s body snaps back like a coil. “My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility,” he murmurs, squeezing his fingers tightly. “I’ll never forget those words.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be!” Elio sounds furious on his behalf. “Weak, you say? No. Control over others is the true weakness. Coercion. Conformity. All it does is breed hatred. And that’s not you. Not my Oliver.”

“Am I still?” he asks, laying his cards out on the table. “Your Oliver?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Oliver swallows thickly. “I guess we will,” he says, dropping his forehead to Elio’s crown.

He’s braver at twenty-one than Oliver could have dared imagine, and for the first time in years the dull ache beneath his ribs is replaced by a different sort of craving. The way they fit together so easily, like no time has passed, fans the banked passions within him - the desire to press his lips against Elio’s neck, to nip his way along countless freckles until he can fist those unruly curls and guide his mouth back to where it belongs.

Flush against his.

Devouring.

But not yet.

This isn’t leading to sex. Not tonight. This is about reconciliation. Reassurance. Redemption.

“There’s a late-night diner on the corner…”

It’s a whisper against his cheek - so quiet he barely hears it - and Oliver leans down, pressing his face to Elio’s collarbone, breathing him in. He knows this won’t be easy - knows there will be dark clouds before the dawn - yet here they are, older and wiser, and three years might as well be yesterday as the parting crowds provide a temporary island in which to weather the storm.

#cmbyn roll the dice challenge #fanfic #oliver pov #elio and oliver #cmbynrollthedicechallenge

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