#numbing his gums might still not be enough to get him to settle

[goddessofroyalty]

Baby!Naph having a bad day where he just wont settle and both his parents are on their last nerve only for grandsire Silco to save the day.

I imagine it's the kind of day where Jayce has been in and out of meetings. And he's been trading off with Viktor when he's having breaks from them but no matter what either of them try to do Naph won't settle and Viktor is definitively taking the brunt of it. He's better off in their arms than put down though but it's been a long day and Viktor is clearly at the end of his tether from dealing with a crying baby and Jayce is called into yet another meeting.

Going with that set up because I want Jayce walking into a Councellors meeting (with the Zaun Representative there of course) with a clearly unhappy crying baby apologising but explaining (in a way that despite sounding kind of desperate but also clearly isn't going to be argued with) that he's giving Viktor a break, again he's very sorry about the situation but if this meetings so important this is what they're going to work with it. And sure people can make sly comments about how this is why you hire nanny's but that isn't exactly fixing the here and now problem of the crying baby who if handed over to someone unfamiliar is only going to get worse.

Silco sighing before taking his grandchild from Jayce into the hallway (with a not very subtle comment-threat about not discussing anything important / making any decisions he would want input on while he is gone) because Naph knows him well enough not to get worse. And Jayce clearly is also approaching the realm of Not Coping and also a Council chamber mid-session is not going to help his grandson settle.

In this instance I don't think there's anything he does that's different to Jayce or Viktor just that eventually Naph tires himself out from crying all day and falls asleep in his arms. The relief on Jayce's face when he re-enters the chambers with a now asleep Naph (and fact that his grandson is no longer crying) is worth it.

[graymatters]

Triptych

M | 1.8K | On AO3 | Veela!Draco, body horror, blood, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mild sexual content 

Many thanks to @corvuscrowned for the beta work 💚 and to @floydig for all the horror chats 😂

i.

The spine of a single feather, sleek and wet with blood, erupts from the thin skin draped over my collarbone. It mocks me in the bathroom mirror, unsightly and pale quills stained pink. My shoulders droop, and my spine rounds, a weary folding beneath the weight of an unsurprising development, as a crimson droplet runs smooth down my ribs.

“Babe, are you ready to go?” Harry calls from the bedroom. He’s taken to calling me babe lately. The word knocks about in my skull, overstaying its welcome.

“What’s it called when little birds shed their feathers?” I ask my reflection, arching forward until my breath fogs the glass. My nose wrinkles at the stench, prompting a swift snatch of my toothbrush from the plastic cup on the sink.

“Er…” Harry ponders as he waltzes into the bathroom, running an aimless hand through his hair. In the reflection, I watch him smooth over my naked back and bum with heavy-lidded eyes, lips tugged upward in an appreciative grin and glasses crooked on the sunburnt bridge of his nose. I think he might be perfect, and it terrifies me.

“Mulching?”

Almost, my dear, but not quite.

“Molting, I think,” I murmur around my toothbrush, scraping the frayed bristles violently against my gums.

“That’s what I said.”

“No.” I spit, frowning at the bright blood tinting the frothy toothpaste. “Molting. Not mulching.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening as he looks at my chest in the mirror. And I mean looks, not the passing glance that you toss at the empty glass that’s sat on your end table for three days, not the glassy gaze of a Seeker fading into auto-pilot above the pitch. No, I’m talking about the undivided attention afforded to a tragic train derailment with dozens of fatalities, the careful pondering over a loaf of bread that may have gone off, the terrifying and wondrous stare of finding your enemy naked in your bed.

“Draco, are you bleeding?” He moves to grip my shoulders but stops when he gets a closer look, hands held mid-air as though his puppeteer got bored, hung his strings on the hook, and took a smoke break. “Is that a—”

“I never could tell if Mother was serious about the Veela blood.” I frown as Harry still stands, unmoving but for the tremble in his fingers. “Harry, why are you shaking?”

Harry doesn’t answer as I lean across the sink, poking at the delicate spine with my fingertip. He just stares dumbly at my reflection, mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers. I huff a laugh through my nose, feeling the universe’s sick sense of humor settle heavily over my bloodied chest.

“I wonder if I’ll molt.”

Read ii. & iii. below the cut.

ii.

Harry’s left the cap off the toothpaste again, leaving it to ooze onto the bathroom countertop. I could easily dismiss the caked-on paste from the porcelain. All it would take is a snap of my fingers, a muttered jumble of pseudo-Latin under my breath to make it disappear. However, a crescendo of unfortunate events through the week culminated in a Ministry-issued number that replaced my name, a reminder of the creature that replaces my identity. The thought numbs my limbs, rattles my nerves, and prickles at the remnants of my fleeting patience.

“Harry!”

“Did you say something, Draco?” he shouts from down the hall. I wait, listening for footsteps that don’t come.

“Harry! Will you come here for a minute?” A rustle of irritation blooms beneath my skin, scaly skin and ivory feathers shifting restlessly, eager to surface. With a forced sigh, I snap my eyelids shut, concentrating on pulling the musty bathroom air in and out of my lungs.

“What is it, babe? Is everything all right?”

I open my eyes, meeting my own steely gaze in the mirror. The skin over my neck, my collarbone, my temple, crawls with the anxious magic that pulses underneath, like a spider’s trapped beneath the surface. I can almost see the iridescent shimmer of that scaly skin that lurks somewhere between the delicate dermal layers that cover my neck. Harry catches my stare, his gaze soft and a sleepy smile plastered on his face. He looks at me like there isn’t ruinous blood in my veins, like the war in my body doesn’t seep out of my pores, infecting the air between us like the stench of a rotting corpse.

“Draco, what’s wrong?”

I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve him, but he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care. And this week has been so very long.

“Nothing, love.” My eyes fall to the open tube of toothpaste as I reach an unsteady hand out behind me, softening once I feel the slide of Harry’s fingers between mine.

He moves to stand behind me, wrapping his hands over my ribs and dotting honeyed kisses along my neck and shoulders like he can’t see the rustle of feathered plumes tucked deep in the sinewy fibers. Though guilt twists in my gut, strangling my lungs and wringing my heart, I ignore it, instead melting beneath Harry’s touch.

“You’re so gorgeous, Draco,” he murmurs behind my ear. “Look at you,” he whispers, softly gripping my neck beneath my jaw, forcing me to stare myself down in the mirror as his other hand dips beneath my waistband, palming my cock. “So fucking gorgeous.”

Thoughts blurred, I gasp as he ruts against my arse, as I thicken in his hand and a heady rush soothes the irritable magic that bristles beneath my skin. I groan against the pressure of his palm over my throat, feeling the vibration in my chest.

He catches my eye in the mirror, raising a brow in silent question. I nod in answer, preening at the satisfied smirk that overcomes Harry’s face as he slips a spit-slicked finger inside me, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure.

“So fucking beautiful, and you’re all mine.”

And then I hum, a pleased and pathetic whimper of a song, because I know he’s right.

iii.

The heat of the shower burns my skin, painting my limbs and the tops of my feet in a pink, watercolor flush. I let the water strip away the remnants of the evening, the cigarette smoke that clings to my hair and the grease and salt lodged beneath my fingernails. It doesn’t wash away the memories of the Weasel’s grimace, or the distasteful curl of Granger’s lip. Instead, they linger, trapped in the clouds of steam like a bird’s wings, wet with oil.

“Draco? Are you here? Awfully nice of you to run out on me like that. Ron and Hermione are sure to love you, now.”

A single, vehement beep pierces the thick air of the bathroom, cascading into a series of agonizing tones as the fire alarm protests the steam of the shower.

I look up from my spot on the tile floor, entranced by the flashing red light on the screeching machine.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry bursts through the door and yells over the blare of the alarm. “How long have you been in here?” He clambers onto the countertop to reach the horrid device, fumbling with the buttons before finally ripping it from its base on the ceiling. It falls to the floor; a smattering of dusty plastic shards decorates the floor on impact.

“Draco, are you even listening?”

I nod, feeling the itch of magic over my palms, the roll of frustration between my shoulder blades.

“Draco?” He opens the shower door, eyes following the stream of water that falls from the tip of my nose. “What’s wrong?”

My vision blurs, the yellow bathroom light, shining stellate over the grungy shower tile.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, eyes wide and incredulous as an unhinged laugh crawls out my lips. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”

A curl falls in his eyes, damp from the humid air. His gaze is soft, aching, like he wants to wipe away the malicious glances, the tainted blood in the rotten chambers of my heart, the ink on my arm.

Loving him is too much.

Anxious anger burns a trail starting at the tips of my fingers, drawing claws to break through the skin beneath my nails and a black, tarry flush to creep towards my elbows like my arms have been dipped in soot. I roll my neck at the feeling of hundreds of feathery needles piercing through the skin of my collarbone, my neck, my shoulders. A flash of pain, lightning hot, grips my spine as a set of wings punctures the surface between my shoulder blades, hanging low in the tight space of the shower.

The water runs red, my back hot from the wash of blood.

With a guttural roar, I whip towards Harry, wanting to squeeze his ribs between my disfigured hands and feel the stutter of his breath.

But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t turn to walk away. In fact, rather than a look of fear or disgust, Harry watches me the same way Mother watched me when my pet Kneazle died, devoured by the Nepenthes. Like I’m still a child who doesn’t know what to do with his hurt.

“Draco, I’m sorry—”

“You’re in love with a fucking monster, Harry. Why are you even here?” A heat burns beneath my palms as I grip the frame of the shower.

Harry sighs, taking a slow and careful step forward to shut off the water, leaving a slow trickle to caress the smooth surface of my wings.

“Come here, Draco,” he whispers, gesturing for me to step out of the shower. “Come on, babe; I’ve got you.”

Loving him is too much. Too much to weather. Too much to resist.

I tumble into his arms, catching a blood-stained, ivory wing on the shower door and jostling Harry’s glasses. As the fog of the mirror clears, I watch as my face appears, nose elongated and eyes pitch-black, the skin of my neck and arms cracked where the feathers have broken through the layers like an iceberg piercing the sea. With a stuttered sob, I grip Harry’s shoulders and tuck my face into his neck, unable to contain myself anymore.

I’m not sure how long we huddle on the bathroom floor, cramped between the toilet and the shower. Long enough for the feathers to recede beneath my skin, for my wings to fold in on themselves and lie soft against my back. The sun has long set, shrouding the bathroom in darkness, as Harry still runs his hands through my hair, untangling the knots as he whispers lovely reassurances into my ear and presses kisses over my jaw.

“Draco, I love you, you know that?”

“Of course, I do.”

“What do you need, Draco?”

“I don’t know.”

“Need me, then. It’s that easy. Draco, just—need me.”

I nod, a trembling and stuttered admission, because I know he’s right.

Also on AO3.

[insomniasymphony]

Obsessive Hisoka Morow x Female Reader [He cannot hate you]

Constellation: Obsessive Hisoka Morow x Female Reader Words I got: → Protective → Duality → Affection Rating: Teen up and Audience

                            ►► He is the devil with a sweet tooth,                               And you are the candy on his tongue.                       Get on your knees and ask him to choose                                     Nothing sweeter than you.                              For sweetness doesn't last long. ◄◄

Hectically, you jerk your head from left to right, look around for other cars and take a breath when there are no others blocking the road. In the cold evening air, your legs carry you in hurried steps across the asphalt, to the other side of the pavement that should lead you through the houses of Yorknew. Further and further, until the hotel room is forever gone.

The breath on your lips rises in white clouds, bringing something wistful with it that you don't want to pay attention to. Still, you can't rid yourself of the thought in the back of your mind.

It's not too late to give up on your plan.

You could drag yourself back to the room you've been sharing with Hisoka for four days, put on something pretty and wait for the magician to return from his meeting. He'd tell you about his new plan, kiss you, and fuck your senses into no-man's land for half the night because you're his favourite toy.

That's the problem: you're just a doll that can be replaced.

He's never said that he loves you, even though you've been spending every spare minute together for six months. Hisoka took you on his journey and he hasn't let you out of his sight since.

You shower together, eat together, he kills anyone you exchange too many kind words with. It's as if he wants to shut you off from the world so that you belong to him alone.

But this obsessive nature of his is nothing but terror for you. Sometimes you long for freedom, which you know Hisoka will never give you. He would rather strangle to death with his own hands than see you go. His subliminal threats make that clear time and time again.

And tonight you are ready to die for your freedom.

A little more hastily, you hurry ahead, turn into a narrow alley and hear the echo of your footsteps rising up the stone walls. Each reverberation makes your skin seem colder under your soft woolen coat. The goosebumps don't subside, the shiver persists, and you can't help but believe that behind every shadow is a part of Hisoka. His intense gaze has made you paranoid.

Briefly, you shake your head. This time his eyes won't be able to pierce you. When Hisoka returns, the hotel room will be empty and you will be long gone – so far away from him, with a new name and a new life, that he won't find you. For three weeks you have been looking for someone who would save you and Hisoka from this relationship and you have indeed found someone who wants to fulfil all your wishes for a lot of money in exchange.

Your gaze wanders once briefly over your shoulder. Through the echo of your own flight, you can no longer perceive anything but your own movements. Hisoka could be walking right behind you and you wouldn't notice. The racing of your heart makes the blood rush in your ears and everything else inside you is so erratically tense that you don't know if your nerves can hold it all together.

Only when the alley ends and sends you between other streets to find safety, a tiny part of the fear falls away, still simmering underneath.

Across the street, at least fourteen cars have parked. This area of the city seems like a residential neighbourhood where men return to their loving wives. The husband old-fashioned in a suit while she wears an apron because dinner is boiling on the cooker. Docile women in the kitchen who have no time to look for other men. Probably that's exactly what Hisoka is longing for too. A woman who only has eyes for him. All day long. Without exception. Locked up like a bird in a cage.

Even though you never intended to replace him. Hisoka is the man who won your heart. A guy who goes through life strong and ruthless, but always takes great care to make sure you're okay.

Your steps slow down as you stop at the edge of the pavement. One of the vehicles is started, flashing its headlights three times. The sign that this is your getaway car. The man who will take you away. Away from Hisoka, whose arms have wrapped protectively around you more than once in the last six months. His warmth on your skin has always been comforting and even though you know he hates it when you talk to other men and he has left marks on your body as a safety for himself as a result, his company has always been loving. He has never hurt you unless you found sexual pleasure in it. He never raised his voice at you. Never did he try to lock you up. His only crimes are the threats that still jump through your senses and also the fact that he likes to corner and intimidate you.

On top of that, he messes with people for your sake who are more dangerous than one might think at first. Yes, you love him. But if you don't leave, he will either throw you away or he will be killed because of you. You are poison to each other, you can't explain it any other way.

Yet, you don't want to go. The fear in your heart has made room for sorrow and the desire to run back into his strong, protective arms is strong.

Swallowing dryly, you give yourself a push. You have no choice but to make the best decision for both of you. Your feet start moving again and you drag yourself along, reaching the car you're getting into. You find room in the back seat, the fabric of which clings to you strangely and uncomfortably as you take a shaky breath and look in the rearview mirror for a half-glimpse of your helper's round face.

“Are you ready, good lady?” His smoky voice scrapes through the atmosphere, merely making you nod before he finally starts the engine and drives off. Your heart sinks four floors deeper, smothered in grief and fear, both of which settle on too many things in your chest. Maybe you're making a mistake, but this relationship has no future.

You feel the car smoothly take the turns, hear the engine accelerate, sense every bump in your bones. You claw your sweaty hands into the upholstery as you reprimand yourself to rest with conscious inhales and exhales. It's over, you've escaped, given you both the freedom you deserve.

Yorknew's houses diminish for a moment, bringing trees and the parkland to the fore where you would have loved to have a romantic walk. But Hisoka doesn't think much of boring strolls. He likes sex. Togetherness where you are close to each other – all to yourselves, so that you can snuggle up to him and you just sit there. Amusement parks. Bungee gum. You.

The thought draws a sigh from you before the car makes a strange rattling sound, forcing the driver to stop. You halt at the side of the road, so you can't help but hold your breath.

“What was that?” you press out.

“If I saw right, I just accidentally drove over a marten,” the stranger returns to you, making you exhale because it's not a horror movie you're in after all. Then he gets out.

The open door, which he doesn't close, brightens up the inside of the vehicle, makes the outside world a little more unfriendly than it really is and forces you to get out too, because you can't find a quiet minute alone on this upholstery.

Slowly you push your way back into the cold of the darkness, glancing at the streetlights flickering conspiratorially before circling the car to check on your driver. But all you see in front of the bonnet is a trail of blood. Not a marten. No one. Probably he's just taking the dead animal away, burying it so the kids won't get spooked in the park the next day.

The cool air seems to bite down to your bones, numbing your skin as you count off two minutes. The restlessness keeps you looking around and for a moment you are willing to jump in the car and eagerly drive on. But your driver also has your new identity and all the other things that have been so painstakingly prepared. You can't leave without him. So you stroll a few steps towards the park. Just until the blackness seems to swallow everything, because the flickering streetlamps don't give enough light for more.

Tense, you cross your arms in front of your chest, bobbing up and down before gnawing fear begs for action. “Hello?”

Only silence returns to your question and you can't help but take a step over the dark threshold and venture further ahead to find your driver. Three, four feet ahead to the first tree closest to you. “What's wrong?”

Again you meet only silence, staggering a few more steps ahead and giving up in the same breath. A glance over your shoulder moves the car, which is already a few metres away from you, into a ghostly, almost lonely picture, apart from the other vehicles that pass by every now and then. No one seems to care about the abandoned automobile.

A little more annoyed, you take a breath, shake your head as something wet hits your cheek and you instantly look up because the sky didn't look like rain at all when you started running.

And it still doesn't.

Nevertheless, your heart stops for a beat.

Cold seems to consume you from within, makes you pull your coat tighter.

Up there, above you, fixed between branches, the lifeless eyes of the man who was supposed to help you escape stare back at you. His arms hang twisted above him and his legs are missing entirely. In the darkness, suffused with moonlight, you can only make out the bitter facts. And one of them is death.

“Do you like it?”

Instantly you suck in the air sharply, turning around in an instant only to catch sight of Hisoka. Leaning relaxed against a tree, he shuffles his cards as if nothing has happened. “I thought we had decided that you would wait in the hotel room. Where were you going with that man at such a late hour?”

His gaze lifts so that his amber eyes can look at you, while his features wait in a lack of enthusiasm for answers. You don't know if he's angry, but his expression seems to threaten you.

“I-I... I wanted to...” What do you want to say anyway? You don't know yourself what exactly you wanted other than to just get away from him for too many things that seem wrong. “Away.”

“Where to?”, Hisoka inquires, pushing himself off the trunk and coming closer. The cards disappear into the pockets of his white trousers in the same blink.

“Just... away,” you counter, unable to look at him any further because his eyes seem to look right down into your core.

“From me?” He pauses in front of you. “Why?”

Again your attention jerks to him and you hate the fact that he is wearing heels because it only makes him taller than he already is.

“You... are... constricting me.”

“Is that so?” The almost biting undertone in his voice is frightening. But you don't have time to think of what his next move might be as he grabs you by the chin and forces you to look at him very closely. His grip is so tight around your jawbone as he does so that you panic he might break it.

Then he leans towards you, breathes such a gentle kiss on your lips that, along with fear, terrible warmth rises up inside you. Your heart races wildly, but you don't know if it's the fear or the longing. Seeing him like this, knowing he is so close to you, is cruel because you love him, don't want to leave him, but don't want to see either of you die either.

The mere thought of losing him, or not being good enough anymore, knots your stomach as your vision blurs and the sobs in your throat quietly spill out.

Hisoka watches this rection, loosening his grip around your chin and running his thumb over your lips. A little like he wants more words from you. And you can't help but give them to him in a gush.

“I love you, Hisoka. I really do. But this can't work.” You have to swallow to keep from breaking into a raspy cough. “You lock me up like I'm your pet and you're messing with people who might kill you one day.” The first tear rolls down your cheeks unintentionally, making you wipe it away in frustration because you don't want to seem like an effeminate damsel in distress. “You're going to kill yourself because of me. And if not for that, then one day you'll just throw me away because you're not a man for life. And I'm afraid that by then I'll love you so much that I won't be able to stand it. So I was gonna let you go. And I can understand if you hate the decision, but isn't that the duality you love to talk about? Love and hate, both sides of the same coin? I-” Hisoka interrupts you as he takes your face in his hands and forcibly pulls you to him, far enough to force you onto your toes to press a kiss to your lips. A warm touch full of affection so gentle it takes your breath away.

Then he lets go of you, remains close in front, but his features are adorned with a friendly smile that makes him a little suspicious, while his hand caresses your cheek. As he does so, he brushes your lower eyelid, collecting another tear that was about to escape.

The tenderness he has for you irritates you so much that every one of your brain cells shuts down for a breath before Hisoka focuses on you again, piercing you with a blank stare. The atmosphere between you grows heavier.

“You think too much about nothingness, love.” His voice is so soft that it seems almost deadly at the same time. “And because you're like that, I'm going to let you get away with it for today.” He leans down to your ear, licks once over the shell with the tip of his tongue. “But if you run away again, I will kill you.”

“H-Hisoka...” You don't know what you can say to appease him. Nothing seems good enough. But Hisoka understands, straightening up to look at you again, putting on that playful smile he goes through life with. “Or I can put you in chains so I can have you with me for the rest of my life. Whichever option you like better.”

He tilts his head, looking at you with mockery and at the same time with a barely perceptible commitment so that you can feel the blush on your cheeks. On one hand, he's making a fool of you, on the other, he's conveying in his own unique way that he's sure he wants you for himself – forever.

He can't stay mad at you for long, can't even punish you for your terrible action, just takes you as you are, as if he has a weakness for all your stupid words and your troubled feelings.

And in those seconds you know that he loves you no less than you love him.

[Picture from a card collecting game]

[Want to give me kudos or a request? Check here!]

[cherry-glade]

sleepy sunsets and candid confessions

pairing: tim drake x reader

summary: the two of you are finally getting to spend some time together after being apart for so long, and tim decides to bring something up to you that he’s been keeping to himself for some time.

warnings: mostly fluff with just the slightest bit of angst bc tim is a sad boy for a little while :/

w/c: 1889 words

You’re on the verge of falling asleep with your back pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark of a tree, sunlight warm on your face and shining bright behind your eyelids when you hear Tim, remnants of precious sleep evidently still clinging on for dear life to his voice, soft and raspy, slurring over the syllables of your name.

“Hey.” You look down to see Tim watching you with a tired little smile on his face, head resting in your lap. You’re glad to see his smile—Tim has yet to say anything about it, but you know that he’s been a little upset recently.

“I thought you were asleep, Timmy.”

“I was,” he confirms, closing his eyes again. “But I woke up again so that I could look at you.” He pauses to yawn, jaw cracking as his eyes squeeze tight before relaxing again. “Missed your face while I was sleeping.”

Your cheeks go warm at that and you gently flick his ear. Tim’s eyes flutter open and find yours as his smile widens, playful with a tiny hint of smugness spilling out with the flash of his teeth. It’s a good look on him, especially with that cheeky glint in his eyes, but then again, so is pretty much everything.

“Sap,” you mutter, and he shakes his head at you, the movement looking a little odd being viewed upside down.

“You love it,” he retorts through a second yawn and closes his eyes again, settling down like he’s just won an argument against you, except he actually has and you can’t say that he’s wrong, not really.

“We’re together almost all the time, Tim,” you murmur, pushing a few strands of dark hair out of his eyes. “Aren’t you at least a little tired of seeing my face all the time?”

“Never tired of seeing you, Y/N,” he confesses casually. “You’re my favourite person and the best part of my day.”

“Cool it with the compliments, Romeo,” you chuckle, twisting his hair and curling it around your fingers.

“It’s not just a compliment, it’s the truth,” Tim huffs, then pauses. “Well, I guess it is a compliment, but I’m not just trying to fill your head up with hot air. You make me happy. Happy, happy, happy...” he repeats, humming to himself.

You blink down at him, amused. “I think you need some more sleep,” you say, poking his forehead lightly, but he still frowns.

“No, I wanna stay up with you,” Tim insists, his frown deepening. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Or at least spent any time with you alone, just the two of us. I miss you all the time,” he sighs, and your heart cracks down the very middle.

“You saw me just yesterday, Tim,” you say softly, a little worried. He hasn’t mentioned this before, and while you agree with him, you can’t help but feel infinitely grateful for the little time you actually have been able to spend together. You’ve known from the start that you can’t always be his first priority, and that quite often, he has bigger things to care about than you.

“For like, five minutes,” Tim says, scowling now as he jerkily pulls himself out of your lap and still manages to gracefully get to his feet, jaw tense as he stares down at you. “We literally just said hi to each other and made small talk about the weather because we didn’t have time to talk about anything other than that.”

His shoulders slump, and you can vaguely see the sun just starting to set behind him, rays shining through Tim’s hair to make him look like an angel with a halo of bright light around his head. An angel who insists on carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I know that’s my fault though,” he confesses guiltily, avoiding your eyes now. “Me being a vigilante doesn’t really make it easy for us to see each other, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry that I’m being a bad boyfriend. You deserve better from me.”

You stare at him for a moment, wide-eyed and speechless, not able to think of what to even say. In the end, you just say his name, not even trying to hide the way his name falls effortlessly from your lips, soft and loving.

His eyes flicker up to meet yours and then dart away, unable to hold your gaze. “Tim,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper as you pat the grass next to you. “Come here,” you offer. “Sit with me.”

Tim hesitates and then folds himself back down next to you with crossed legs, close enough that your knees brush against each other. Looking up as you take his hand out of his lap to link your pinkies together, you notice that the sun has gone lower in the sky, leaving behind soft streaks of vibrant colour, light pinks and blues, fiery reds and oranges.

“You know,” you start, voice breaking the silence you’d both fallen into. “Whenever I get to watch the sun setting, I’m reminded of you.” Tim turns to look at you with a raised eyebrow, patiently waiting for an explanation, and you just smile at him.

“Remember our first date?” You ask, and Tim grimaces, an embarrassed flush crawling up his neck.

“The one that I was really late for so we had to completely replan it? Yeah, I remember that.” You can tell by the snark in his voice that he’s still clearly kicking himself for it, but that’s not what you want at all.

“Tim, that’s not what I meant and you know it,” you reprimand, and he gives you an apologetic smile which doesn’t reach his eyes. You sigh and take both of his hands into yours, lifting them to your mouth to press gentle kisses to his scarred knuckles and then leaving them to rest underneath your chin.

“You were late to our date in the morning, but we both wanted to finally go on a date so badly that we just went out in the evening and sat together in the park, eating ice-cream. Remember?” Tim nods, his smile becoming a little more real at the reminder of what was basically the beginning of your relationship.

“I... dropped my ice-cream because I was tired enough to be on the verge of falling asleep, and you shared yours with me. And we watched the sun set together. That was nice,” he says softly, untangling his fingers from yours so that he can curl his hand over your lower thigh instead, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knee.

“It was,” you agree. “It was really nice because that evening, I looked at you, and the sun was hitting you just right.” Tim grins bashfully, eyes crinkling. “It made your eyes all twinkly and somehow even bluer, and you looked back at me with this really dopey smile, and I thought, all the way back then, that I could seriously fall in love with you. And I did.”

Tim gives you the same dopey smile he’d given you back then, and it still makes your heart flutter. “You did. And so did I,” he says, touching his fingers to your cheek, lingering on the curve of your jaw.

“Exactly,” you tell him. “So now, whenever I see a sunset, I think of that. Of you. And you know, the sun sets every day, so I think of you a lot,” you say nonchalantly, shrugging.

“Even when we don’t see each other for a while, you’re still in here,” you continue to explain, resting one hand on top of his chest, right above the steady beat of his heart. “And up here,” you say, tapping his temple with your other hand. “And I’m sure the same goes for you.”

The way that his face softens tells you all you need to know. You don’t hold your arms out for a hug, but you keep your body language open and inviting, waiting for Tim to move first. And sure enough, he shuffles over and curls into you, resting his chin on top of your head as you lift your arms to pull him in close enough that every inch of your bodies are touching.

“You’re right,” Tim speaks up after a few minutes of comfortable silence, voice slightly muffled, but you can feel his lips moving against your skin, warm and curving into a smile. “I’m sorry for being an idiot and not talking to you about this sooner.”

“You aren’t an idiot, Timmy,” you say, lifting your head from his shoulder to look him in the eye and put emphasis on your words. The sun shines on, warm and bright where it touches you. “You just needed a reminder not to be so hard on yourself, that’s all. We all do sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Tim says softly, gaze fixed upon yours, something soft and undoubtedly gooey in his blue eyes. “You know me so well.”

“Of course I do. I’m in love with you,” you reply simply, tilting your head.

“Thank you,” he replies, and you give him a look, confused. “For being you. And for loving me,” he clarifies. “I know that being with me isn’t exactly easy.”

“That’s where you’re absolutely, totally wrong,” you respond, touching his nose with your finger and smiling when it wrinkles and his eyes cross as he tries to look at it. “You don’t need to thank me for something I don’t even have to try to do.”

Tim watches you with widening eyes, lips parted. He might be shocked by what you’ve said but you’ve known this to be true for so long, as true as the sky is blue, that it’s only fair he does too.

“Loving you is—well, it’s practically as easy as breathing. And no, I’m not exaggerating when I say that, so don’t even think about it,” you rush to cut him off as he opens his mouth, and his cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink.

Tim leans forward to kiss your forehead and then huffs out a laugh against your skin, his breath cool and smelling vaguely of coffee and mint-flavoured chewing gum, the staples of his diet. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

Liar. Tim never fails to point out hyperboles in people’s speech, with that smug little shine to his eyes.

“Loving me is as easy as breathing though, huh?” He sounds amused and pleased at the same time, a terrible combination for sure. “Who’s the real sap in this relationship, huh?”

“Still you,” you fire back, and Tim chuckles, fond and exasperated. You’re still smiling at him and your legs have gone numb from sitting down for so long, but nothing can make you look away from the playful grin on Tim’s face, bright and infectious.

“If you say so,” Tim sighs, sitting back to watch the sun finish setting with you as the sky begins to darken and the first stars are about to appear, but you both know that you’re just as hopelessly gone for this boy as he is for you, and time spent apart won’t change that, because it really is true, at least in your case, that absence only makes the heart grow fonder.

[nectarous]

TOOTHSOME ⇋ OJIRO ARAN X F!READER.

TAGS: strangers to soulmates. suggestive themes [no smut]. constant changes of pov. slowburn fluff with angst ending.

W/C: 3.3K

SUMMARY: a simple study of intimate bonds and tasting love.

⇦ SEWER SOULMATE SYNDROME COLLAB MASTERLIST ♡

there’s something about the world that’s absolutely and wholly dull. waking up to blistering rays glaring through open windows, working at a lackluster club, coming home to your barebones apartment that you’ve never bothered decorating. you only look forward to collapsing into a steaming bath, dreading the fact you’ll have to repeat this all over again once the sun starts to peek up from the horizon.

it’s what’s deserving of such an uninspiring, miserable personality. you’re not interested in much outside of the bubble you crafted. you’re indifferent to the fickle things; love, bonds, and that mouthful of flavor when you meet your soulmate for the first time. it doesn’t interest you in any capacity. 

you know that there’s a lot to be desired with you. your people skills need tinkering and while your work ethics are respectable enough, all you can think to describe yourself is boring.

you’re interested in surviving and supporting yourself. living long enough to enjoy yourself, but short enough to not have to work hard—you’ve never been interested in the company and passing affections of others.

the idea of a soulmate is a delicate one to some, daft to others. you’re more indifferent on the topic, leaning closer to disdain, about the idea of a fated second half. 

how naïve you are for thinking that you’re lucky enough to escape it, unaware that in a short twelve months, it’ll only take one stranger to ruin your perception of love, of the world, of yourself. 

just like everyone else, you’ve been taught about soulmates, raised around the idea that finding them would finally open you up. from an outsider's perspective, you understand how they work, how they feel. you’ve spotted that glazed over look in their eyes more times than you care to count. you’ve witnessed soulmates bumping into each other for the first time, seen how eyes light up, and heard the crashing of heart beats from across rooms. you swore you could hear them salivate at the taste of each other’s presence. 

you’re certain that’s something you’ll never experience. you hope you’ll never meet them, hope that they're dead or far away in some other continent, or that they’re as much as a homebody as you are. you covet to be in the majority that never meet their soulmate, and have to settle for yourself and 

you’ve made it this far alone. why bother searching for your other half now?

• • •

even at 27, aran’s still hopeful he’ll find the person he’s supposed to spend his life with. it’s a silly little fantasy, one that has settled deep in his core, meeting the love of his life and instinctively knowing. all through his teenage years, he’s been teased for being a hopeless romantic. but who could blame him? what’s more serene, more absolute than the idea of finding the person who will love you for who you are, for the rest of your life?

his romanticism has mellowed out over the years, and he’s become a reasonable man with a successful career and lifelong friends and a dog he spends a fortune on every month. he’ll let life take its course, pray for the best, and continue on.

everyone has a soulmate. he hopes it’s only a matter of time before he meets his. but it’s not a necessity for him.

• • •

the first time you see him, your soulmate, is outside some onigiri shop, bathed in the purple shadows of sunset. you instantly turn the other way, stumbling into some random convenience store and ignoring that lightheadedness, and the urge to gag at the rich flavor soaking into your mouth, hoping he doesn’t feel your proximity. 

all of a sudden, you’re not that hungry anymore.

• • •

aran feels it. his knees grow weak, his heart swells twice as big, there’s a pressure in his sinuses that almost has him stumbling back. and then that feeling’s gone. when he looks around, no ones there, but the residual feelings still linger.

this is the taste of aran’s soulmate. he always expected love to taste like bubblegum or the strawberry mochi he used to split with his sister. he expected to savor the color pink, or red, delicate colors that remind him of spring and joy.

instead, there’s a bitter, heavy metallic soaking into his mouth; like antimony and lemon rinds. it clashes against his taste buds causing his face to scrunch up in distaste.

it tastes like gray.

• • •

the overwhelming taste in your mouth is pastel green, tooth-decaying sweet, and tart. it drips down your throat, makes your gums and your heart ache and throb. it feels like you’re going to choke right here, in the snack section of a convenience store.

granny smiths, heavy molasses and acerbic echoes of sumac sticks to the insides of your cheeks. the emotions so saturated it starts to burrow deep in your teeth.

you hate how warm it makes you feel.

• • •

you recognize him immediately when you’re flicking through the channels waiting for your dinner to reheat. of course the universe decides to pair you up with a fucking olympic volleyball player with amazing things going for him. you can’t change the channel, can’t ignore that he looks a little too good panting and covered in sweat. his voice rumbles smooth, his eyes glimmer, his quiet chuckle makes you throb. 

you’ve been laying in bed and trying to push out the sneaking thoughts of him, trying to erase the green flavor that creeps back in ever since. 

it’s been two weeks since you’ve been anywhere near that shop. the fear that you’ll bump into him again is… overwhelming. but you’re exhausted, working through the day for the second time this week. and of course, you forgot your umbrella at home, forcing you to run through the muggy rain in a ratty shirt and soggy sneakers. 

you told yourself you’d take the long way home, but now that cutting through this block will get you out of the rain faster, knowing it’ll get you back home in time to catch that cooking show while you take a bath, tempts you too much.

but of course, nothing that life hands you seems to go your way.

and of course he’s out there again. out of all days. you hope he’s not some mindless sap that waits outside of the shop everyday, aching for the chance to bump into his soulmate and live happily ever after. that might be the only thing that would make this soulmate bond even more painful.

you really should’ve just gone the long way home.

he looks happy and, you begrudgingly admit to yourself as you wait for the crosswalk to turn green, even more handsome than on your tv. big. he’s on the phone, protected from the rain under the shop’s awning. the taste of green’s already oozing it’s way back in.

apparently, that perspective ability you admired while watching one of his first matches bleeds outside the court too, because he immediately makes eye contact with you. eyes widen, he hangs up immediately, and his hand raises in a wave.

and the first thing you can do is run.

• • •

he can sense that his soulmate’s near, that sharp tinny taste overpowering the onigiri osamu forced him to finish. it has his nose crinkling up before he whips his head up, staring at a girl. his heart soars a bit, finally he gets to meet you, before crashing down upon seeing that expression of horror on your dripping face, before you trip your way into some alley. he doesn’t second guess running into the sheets of rain, not hesitating at the sudden chill of rain.

he can tell that you’re scared, terrified, disgusted at the idea of having a soulmate. is it because of him?

the taste of each other is overwhelming, gunmetal grating and foiled and loud crashing into his. can barely swallow it down, eyes rolling back. 

you can’t handle the onslaught of pungent syrupy sour, it’s soaking into your head more than the rain. it makes you hunched over and soaked, retching bile and the remnants of breakfast, you want to die.

you want to tell him to fuck off, let you drown in apples, in the vomit and the rain, but he’s insistent. he keeps a polite distance, a safe distance, from you. arms flex in his soaking pale t-shirt while he looks at you like some kind of wounded, rabid animal.   

“let’s get you warmed up, ok?”

that tart taste eats away at the rancid bile in your mouth, and you hate to admit that his charcoal eyes start to slowly thaw you.

you’re a mess of chattering teeth, goose pimpled skin. your nipples are poking stiff peaks into your shirt and your fingers are shaking, but he politely ignores both, stepping over the puddle of vomit to pick up your dropped bag, hot hand on the small of your back as he leads you in through the back entrance of the onigiri shop.

two identical faces, the only thing separating them is the shock of pale blond hair, are watching you from a distance as aran presses soft cotton into your arms and leads you into the locker room. they both feign boredom as you shuffle by them, but even in your bleak state, you can’t ignore that interested glimmer in their eyes from behind the register.

the sound of slopping clothes dropping against the cold tile makes your skin crawl, your eyes sting, and your head ache like it was just banged into the concrete. you don’t know whether to be humiliated or thankful, unsettled or grateful that ojiro aran’s actually nice. such a simple word. just these last 10 minutes has proved his heart of gold and, as you tread back into the main room, you think you’re going to cry.

no one talks as you collapse and curl up on one of the farthest seats, as you start to lose yourself in the sounds of thunder and the stifled radio, the cold bleeding it’s way into your brain. you can start to feel yourself dissociating, vision starting to blur, losing yourself in the numb. 

the delicate placing of six onigiri snaps you out of it, aran’s look of concern makes you curve over your knees as you drag the plate closer. his eyes tickle at your soul, baring deep into your bones, as if he can see how much you're hurting, how much you don’t care. compared to him, you look like a drenched rat, hair still damp and feet bare. 

you really might cry. 

because it hurts. the thought that he’d treat you good like this, every day, for the rest of his life. you can tell he’s kind, the way he sets down a cup of tea and brings you some food. the way he offers you a change of clothes. he’s a gentleman, and you feel pity for him, that he’s attached to you. 

the tilt of your lips in gratitude probably translates more as a grimace than a smile.

he waits until after you finish eating to start talking, “i’m ojiro aran.”

“i know,” you respond back. “that volleyball player.”

your droning voice doesn’t make him flinch back as you hope.

“i hope i’m not overstepping, but i can tell that you’re not the happiest with — ” finally he hesitates, flicking the sugar packets, eyes tracing over your face. you make it a point to not return the eye contact. 

“look. i’m not sure if it’s because of me, or you’re not happy with the idea of soulmates in general.” he overlooks the way your fingers twitch around your mug. “and i’m not going to force you to do anything, because i can tell that you’re on edge right now.”

he lowers himself so he’s not towering over you, balancing on his toes, still toying with the condiments on your table.

“to tell you the truth, i’m a bit of a romantic,” something sweet starts slipping into his voice. “i can tell that you aren’t. we don’t have to rush into anything, say the word and we can forget we ever met. but i think this can work out. we just need to pace to our comfort levels.”

and as you stare into his eyes, him squatting in front of you and holding your still shaking hands, the utter care, eyes almost pleading, and a soft smile that he’s emitting, it makes you feel peace for the first time. the stains of melancholy in your bones start to fade, and pastel green leaks from the sides of your cheeks making the corners of your lips involuntarily twitch up.

maybe, just maybe this’ll work out.

• • •

it’s been months, and aran’s learnt more about you than you know. he’s picked up that you despise physical affection just as much as the rain, but that you crave the heat from his body.

he thinks about you constantly. he replays your ‘dates that aren’t dates’ on repeat at practice, printing your face in his head on his morning runs, and he welcomes that metallic bitter that comes with you before he goes to sleep.

you’re standoffishness is soft and appealing at first glance, like antimony you taste like. the more time he’s in your presence, the more that lack of intimacy burns at his eyes, and his lungs. his hands sting with rejection every time you inch and shrug away from his touch or grimace when he laughs at your half-jokes. he knows there’s a separate woman bedded underneath. he saw her at the restaurant, he sees it whenever you watch the sunset. he notices it most behind the closed doors of his apartment. 

he’s come to appreciate your hands. your hands convey the things you’re too nervous to say. he can feel the adoration pulsing underneath the fragile skin in your fingers and your wrists, whispering the things you can’t always say out loud. they speak to your sense of comfort with him, the vulnerability you only show with him. the way they sneak under his shirt to run down his smooth back when you're cold, only to pull back and hope he didn’t catch your slip up. 

he notices the chipped polish that you pick at when you're stressed over deadlines. how your hands shrink in comparison to every part of him, tracing the callouses and scars from decades worth of volleyball. he loves how you bring his hands up to kiss on his knuckles after hours in bed, before you make up excuses as to why you can’t spend the night.

much to your annoyance, it makes him want to try that much harder. 

• • •

love. a complicated, sinister, four letter word you never thought you were built for. you think about it a lot, in tandem with aran. probably too much to be healthy. he’s the first thing you think of when you wake up, plaguing  your mind as you work, and leaving you always wondering what time he goes to sleep.

it's embarrassing. the three hours you spend with him every weekend has turned you into some sort of sap, haunted with his musky scent, that soft smile and that embarrassing craving for him to pat your head again. like your some fucking puppy. and you swear, that syrupy green apple taste is stained into your taste buds, it’s seeped into your bones and ruined you.

the last thing he deserves is you. you know that. but he doesn’t think that, he’s letting that metallic taste run him around lovesick. he makes you feel blistered; every touch and adoring glance burns into your flesh in permanent, achy reminders. he has your number, knows where you live. but he respects you and the distance you’ve placed.

he’s getting too comfortable too quickly, and he keeps surprising you with how patient he is. he’s adaptive, tenderhearted, almost philanthropic with the way he took in the charity case of you. 

it didn’t pan out the way you expected the first few months. you expected failure, for him to snap at your constant rejections and complaints. apparently, experiences with his childhood friends prepared him for you.

he's too helpful of a person, wanting to talk about feelings and cooking you food when you didn’t ask for it. it scared you, how fast he accepted this soulmate thing, how fast he was able to care. his hugs lasted too long. he's suffocating you in adoration and care, and you can tell he’s almost to the point of being in love with you.

poor aran. you’ve been destined to be with this man, who’s been destined to be alone since birth, all because the universe promised you to him. 

you know you’re going to destroy this beautiful bond that the universe crafted. you’re bitter and mean and unable to open yourself up to him; he almost knows nothing about you, and you know almost everything about him. you know how his younger sister wants to become a physical therapist, how the owner of that little onigiri shop has been one of his best friends for almost two decades. and you know his favorite food’s ritz crackers, that he’s a morning person. he loves dogs and hates horror films, and his two greatest joys are his family and volleyball.

there’s an unspoken hint that he wants you to join the former.

and it’s unfair; who wouldn’t fall in love with that scar on his neck. you try to focus on his bad parts, of which he only has one. his stupid dog, adzuki. that mammoth of a german sheperd that follows you around, places it’s paws on your lap when you come over for dinner.

he laughs every time you grimace at him, looks like we both have a weak spot for you.

• • •

you shatter his heart on the first year anniversary since you’ve been bonded. you were already dangling by a heart string, and that little band of gold and red he gifts you is where you force yourself to draw the line. 

all you can think about is how you need to abandon him before either of you get too attached. you’re teetering on the edge of ignoring your gut instincts, of collapsing into him, wanting to let him see the shattered pieces inside you. but then he’ll do something as mundane as calling you over for dinner, and you remember.

he terrifies you. 

there’s a reason you haven’t spent the night again. the intimacy of you and him, and his ugly dog, and that picture frame of your date at the beach hung right next to one of his family portraits. 

he loves too much and too hard, he’s too intense. he makes your skin prickle in hot fireworks, the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight with unease. he’s beautifully passionate about everything he lays his eyes on. he lives life to the fullest and all of a sudden, you want that too. he makes you crave domesticity, waking up next to warm umber hands tracing patterns in your skin, cooking breakfast together, a house in tokyo. a wedding band on your finger.  

this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

you remember the dulling of gray eyes, and his hunched over figure bathed in the ashy violet rays of the sun setting. you try to hold onto that flavor of green before you swallow it for the last time, saliva and tears welling up, before you press one last kiss on his cheek before stepping out. pastel green fades to emerald fades to black. you can’t taste apples or sumac anymore.

no, as much as you wanted to be, you weren’t built for love.

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 5)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, (here) Part 6, Part 7,  Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

Happy to announce that Thicker Than Water will be getting a companion piece from Geralt’s POV called The Blood of the Covenant, but probably not for a little while, because it’s still in the very early stages yet.

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The three days to  Ard Carraigh were torture for Jaskier, and yet they were almost numb. He’d finished his story for Ciri and was talking less. Part of his brain delighted in it. Talking less would make Geralt like him, he was being good, not being too much. He knew, though, he was just too tired to talk. 

It seemed that a weight had taken up residence in his chest. Many weights had, the feeling of being a burden, the constant ache of rejection, but this was a new feeling, cold and heavy and hot all at the same time. He was slower too. Jaskier tried, he tried so hard, but he needed a new cloak and better boots and even with them he got the sense that his body just...couldn’t go any faster.

Since only Geralt had a horse, he’d taken to walking alongside Roach, rather than riding her. Ciri was happy to skip ahead and come back and walk all around so that she probably walked twice the distance Jaskier did. Sometimes she took Jaskier by the hand as if trying to pull him along, and he’d smile at her and trot a few paces to the front of the group, but he just couldn’t manage more.

He wondered if it was because he wasn’t eating much. Jaskier knew he needed food, but he just wasn’t hungry, and wasting food on someone who wasn’t hungry for it wouldn’t get him into Geralt’s good graces.

They day before they reached Ard Carraigh the first snow had fallen. It was tiny and wet and gone by the time the sun was fully above the horizon, but it crunched underfoot and set a chill into Jaskier’s bones. He’d eaten a little more heavily than he had lately at breakfast that day, and he wondered if that was why his body felt so heavy.  He was unable to stop himself from falling to the back of their little group, even with Ciri’s coaxing. 

Once, when she tugged at his hand he chuckled and jokingly said, “Little lady, please spare an old man such exertion,” with a funny little bow, then exaggeratedly put his hand on his back, as if he were too geriatric to straighten fully. When Ciri giggled at that he mimed hobbling along with a cane, and moving his lips as though he were toothless and gumming at something. She laughed, bright and clear, and even Yennefer smiled. Geralt’s eyebrows lowered, though. It wasn’t an angry face, but it wasn’t a happy one and Jaskier couldn’t parse it out. 

As the day wore on Jaskier felt the cold. His traveling cloak had seen too many winters and wouldn’t bear another one. It was patched and dirty and worn so very thin. The wind bit at Jaskier, feeding off of him, feeling like it was freezing the very air inside his lungs. No matter how he tucked his cloak around him, no matter that his doublet was buttoned all the way to his chin, Jaskier felt frozen. 

He slowed down, feeling panic rising in his throat. He was too slow, he was going too slow. His mind hurtled backwards in time. Those times that he’d woken up to an empty camp, with Geralt packed up and leaving while he slept. Waking up in inn rooms that had held two people when he fell asleep, only to find himself alone, all of Geralt’s posessions gone. 

He was going to get left behind again.

His legs were lead, though. There was very little that hurt more than Geralt leaving him behind, but maybe it would be for the best. He felt like he’d just fall forward onto the frosty ground and stay there. The little family could go on and he could just stay, dissolving into the leaf mold. 

Ciri would worry though. She’d come back and take his hand and he knew if he stopped he couldn’t get up again and she’d worry. She might even cry. Making Ciri cry, those big green eyes filling up because of him, that would be worse, even than being left behind. Hurting Ciri would be worse than anything. 

Jaskier found a few more steps. 

It was like turning a crank handle that never did anything, or riding a horse all day, but every time he thought of Ciri, lip trembling, he could continue. 

When it was almost evening he slowed further. He was maybe twenty paces behind Yennefer and Geralt. Yen, despite looking much better, was still not healed, and walked slower than her standard, brisk pace. Geralt, of course, walked at her side. Jaskier considered that twenty paces was good enough. The wind was behind them and it almost seemed to push him forward, digging icy fingers through his cloak. 

Part of him fretted for his lute in the cold weather, even inside the case, but what did it matter. He would sell her in less than a day. 

He wasn’t going to cry about it. Tears prickled at his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall. Not one. Because there was Ciri, up ahead, so bright in her Cintran blue cloak. She’d found a stick and was stabbing at imaginary villains. Jaskier would do anything for her. He would make it to Ard Carraigh, he would make it up the mountain and to the keep. He would even sell his lute. 

His body had other ideas. 

Jaskier stumbled on a root, hidden under fallen leaves. He fell, one knee down, the opposite hand catching him against the ground. It was like Atlas, carrying the world, as if a weight was pressing him down. He couldn’t stand back up. 

Ciri trotted over and took his other hand. His fingers were stiff and going blue, but he wrapped his hand around her mitten, which was slightly too big for her hand. He stood, Ciri tugging him slightly.

He smiled wanly at her and she grinned back. 

It happened again, though, only a few more paces along. Bumps and ditches that would normally mean nothing overrode his weakening limbs and shaky balence. He stumbled and fell, catching himself again and feeling the cold ground ache his knee where it hit. 

His head spun. 

Ciri was tugging at his hand but his ears were ringing. Something big and warm wrapped around him. It was slightly rough fabric, and it smelled like horse. Geralt’s cloak was sturdy enough to block the wind and the hood over Jaskier’s head warmed his ears. 

Jaskier’s eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing anything. He could feel, though. There were arms around him, warm, big arms, cradling him as easily as if he were a sack of flour. He recognized the feeling, too, from more than a decade ago, when blood had welled from his throat and Geralt had held him. Jaskier felt the lift as Geralt mounted Roach, settling  his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“We’ll stay in an inn in Ard Carriagh,” Geralt was saying. Jaskier didn’t care. He was too tired to care even that he was being a burden, because his eyes slid shut and Geralt was holding him as though he were something precious.

As if Jaskier were something to be cared for.

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

Jaskier woke up in an inn room. Alone. 

His heart raced, tears welling in his eyes. He’d been a burden. He couldn’t keep up and they’d left him in some inn and moved on. The blankets were suffocating and he kicked them away, getting tangled in them. He could hardly see for the tears in his eyes. They’d left him. He hadn’t been good enough, not fast enough or strong enough and they’d gone. Even Ciri.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt was standing in the doorway. 

“Uh, Geralt, hi, wasn’t expecting you here.” It was the truth.

“...I heard your heartbeat.” 

Of course, his heart had been beating out of his chest, it was only now calming down.

“Oh, well,” Jaskier said, trying to play it off. “Woke up in this room and I didn’t recognize where I was.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. “You passed out.”

Jaskier hung his head and fought tears again, feeling hot shame seep down his neck. He’d failed. He’d really failed. All that work to not be a burden and it was all down the drain. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at his hands. I’ll do better, he thought. I can do better please don’t leave me behind. Please don’t take me off your hands.

He didn’t say it. It was battered and broken and worth very, very little, but he still had some pride.

“You’ve been eating little,” Geralt said. There was an undertone there, a soft undercurrent of something else. Jaskier didn’t know what it meant but he wanted to sink into it and wrap it around himself.

“I just haven’t been hungry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I would faint, I just truly wasn’t hungry.”

Geralt shrugged awkwardly. “We would have stopped here anyway, Ciri needs it.” 

“Is she alright? You’re not disguised, is that safe?”

Geralt shook his head. “I am disguised, you can just see through it.” Geralt shook his head again, a little more dramatically, and just for a second it was as if the magic needed time to catch up, and his hair and eyes were dark, a full beard covering his face.

“Woah,” Jaskier said. 

“It tired Yen out,” Geralt grunted. “So don’t annoy her.”

Right. With the almost easy companionship and tentative worry Jaskier had almost forgotten. He was just an annoyance.

Jaskier stood, fighting his spinning head. “Right,” he said, glancing out the window at the water light. “Morning, and I have things to do, so...” He picked up his lute in her case and...

And they were in Ard Carriagh. Where Jaskier needed to sell her. 

“I might just tune up this lovely lady,” he said, sinking back onto the bed and cradling the case. 

“Yen is consulting on an apothecary’s question,” Geralt said. He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, like at any moment he would either sit down or leave.

“Good for her,” Jaskier said, not looking up from the lute case as he flicked open it’s latches, savoring the familiar click. 

“Ciri is with her.”

“That’s good, she’s safe then.” Jaskier dragged his fingers over a scratch on the wood, it was thin and long, but had no effect on her sound.

“So you have to stay with me.”

“Why?” Jaskier let his index finger curl over the lovely inlay work on her front. In his opinion, it was unmatched, but what did he know of wood working?

“To be safe,” Geralt said, still in his odd posture.

“I can take care of myself.” Jaskier, looking down at his lute, felt, rather than saw the skeptical eyebrow raise. “I’ll just eat something and be right as rain, promise.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Fine.”

Jaskier strummed one sweet chord and closed the case. No need to torture himself further. He stood and adjusted his clothes. He’d slept in them, but there was nothing nicer for him to wear. Then, he proceeded down to the taproom on the first floor of the inn. Geralt followed like a shadow. A very tall, broody shadow.

They ate in silence.

The taproom was well packed, but early enough that no one was rowdy. Between the spaces of their unhappy silence, Jaskier could hear the inkeeper complaining about the maid going off to get married and leaving him shorthanded.

It was a while since Jaskier had been to Ard Carriagh, but he had a good memory, and walked quickly through the winding streets to the luthier. His breakfast wasn’t sitting well, it was too much and too little all at once and he felt sick, but he said nothing. Any bard was an actor and Jaskier was the best. He was fine. The luthier’s shop was between a ladies clothing store and a jewelry store, tucked in and not as well kept as the shops on either side.

There was a bell above the door and it jangled as Jaskier stepped in, Geralt just behind. 

“Lute strings,” Geralt said, looking around. “Can you afford that.”

“No,” Jaskier said simply. “I’m selling my lute.”

The words burned like acid. The pit of his stomach rolled like he’d swallowed one of Geralt’s disgusting potions, but he knew his face was totally impassive.

Geralt’s however, twisted. It looked like panic, anger, and pain all at once. It looked like Jaskier felt. He almost looked to check that Geralt hadn’t dropped something heavy on his foot to make that face.

“Ooh, you wish to sell,” said the shopkeeper, next to a display of gitara picks. “The case looks very good but let’s see...”

He reached forward. His hands were pale and sweaty, fingers grabbing and outstretched and Jaskier wanted to step back, yearned to clutch his lute case to his chest rather than relinquish his beautiful girl to this man. 

He set the case on top of a glass display case instead. The clasps clicked under his unwilling fingers. The lid creaked.

“Oh, what a lute,” the shopkeeper said. He stroked the strings and Jaskier noticed his dirty fingernails. “rather mediocre condition, though...”

Jaskier wanted to audibly scoff. His lute was in mint condition, apart from the single scratch, and he knew it.

Geralt snapped the lid of the case shut, nearly catching the shop owner’s fingers. “He won’t sell it.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t buy it,” the owner protested. “Beautiful lute. Elven made?”

Jaskier nodded grudgingly. It wasn’t fair, but he didn’t like this man.

The shopkeeper hummed. “I thought so, I would probably have the frontal piece,” he opened the case again and traced the wood with the inlay. “Removed. For use on a different lute.”

Chop her up?

Geralt shut the lid again, more carefully this time, but somehow the slower closing felt angrier, rather than calmer. 

“He’s not selling. We’re leaving.”

He lifted Jaskier nearly off the ground, taking the case in one arm and gripping the bard by the back of his collar with the other hand. Jaskier spluttered as he was frog marched out of the shop.

“I was going to sell it!” He protested, back out in the watery sunlight. He clutched at his lute case, though, as Geralt pressed it back into his arms.

Geralt’s jaw was tense and his lips were thin. 

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You aren’t selling your lute.”

Jaskier felt guilty and relieved all at once. Here was Geralt  saying he didn’t have to sell his lute. He was free of that burden, but they also needed to purchase a cart and supplies. He himself needed a cloak, boots, and gloves. Probably a hat and scarf as well. The pair ambled, unhappily silent yet again, to the center of town. Jaskier glanced at the notice board. 

“Ghoul problem,” he noted.

“No.”

“You need a contract, they have a harpy issue too, looks like. Two contracts, Geralt.”

“You have to stay with me--”

“And you won’t take me into danger, blah blah,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. He knew he was being a pest, but two contracts would likely solve their money problem. Hopefully. Not for sure.

“You should go back to the inn,” Geralt said. “I would do the contracts, they’re quick, then get you.”

An idea glimmered in Jaskier’s mind. He yawned. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good, I’m pretty tired still.” It wasn’t a lie because Geralt could basically smell those. Going back to the inn did sound good, and Jaskier was definitely still tired.

Geralt huffed, and they walked back to the inn. It was too late for breakfast and early for lunch, so the little taproom was basically deserted. Geralt hummed again, pressed one hand onto Jaskier’s shoulder as if trying to stick him to the floor, then left.

Jaskier walked up to the inkeeper. 

“Hi there,” he tried. He was too tired to really flirt, but the inkeeper put down his barcloth at least.

“What?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re a little short handed at the moment...” he let the sentence linger. 

The inkeeper scoffed. He was a big, red faced man with red hair to match, and when he scoffed his whole torso moved with it. “You want to do a little work for some coin, then,” he said. He didn’t sound opposed to the idea, though, so Jaskier beamed at him.

“Absolutely sir, I’m a very helpful--”

“I’ll not have you around food,” the man cut in. “That man brought you in half dead and you still look pale. Bad business getting customers sick.”

Oh. Jaskier deflated. 

“Got a water barrel needs filling though, so’s long as you don’t cough in the water. Privies need cleaning too.”

They haggled a little over the pay, but Jaskier was a world class haggler. Finally the man slapped his hands on the bar top. “Fine,” he said. “And a meal for you thrown in if you get the privies really clean. One for the little lass too.”

“She eats a lot,” Jaskier warned. He felt it was only fair, considering he would be paid decently for his work. To his surprise the man grinned. 

“My youngest does too, eats like a lion and she’s only nine. I’ll have as many helpings as your daughter wants, no problem.”

Jaskier thanked him profusely and the inkeeper waved his hand. “Just consider playing something tonight at supper, brings in customers. And get that privy really clean, mind.”

Jaskier, figuring he wouldn’t find a better deal that day, hightailed it out of there to look at the water barrell.

It was a big barrel. It would need between thirty and fourty buckets of water to fill it, and it was empty right down to the bottom. The well was at the center of town, like wells tended to be, and the inn wasn’t close, but there was a pump in the inn’s yard.. Jaskier sighed, rolled his aching shoulders, rocked slightly on his aching feet, and began to pump.

One bucket at a time, Jaskier filled the water barrell in just under two hours, feeling blisters form on his hands from all the pumping. Then he filled two more buckets and went to the privies. 

Yuck.

He sloshed one bucket each into the men’s and women’s privies and went back to the inn to ask for some soap and a scrub brush. Then the real work began. Scrubbing the wooden walls and floors of the fetid outhouses was backbreaking, and of course he had to pause every time a patron wanted to use them, but the grime came off the wood eventually and Jaskier was willing to work hard sometimes. He wasn’t being a burden.

An unintended benefit of the work was that Jaskier’s mind was temporarily taken off of how miserable he felt. HIs chest still rattled a little, and he was tired beyond belief, but maybe all he’d needed was a full meal after all.

It was late afternoon when he fetched the inkeeper to inspect the privies, and the man nodded in approval at them. Then he gave Jaskier one last task.

“Fill that tin tub by the door with water and put it over the fire there,” he said, pointing to one of the two large fires the inn’s kitchen had. “Then haul it upstairs and bathe because you smell like a privy yourself.”

Jaskier grinned tiredly and took the offered coin before doing just that, wincing as his aching muscles protested. When the water was warm but not boiling he took the small tub upstairs to his room and washed what he could. It wasn’t a big enough tub to properly bathe in, but with soap and a rag he managed to at least get clean.

He tipped the tub out and replaced it in it’s spot then curled up in the inn bed in a change of clothes, dozing. He’d been there perhaps a quarter of an hour before Geralt tapped on the door.

Geralt looked at him. “You’re clean,” he said.

Jaskier shrugged. “Struck a deal with the innkeeper. Contracts done?” Geralt held up a bag of coin in answer. 

It was odd, he thought. It was like normal, almost. Walking along at Geralt’s side. Several times he had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting on this or that. It was so hard to remember that they weren’t friends, or at least travelling companions. Whatever they had been before the whole...dragon hunt thing. His brain argued that they were still traveling companions now, and it was true, but only in the literal sense. Geralt didn’t want him around.

It got easier to remember because Yennefer rejoined them, Ciri trotting at her heels.

“Julian,” Yennefer said, using his real, more innocuous name. “Cleaned up I see, and dressed in finery,” it was a jab, although not very sharp. His clothes were worn and badly patched. “Going to go cuckold some poor husband?” It was said lightly and Jaskier smiled. 

“How do you know I haven’t already,” he said. Yennefer laughed, but Geralt growled.

“Are you and your conquests going to get us thrown out of town?”

Jaskier startled, skittering a few steps away in shock at the low, angry tone. “I was only kidding,” he protested, but he cursed his stupid mouth, always running ahead of his brain. Just like that, it seemed, the brief truce had broken, and he was back to being a shit shoveler once more.

Ciri slipped her mitten into Jaskier’s hand. “Yennefer says I need a hat,” she said. 

“I need one too,” Jaskier confided. “Why don’t you and I go get hats and scarves while those two grab other supplies.”

“You aren’t going off on your own,” Geralt growled and Jaskier wanted to flinch, but then Ciri would notice.

“I’d be only a street away,” Jaskier said. “I’ll look after her.”

“Can’t even look after yourself,” Geralt snapped. Jaskier did flinch that time, just a little bit. It was true, though. He was kind of worthless, especially if there was a fight.

“We’ll all go,” Yennefer said, glaring pointedly at Geralt. Jaskier wondered what that was about.

They all went. Jaskier paid for his new cloak, hat, and gloves, and ignored Geralt asking where he got the money.

“Did you steal it?” Gerals said, quietly, so Ciri wouldn’t hear. Jaskier sniffed.

“I’m not a thief.” 

Geralt dropped it, but his expression was stormy. 

They bought a small cart, light enough for Roach to pull by herself, and some more supplies. Yennefer even bought Jaskier new boots.

“Just giving advice on apothecarial matters is worth a hefty fee,” she explained. “I have plenty of coin.” Pleasantly surprised, Jaskier thanked her. When he tried the boots on in the shop he made a show of how much he liked them, going over the top until he heard Ciri giggle. Mission accomplished, because he made Yen smile too. 

Geralt didn’t smile.

Back at the inn Jaskier ate a big dinner, even as his stomach rolled, and delighted in seeing Ciri do the same. They were all well fed, but seeing Ciri’s delight in getting a second helping was worth any amount of blisters, or privies. 

He played after dinner, although he barely felt up to doing so, and of course was careful to avoid all mentions of the white wolf. He winked at a few patrons and even the inkeeper just out of habit. Then he ended his set early.

“Any reviews?” he asked his table, cheekily. “Three words or less?”

“Tolerable,” Yen said, smiling widely. She looked younger when she did that.

“Great,” Ciri chimed in. 

“Should’ve sold it,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier felt ice slip down his spine.

“What?”

“Should’ve sold the lute,” Geralt growled, lowly. 

Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the strap his lute hung from, feeling hurt well up like spring water.

“No,” Yen snapped. “You two go outside and sort that out, I’m not dealing with it. Ciri and I will finish our dinner while you idiots figure this out between yourselves.”

Jaskier obeyed, feeling the heat of shame and hurt in his face and longing for some fresh air. Geralt lumbered out behind him. 

The night was cold and felt icy against Jaskier’s burning face but he turned to Geralt fuming.

“What the hell,” he said. “You tell me not to sell the lute, then you make me sit at the inn all day like a child, then you tell me I should have sold it after all? Do you hate me that much or do you just like seeing me do things wrong?”

“Better you sell the lute than whore yourself,” Geralt growled. 

That was so far from what Jaskier was expecting that he actually stepped back. “What?”

“Struck a deal with the innkeeper? All that coin? And you move like your knees are bruised,” Geralt said, jaw moving tightly. 

“I didn’t have sex with the inkeeper!” Jaskier said, half amused. “I didn’t have sex with anyone. I thought we needed the money, so I cleaned the privies, that’s why my knees are stiff. My hands are sore too!”

Geralt took one hand and turned it over to see the red, irritated skin. 

“You--?”

“No,” Jaskier interrupted. “I don’t care what you have to say.” Even though he did, he cared so much. “First of all, don’t pretend that there is anything wrong with prostitution, we both know you visit those ladies from time to time. Second, even if I was having sex with someone, for money or not, it isn’t any of your business, and third, nothing about your assumptions gives you any right to be so...so rude!”

Jaskier was ashamed to feel tears leaking from his eyes but right now he was angry, so angry and hurt, so he just kept going. 

“I am sorry,” he said, softly. “That life couldn’t give you the blessing you wanted, but the least you could do is not make this worse for both of us.”

Jaskier turned on his heel and went back to his room, where he curled up and cried himself to sleep. 

He was awoken later by a tap on the door. It was Yennefer and Ciri standing in the hallway.

“She wants to be with you,” Yennefer said.

Ciri sat on the bed and looked up at Jaskier with wide eyes. Jaskier sat next to eachother.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, using her special name for Jaskier. “Do you hate Geralt?”

Jaskier sighed and hugged her close. “Not at all,” he said, truthfully. “But it’s like I said, bards aren’t welcome forever, it’s just how it is, and I’ve overstayed my welcome a little bit.”

“No you haven’t,” Ciri said into his shoulder. “I think you’re welcome. I want you around.”

“Thank you, little highness.”

“Geralt doesn’t hate you, I’m sure of it, he was really worried about you when you fainted.”

“He worries about everyone, that’s just the way he is,” Jaskier said. Geralt had a big heart, even if those feelings came out gruffly, he was a real hero. He just couldn’t stand Jaskier so long as Jaskier was concious.

“When my grandmother was worried,” Ciri began. “She could seem sort of mean, she’d yell or snap and it was scary unless you knew that she was just scared. Maybe Geralt was scared for you.”

Jaskier wished it was so. Could almost believe it was true. Ciri didn’t know about the dragon hunt though. She didn’t know he was a shit shoveler. Didn’t know about Geralt’s unfulfilled blessing.

Jaskier curled on his side, letting Ciri bury her head into his shoulder until she fell asleep. Eventually, face solemn but eyes dry, Jaskier slept too.

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

I promise, I PROMISE Geralt isn’t trying to be an asshole. Like I said, I intend to write this from his POV as well, he’s just worried for Jaskier and thought that Jaskier had prostituted himself, despite his illness, becuase he wanted to earn them money. Geralt felt so guilty that Jaskier would do that and, well, he’s not good with emotions and can’t control his tone well, so it came out like he hates Jaskier. He just loves him very much and is very worried about him. He also thinks Jaskier hates him because he tried to sell his lute, which Geralt also sees as a tie between him and Jaskier, so it hurt his feelings.

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[lostinsantacarla]

Paul’s Blood- (For those that might have read Twisted Love on my blog, I feel like this could almost be a conclusion to it.)

There’s something to be said about blood and sex, but when it’s blood and life, everything changes.

I don’t know what happened. I just knew I was laying on a bed somewhere and everything was dark except for the images right in front of me. Paul was one of them, but I couldn’t feel his weight on the bed. My body was numb, but there he was, flush against me, leaning over fiddling with something. David was behind him, standing there. I got the distinct impression he was overseeing whatever it was Paul was doing. I also knew I was dying, and Paul wasn’t having it. It was the most intense serious I’d ever seen on his face.

I closed my eyes once and it felt like forever trying to get them open again, but there he was again, his wrist at his mouth and I knew this was the moment things would never be the same. At least for my life.

I watched as he pulled it away, crimson lines of immortality running down, dripping as he hurried it to my mouth. “Here, baby girl, take this. C’mon take it. I can’t lose you.”

In my stillness I felt his blood’s thick wetness smear across my lips, blinking yet again as I willed my mouth to open to the elixir of dark magic. Bitter metallic was the taste at first, hot and heavy with a fire all its own and oddly a tinge of sweet behind it. I forced myself to swallow, but once the medicine coated my throat my body reacted differently. It was pulled to his blood and I felt it jerk as my lips opened wider, my tongue licking as I sucked, my hands now animated by the magic and I lurched forward and grabbed hold of his arm with everything I had left in me.

After that I was content to drink. A warmth settled fast in the pit of my stomach like hot chocolate on a cold day. A satisfying, fulfilling drink that filled the void and made me feel heated all over. Feeling started to return to my limbs. I felt my heart pumping inside my chest hard enough I was sure he could see it, and my blinking eyes were like gasps as I pulled at his vein. I wanted more and more and more.

From what little I could see, my mind now drunk on this eternal elixir, he had started to grow wary. This was the first time he’d ever blooded someone, and while I’d hoped it would be completed on a more intimate level, the very fact that he was now inside me, and I was a part of him on a different level made my heart swell with an undeniable forever love.

Except I couldn’t let go. My grip was ironclad, my teeth expanded, and my gums ached. There had to be more!

He’d been warned of this, and that was why David was standing by, but Paul didn’t want the help, nor did he scold me and tell me to let go like some resistant leech. Instead, he pulled me to him, arm and all, my mouth suctioned over the rip in his wrist, and he held me close, whispering in my ear. “Let go, baby girl. I got you. Let go.”

He used his finger to pry my lips from his flesh and when I’d finally released, he held said arm behind his back, a wily yet gentle smile on his face as he laid me back down.

I felt cocooned in the safety of his blood as it traveled through my body. It settled my nerves and patched the ruins of the accident, knitting my wounds back together. It was a heavy, sedate feeling, like the feeling one might have before falling comfortably to sleep, and that’s exactly what I did.

In the back of my mind, I heard David talking to him.

“You sure you want to sit here and wait?” he’d asked Paul. I knew what he meant by it. The rockin’ vampire wasn’t one for sitting still unless it was one of those nights, he had a joint in hand and power ballads blaring on the rock box. Still, he insisted he should do it. I was his ‘creation’ after all, and it was important that I saw him first when I opened my eyes again.

“It’s a bigger bond than you’ll ever expect it to be,” David instructed, one hand on Paul’s shoulder for reassurance. Needless to say, he was proud of his fledgling.

During the duration of my sleep, I know I came to a few times and then blacked out again. Each time Paul was there, watching, waiting, like an impatient kid.

When my eyes finally opened completely, I saw him pacing back and forth in the room. He’d taken his long jacket off ages ago, and his tall, lanky frame was a sight to see. Especially when he looked frazzled and uncertain.

“Paul.” I sat up slow, smiling of course and he rushed to my side. “I’m good,” I promised, looking back over the bed for no real reason other than I’d noticed a pile of his bracelets sitting on the other side. I glanced at his wrist, the one I’d fed from. It was always the little things that mattered, and Paul never took those bracelets off. For me, he had and had left them off just in case I needed more, even though he’d already given as much as he could.

I cupped his cheek, the scruff rough against my palm. “Thank you.”

“What, like I’d let you go?” he scoffed, huffing, and blowing it off like it was no big deal. Then he regarded me again, lips slack, eyes searching. “But you gotta do something for me.” He said it as though he hated it. Not for himself but for me as if it were a selfish thing to ask because he knew me and how I was when it came to the living. I had to take a life. That was a given. That was where his magic ended in terms of saving my life.

“Of course,” I agreed, now cupping both his cheeks in my hands. I could already feel the hunger working its way into my being. It wouldn’t take long for it to cause my rage, but while we still had time, I needed the soft moment between us. It was rare and appreciated.

[deepslateemeraldore]

goin’ crazy from the moment i met you

for the @itfandomprompts gift exchange! this is my gift for @a-portable-snack who requested “ (college Au) Losers go to karaoke and Richie sings Untouched by the Veronicas to Eddie drunkenly and Reddie Chaos ensues “! hope you enjoy this!!!

   - 4k words   - Mentions of weed and alcohol   - Mentions of Bill’s past relationship   - Talks of crushes

  Sleepy college towns are never really thought of as anything other than that. They’re small, oftentimes quiet communities, with bands of young adults trying to find their places in the grand scheme of things. There’s heartbreak, love, loss, and on occasion, loud drunken nights singing karaoke obnoxiously and proudly in the shitty little dive bars that offered such sad excuses for attention. Who in their right mind would find such an embarrassing pastime enjoyable?  

   The answer: Eddie Kaspbrak. A rising star in the world of local track and field, and often found running wild with his band of misfits on the weekends (though, to him, the fact that they were misfits is what made their bond so strong). He couldn’t help the image that the town had put together about him, trotting at the heels of the other town losers; Bill Denbrough, Mike Hanlon, Stanley Uris, Beverly Marsh, Ben Hanscom, and last but not least, Richard Tozier (though, calling him anything besides “Richie” was bound to get you an earful unless you were his mother). 

 If only the judging eyes could see Eddie, laughing himself sick amongst said friends, singing songs that hadn’t been popular since his elementary school years. They’d take turns picking their most hated songs to sing at each other while the recipient of that round would make sour faces at the offender (but secretly, they wouldn’t be upset. They’d think it was the most hilarious thing, only to be replaced by the following week's act of tomfoolery and embarrassment).

 In fact, karaoke had become a sort of group therapy for the clan of friends. It fell into routine after everyone’s first year at college ended with Richie using his newly acquired fake ID to load up the back of Bev’s car with enough beer to last a whole winter. The three drank at Bill’s until their knees went numb, and ended up wandering around downtown for a bit, stumbling into a shitty dive when the need for greasy food set in. By mistake, Bev signed up for karaoke, and the rest is history. Ben came the next time with Mike, who invited Stanley who invited Eddie. The latter of the two had stood solid on their stance of karaoke being dumb and childish until they’d decided to duet to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” in homage to changing majors. Eddie had never felt more alive than in that moment. 

 Over time, the song selection had grown from moody teenage anthems to half-time show routines, before settling comfortably in a genre appealing to only the chaotically single and nostalgically lonely. That’s not to say they were sad songs, oftentimes they were very fun and upbeat songs, but lyrically they could bring a drunk Bill Denbrough to his knees (though that was a very easy task that only required a small amount of hard liquor). 

 However, one particular night at the Bleu Jay will forever have a choke hold on Eddie Kaspbrak’s tender heart. 

 It was an average Saturday in late March, and he and Bev had spent the morning at various craft stores hunting for diploma frames. Bev had graduated the past winter with a BA in Textile and Apparel Studies, immediately accepting an offer to work with the Penobscot Theatre (along with several other theatres in Maine). She became impassioned for the art made by local seamstresses, and it was clear the feeling was mutual as soon as she joined the team. 

 Eddie would be graduating at the end of that spring with a Bachelors in Statistics (although it was assumed he would enroll in a new program for Anatomy and Biology the coming fall), becoming the fourth of his friend group to get his degree. And he was proud of himself, little “Wheezie” Kaspbrak, coddled by his mother until he could break free, going to college against family wishes and proving that he had more to him than what was publicly thought. And it was exhilarating in the same vein, existing outside of his mother's (womb) house. 

 And, as almost every Saturday since becoming legal went, they set out to celebrate with drinks. And karaoke. 

 Mike and Stan arrived first, Bill, Ben, and Richie next, and lastly, Bev and Eddie. The agreed upon meeting time was always seven thirty, and like every Saturday, Bev and Eddie were late. 

 “Man, you guys are s-s-so late,” Bill slurred, sitting shotgun in Ben’s car with the door propped open. Bev hadn’t even put the car park by the time the smell of shitty weed had made itself known. Bev giggled as she opened her door, shooting Eddie a look as if to say “this should be hilarious.” Eddie followed Bev’s lead, opening the door of the ‘99 Camry, careful not to slam the door too hard, and checking that the mirror had not fallen off (again. It was a junk car, but it ran like a dream, Bev would say). 

 “I already sm-smoked all Richie’s weed, Bev.” Bill followed up. Eddie took one solid look at his friend and let out his own little laugh. Mike led everyone from the parking lot into the bar, and after having their IDs checked (they came weekly, at this point you’d think the poor old bouncer wouldn’t care) they made way to their table. It was the only horseshoe booth in the place, furthest away from the bar counter, and the best place to be loud without getting any funny looks from other patrons. They were also the largest group to ever set foot in the dive.

 Mike would always sit in the middle, Stan and Bill on either side of him, Ben then Bev sitting to Stan’s left, Richie then Eddie to Bill’s right. Just like always. Stan ordered the first round of drinks, making sure to order Bill’s Bloody Mary with more tomato juice and less vodka (the conversation outside the bar between he and Richie about Bill being a “One Hit Wonder” went right over the accused’s head, making for a good laugh all around) and Eddie’s Appletini sans garnish. Bev chimed in to ask for a basket of fries, making Stan’s eyes shine bright. 

 “I knew there was a reason we’ve kept you around, Marsh.” He teased, clapping a hand on her shoulder. Ben smiled at the interaction, happy to see the most tense member of their group relaxing so soon into the evening. As soon as the waiter stepped away, small talk grew into a medium rumble, and talk about classes and grad school and professors everyone hated began to snowball. It only got worse as drinks made their way around.

 “I thought Richie said Short was a good head for the theatre department?” Mike asked Bev softly. Before Bev could respond, Richie had butted in. 

 “No, Mikey, I said Short gives good head to the theatre department,” Was Richie’s reply as he knocked back a shot of Jameson and winced. “Everyone loves a good gum job from-“

 “Beep Beep, Richie.” That was Eddie, exasperated having to hear about the old guy for what felt like the hundredth time. Richie turned to his friend, mock hurt, and scoffed. 

 “But Ed’s, you love to hear about me getting all the foxy grandpas and-“ Eddie’s cheeks flushed pink. 

 “I said beep beep, Dick. Shut up.” Richie stared at Eddie meekly as Eddie turned back to the group and picked up his martini. Without missing a beat, he spoke to Bill. 

 “So, are you and Audra on speaking terms now?” The table sat quiet as Eddie spoke, partially because the tone he’d just used was borderline frightening, but also because Richie had never shut up that quickly before. Bev would have to commend him on it later. Bill cleared his throat. 

 “We t-t-talked about it on Wednesday. I went to s-see her after her shift and all was f-fine. She said she’d rather see me h-happy with a guy than mi-miserable with her.” He shrugged, taking a sip of the water Stan had slyly moved closer to him. Bev nodded, as did Ben, Richie, Eddie. Everyone took a drink. Richie cleared his throat.

 “I’m happy for you, man. Really. Growth and all that shit. Mazel tov or whatever.” Everyone laughed save for Stan, who groaned, sinking into the booth. 

 “So, are we tipsy enough to start singing or does the Donner Party minus Bill need another round?” Richie asked, looking around the table. He was met with stares of confusion. 

 “Why are we the Donner Party minus Bill?” Ben inquired trying to connect the dots mentally. 

 “Because Bill fell off the wagon after I let him hit BabySpice in the parking lot.”  Ben nodded, not bothering to inquire further. Bill made a noise of protest, but was too eager to make a fool of himself on the small bar stage to say otherwise. 

 And so the night began. They moved as a herd to the DJ booth, signing their names after finding a song (although, Eddie had to sign Bill’s name and song, seeing as the lightweight was a bit too fucked up to hold the pen properly. Seriously, one hit and half a Bloody Mary?), then retreating back to the booth, awaiting their names being called to the stage when it was time. They had a few more sips and laughs in between.

 Mike was called first. Mike usually went first just to ease the tension, but tonight he seemed almost a bit too excited to go first. 

 “Is it just me, or is he skipping up there?” Eddie asked Richie, leaning in and whispering while still keeping his eyes on Mike. He felt Richie lean in a little closer to him, too, making his cheeks flush pink again. 

 “I think he might have a crush on someone,” Richie motioned with his head to Bill very subtly. “But, you didn’t hear that from me.” Eddie’s eyes grew to the size of saucers as he turned to face Richie, who smirked and held a finger up to his lips. “Shhh.” Eddie let out a light chuckle, turning his attention back to Mike on stage. The song started up as Mike waved to his friends, who smiled back and began to sway to the music. 

 Eddie smiled to himself as he zoned out, thinking about what Richie has just said. Mike and Bill. Bill and Mike. It didn’t bother Eddie in the slightest, in fact, he became almost excited at the thought of them two dating. They’d always been close, and they’d always made a really good team. And if Bill thought the same way about Mike, then that’d be just dandy! But Bill did just get out of a relationship, but he also seemed happy to bring up the whole “happier with a guy” thing… who knows? Not Eddie. Not in the slightest. Eddie reached for his drink, bringing it close and sipping it throughout Mike’s song, thinking. 

 He thought about “crushes” he’s had in the past on a few girls from his childhood, then the crushes he had in middle and high school on boys, and the crush that he’s had on the same boy since high school. He felt his neck grow hot and downed the last few sips of his martini. Mike’s song ended and they all cheered, although Eddie wouldn’t have been able to tell you what song he’d even sang. The waiter came by their table as Mike came back, earning a pat on the back from Ben (who was up next) and a thumbs up from Bill who appeared to be… blushing? God, if Bill was blushing then I must look like a damn lobster, Eddie thought, then turned to the waiter and asked for a Long Island Iced Tea, sub the rum for extra tequila. 

 The waiter was back within the first minute of Ben’s song, prompting Eddie to waste no time sucking his drink down. His first sip took a bit more than a third of the glass and burned only slightly on its way down. He took another big sip, the glass now just below halfway, which earned a sneering chuckle from Richie, lightly sipping his fourth Jack & Coke.

 “You got a hot date or s’mthin?” Richie asked, almost a little too close to Eddie’s ear.

Now I probably look like a ripe fucking beet, just peachy. Eddie blinked, turned his head to look at Stan and jeered back:

 “Yes, actually. Stanley and I were talking about bringing a himbo or two back to the condo. Why, you think you qualify?” It was Eddie’s turn to smirk, and the blank look on Richie’s face counted as a victory in his book. Eddie focused his attention back to Ben on stage, clapping for his friend as the song finished, hoping his blush was subtle. Richie sat completely still.

 Bev went after Ben, planting a kiss on his cheek as they walked past each other. Bev sang “Baby Got Back”, much to the surprise of everyone other than Eddie (they’d discussed these important matters on the drive). Bill went after Bev, Richie after Bill (although in everyone’s mind, the “Tequila” song did not count, which earned him a do-over for after Stan went), Eddie after Richie (Eddie was also razzed for choosing “Sweet Caroline” due to its extremely popular nature with the drunk crowd), and Stan following last. Eddie had enjoyed Stan’s song, “SexyBack” but only because once Stan was nearing drunk, he would go all out with his dance moves, getting the entire bar (really, the only 5 others in the bar besides the losers) to clap with him. It was fun! It was all fun! 

 Until Richie got up to perform his do-over song. Eddie had gotten up to let him out of the booth, but the way Richie’s normally swinging gait sagged was cause for concern in Eddie’s inebriated mind. Bill, now far too “drunk” from a grand total of three and a half shots worth of alcohol, was whooping and hollering as Richie talked to the DJ. Eddie was prepared, as was the rest of the table, for Richie to choose something to get off easy, something in the family of “Rolling in the Deep” or “Jolene”, with Stan bidding on “Hand in my Pocket” because “it’s just a karaoke classic!”. 

 The conversation roaring around the table while Richie and the DJ looked for some song that wasn’t coming up in the catalog turned to making fun of Bill, who had claimed his “high was wearing off” and that he had “never been this brunk defore”, earning a hearty laugh from the six. Stan and Eddie worked to prop Bill up so he was at least not head first on the table. In fact, they would’ve all missed Richie starting if it hadn’t been for the tapping on the microphone, followed by:

 “Hello, I am slightly tipsy and extremely sorry for what you are all about to see.” Violins came from the speakers surrounding the stage, and when Eddie looked at the screen behind Richie’s head, the panic set in, surrounding the bar in the sounds of 2000’s pop. 

 Richie began to dance, albeit very poorly, to “Untouched” by The Veronicas. He was a little drunk. Eddie was a little drunk. A man sitting at a booth near the DJ was clapping and cheering, and also probably a little drunk. The losers were clapping and cheering. Eddie felt like he was inside an ice cube, and also like he was going to pass out. 

 “I go ooh ooh, you go aah aah,

Lalalala, lalalala,” Richie began to sing, his voice reaching somewhere between a valley girl and a horrible Britney Spears impression. 

“I wanna wanna wanna get get get what I want, don’t stop,” Richie sang to the man in the booth, who hadn’t stopped clapping. It occurred to Eddie in that moment that Richie couldn’t be drunk. Drunk Richie was funny, aloof, extra clumsy, and could barely mutter out a proper sentence. No amount of alcohol would make him do this.

 Eddie tore his eyes away from his friend on stage, intensely studying the remaining ice in his glass. He tried to bring a hand up to fiddle with the straw, to keep himself distracted, but the way his hand shook was going to give away everything he was trying to keep in. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look UP. If he thought about it hard enough, Eddie supposed he could have made himself throw up from the amount of sudden stress (which was code for Gay Panic) building in his abdomen. He could faintly hear Bev and Bill cheering, and out of the corner of his eye caught Stan standing up in the booth to join in the support of his friend. Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Close your eyes. 

  “Cause you’re the only one who’s on my mind, I’ll never ever let you leave, I’ll try to stop time forever, never wanna hear you say goodbye,” jerked Eddie back to reality, but only because he could feel his worst fear currently coming true. 

 Richie had stepped off the stage, and Eddie had looked over at him just as he had made his way through the small crowd of the bar (and as far as the mic cord would allow). Eddie could feel the eyes shift to him, and was certain that if you hooked him up to an EKG, he would be legally pronounced dead. 

 “I feel so untouched and I want you so much, that I just can’t resist you,” Eddie could tell by the look in his eyes, Richie was determined about something. 

 “It’s not enough to say that I miss you,” maybe this was directed at Bill, because Richie had a crush on him once upon a time. 

 “I feel so untouched right now, need you so much somehow, I can’t forget you,” or maybe this was directed at the guy, sitting alone by the DJ who hasn’t stopped clapping. Maybe Richie was being dramatic, building tension. 

 “Goin crazy from the moment I met you.” It was the direct eye contact Eddie had accidentally made with Richie that kick started his heart. This was directed at him holy shit. 

 “And I need you so much,” Eddie could hear Bev yelling for him to get up, he could feel Stan trying to shove him out of the booth, to go up there right fucking now because this is your one fucking chance. And like some miserable, absolute asinine fool, Eddie stood up, betraying every nerve in his body. He couldn’t hear Richie singing anymore, he could hear anyone in the bar clapping or hollering, hell he could barely even make out Richie’s face as he walked towards him. He watched his lips move, god I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more than right now, tip toeing, trying to keep his balance, trying to make it to Richie before someone else takes the opportunity. 

 There were only a handful of times where Eddie Kaspbrak had felt completely in charge of his situation. The most notable being the day the town bullies broke his arm, and instead of letting them win, he got up and laughed in their faces, sending them running for the hills. However, that was about to be bumped down.

 Without breaking the eye contact, without breaking the cadence of his walk, Eddie Kaspbrak reached out to grab Richie Tozier, his crush, his damned high school through today crush, by the collar of his unbuttoned flannel, god it’s so soft, causing Richie to drop the microphone just as Eddie pulled him down to kiss him. Edward Kaspbrak was kissing Richard Tozier right now in the shitty karaoke bar in fucking Bangor, Maine. And it. Felt. So. Right. 

 It was like all was suddenly right in the world, the planets had aligned, and Santa Claus himself has just had delivered the best fucking gift to the both of them. Eddie felt Richie’s hands grab at his cheeks, then fly around his shoulders, trying to get closer, both of them numb to the fact that they we’re making out in front of their friends and a handful of strangers in a shitty dive bar! Who FUCKING knew?!?

 Eddie pulled away first, partly because of shock, partly because he wanted to open his damn eyes and look at this, commit it to memory. Everything around him became more clear. Bev and Stan screeching, the rest of the losers whistling, and a few of the random patrons subjected to this very odd-and-overtly-sexual non-verbal confession of love. Of love. Richie let the microphone fall to the floor, feedback scratching through the speakers. 

 “This isn’t the way I thought this would happen,” Eddie chuckled, letting Richie pull him into a hug, still in the center of the bar. “But it makes too much sense because it’s you.” He felt Richie press a kiss to his hair, then drop an arm to grab one of his hands. 

 “Let’s, uh, let’s get out of here, yeah?” Richie struggled to get out, his smile distracting Eddie from the fact that his hair was matted to his forehead via sweat. Eddie only nodded, leading Richie past the table of their friends (who had begun to chant “Get a room! Get a room! Get a room!”, earning a swift flick of the bird from both Richie and Eddie), out the door of the bar, giggles from both parties ringing out all the way to Richie’s car, then into Richie’s car, and finally as Richie drove away in his car. 

 The losers had gotten up one by one to follow them out, not even upset at the fact that they would have to cram into two cars now. Stan and Bev were out the door first, still wolf whistling as their (lovebird) friends drove off, Bill, Mike, and Ben at their heels. 

 “Wow, now that’s the m-miracle of lo-blargh,” everyone had turned just in time to see Bill barf up soggy French fries and an obscene amount of water. Calls of:

 “Jesus Christ,”

  “Eww, Bill,”

 “And that’s why we give you water, lightweight,” rang out in their circle, the friends taking a step back, Mike motioning for Bill to take a seat on the curb they stood on. 

 “I think that’s our cue to leave,” Bev stated.

“Ben, you wanna run in and pay the tab real quick? Take my card.” Ben nodded as Bev extended her hand with a card to him, disappearing back into the bar a final time. 

 “So, Marsh, where’s that twenty you bet me our Senior year?” Stan joked, helping Mike get Bill standing again, heading towards the cars. Bev laughed, throwing her head back. 

 “Where’s my twenty for saying Eddie was going to be the one to kiss him first?!” Bev shot back, reaching into her bag to pull out a crumpled twenty. Stan reached into his pocket, producing a folded crisp bill. They exchanged cash, laughing. 

 “This made no sense,” Bill offered coherently, stumbling closer to Mike. Stan and Bev turned to face him. 

“Why did Mike sing a Blondie song if he’s not blond?” It was Mike’s turn to throw his head back, letting out a hearty guffaw, before turning to Bill and responding. 

 “It’ll make sense someday,” Mike offered, wrapping his arm around Bill’s shoulder. Bill smiled, and shut up promptly. 

 They all sat around the parking lot for a while talking, sobering up. Bev had had a few cigarettes, sharing with Bill hoping to bring him back to earth. It was just as Mike and Bev got ready to drive off when Richie and Eddie pulled back into the parking lot, swinging between the two cars. Both were smiling messes, giggling and pink with a few new bruises on each of their necks. 

 “Just to put this out there, Eddie Kaspbrak fucks!” Richie yelled, peeling out from between his friends' cars, Eddie laughing and yelling “no! No! Shut up!” Between laughing fits, pulling back out onto the main road once more, riding off into the night. 

 “Let’s make that an extra twenty, Miss Marsh.” Stan smirked, waving at Bev shaking her head. Ben waved back as they pulled out of the lot. 

 “I should’ve thought this through more.” Bev laughed, reaching for Ben’s hand, and joining the other two cars on the road home. 

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

BTS DRABBLE

Anon Request: Dad!Bangtan spend time with your kids on their own. 

Tags: Bangtan, BTS, Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, BTS Drablle, Anon request, Anon ask, Beyond the Scene, Dad!Bangtan, Dad AU, Husband AU, Kim Seokjin x you, Min Yoongi x you, Jung Hoseok x you, Kim Namjoon x you, Park Jimin x you, Kim Taehyung x you, Jeon Jungkook x you, Fluff

Genre: Fluff

Title: A Day with Dad

KIM SEOKJIN

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” 

Jin glanced over at his older daughter, who was slouched low in the chair beside him, mindlessly scrolling through her phone in a bored manner, her teenage tone filled with annoyance and angst. 

“Because.” Jin replied, checking his watch quickly to make sure they were still on schedule, before he moved his gaze to the still closed dressing room before them, where he could hear Mishil fumbling around inside as she tried on clothes. “Your mother had to work today, and I figured this would be a good opportunity for some bonding time with your old dad. So I volunteered to take you school shopping.” 

Hyo sighed heavily from beside him, but didn’t respond, and at that moment, the door to the dressing room swung open, and Mishil stepped out shyly, as she held her arms out at her sides and spun around in front of Jin. “Does it look good, dad?” 

“I love it, Mish.” Jin responded, a large grin revealing white teeth against his darkly tanned skin as he regarded his younger daughter with a sage eye. “That dress will be great for school!” 

“Okay!” Mishil happily skipped back into the dressing room, closing the door behind her. 

“Hurry up, Mish, okay? We still have to go to the shoe store.” Jin called out as she disappeared from view, settling back into his chair beside his older daughter once again, who was still busy looking at the screen of her phone. 

“Hyo.” He said, letting sternness leak into his tone, and she looked up at him, clearly annoyed, as he held out his hand expectantly toward her. “Give me the phone please.” 

With a sigh that spoke of teenage oppression, Hyo slapped her phone into her father’s outstretched palm, choosing this opportunity to complain once again as Mishil emerged from the dressing room, chosen clothing items hung over her arm, “I seriously don’t understand why you had to take us school shopping. Mom knows what we like.” 

“And I don’t?” Jin asked his older daughter with amusement in his voice, as he stood from the chair and took the clothing from Mishil, headed toward the register, as Hyo trailed behind them, dragging her feet reluctantly. “Ill have you know, Hyo,” He continued, as he smiled at the cashier as she rang up their purchases, “Your uncles and I have been voted the ‘most fashionable boy band” for several years in a row now. My title is uncontested.” 

Jin could practically hear Hyo roll her eyes from behind him at his words, and he hid a smile from her view, knowing he’d only make the prepubescent teenager angrier if she knew he found her disdain amusing, in ways only a father could. 

Taking the bags from the cashier’s outstretched hands, Jin thanked her and they all exited the store, headed down the sweeping stretch of the indoor mall toward the shoe store.  

“Fine, dad. Let’s play a game.” Hyo finally spoke again, as they entered the large store, racks and shelves displaying hundreds and hundreds of shoes. “If you can pick out a pair of shoes for both Mishil and I, in this store, without any input or hints, that we actually like, then I will tell you, to your face, that it was a good idea for you to bring us school shopping.” 

Jin paused, turning to watch as Hyo sat down on a nearby bench, her arms folded over her chest, a slight glare on her face, and he once again hid a smile as he asked, “No take backs? That’s the deal?” 

“Yup.” Hyo popped the ‘p’ past her lips like she was chewing bubblegum and had just blew a bubble, her gaze bored as she began to inspect her brightly painted nails on one hand. 

“You’re on, princess.” Jin said, pointing at her, before he gave an overly excited Mishil a high five. “Come on, Mish. I’ll do you first.” 

Leaving Hyo to her teenage devices, Jin trailed through the dozens of aisles of shoes, his keen eyes roaming over each and every pair, before he let out a sound of success, holding up a brightly colored, light up sneaker, complete with multicolored laces woven through the closures. 

“Aha. Here you go, Mishil. Perfect choice.” Jin showed the shoe to his younger daughter, whose eyes lit up with excitement at his pick, as she took the sneaker into her palms and began to jump up and down, grinning from ear to ear. 

“You did it, daddy! You picked the one I would have picked!” Mishil squealed, as Jin reached down to pull out the shoes in her correct size. 

“I know I did.” He said triumphantly, as he handed the box back to her and pushed her in the direction of her sitting sister. “Now go sit. Hyo’s a little harder than you, so I might be a minute.” He winked at his younger daughter, who flashed him a grin and a nod and went to sit beside her sister. 

Humming to himself, Jin resumed his perusal of the shoe aisles, until something caught his eye toward the back of the store, and confident in his find, he plucked the shoebox in Hyo’s size from the shelf and returned to where his daughter’s were sitting, Mishil happily trying on her new sneakers and chatting away, as Hyo rolled her eyes at her sister’s antics. 

“All right. Here you go, Hyo.” Jin plopped the box down in front of his daughter, and she eyed him suspiciously, leaning forward to open the box to see the shoes he had picked. 

She didn’t have to say anything for him to know that he had won. 

The way her eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, at the sight of the black and white checkered pair of converse, complete with hot pink laces, nestled in the bottom of the box, was enough confirmation for Jin to know that he had succeeded. 

Slamming the lid back on the shoes, Hyo tried to cover for herself, a she painted a neutral expression on her face, saying beneath her breath to her father, “All right. I guess school shopping with you isn’t so bad.” 

“That’s what I like to hear!” Jin exclaimed, as he pumped his fist in the air, much to the amusement of Mishil and the embarrassment of Hyo, before he asked happily, “All right. Now who wants ice cream?” 

MIN YOONGI

“And you’re sure you guys are doing okay?” 

Your voice was tinny through the speaker of Yoongi’s phone, as he held it to his ear with his shoulder, needing his hands free to type on his keyboard, as he worked on yet another project in The Genius Lab. 

He chuckled at your repeated question and obvious worry, and glanced over his shoulder at the baby sleeping peacefully in her pack and play in the corner of the darkened studio. “I’m sure, Jagi. Honestly, Jag-Eun is still down for her nap, and she’s been an angel so far. We’re totally fine. Don’t worry so much.” 

“Okay, Okay.” You sighed out, and then there was a pause, before you said, “You know I trust you, right Yoongs? It’s just that this is the first time I’ve been back to work since she was born and you know I get a little crazy sometimes.” 

Yoongi chuckled again, warmly, at your words, and he spun around in his desk chair, glancing once again at the dark hair covered head of his daughter, barely peeking out from her bundle of blankets, as he said softly, “I know, jagi. It’s all good. You’re just the right amount of crazy.” 

You laughed, the sound loud through the phone, and then sighed again, before saying, “Okay, I have to go to my meeting. But call me if you two need anything alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Yoongi waved you off, noting that Jag-Eun was beginning to stir from her sound sleep. “See you tonight, jagi.” 

“Bye, Yoongs.” 

Setting down his phone, Yoongi pushed himself up from his chair with a slight grunt, his legs slightly numb from sitting still for several hours, and crossed the room to the pack and play, crouching down beside it as he reached in to brush the covers back from his daughter’s face. 

He was met with a pair of dark, wide eyes looking back at him, and a tiny fist stuck contentedly in her mouth, and he couldn’t help the laugh that rumbled through his chest, as he said softly, his finger running down one of her soft cheeks, “Hey, baby girl. Did you have a good nap?” 

Reaching into the pack and play, he carefully collected Jag-Eun into his large hands, and cradling her against his chest, he retreated to the comfort of the futon, settling back into the cushions, as he laid his daughter across his thighs, unwrapping one of the many blankets around her, as she watched him with large, expressionless eyes. 

“Mommy worries too much sometimes, baby girl. I really don’t think the studio is that cold.” Yoongi said to the listening baby, amusement lacing his words as he tossed aside a few of the blankets. “You look like you’re ready for the next ice age.” 

“There. Better?” He asked, giving the baby one of his fingers, as her tiny fist curled around the offered digit, eyes blinking slowly, as her face scrunched slightly as she yawned widely, revealing the flash of pink gums. 

A knock at the door interrupted the quiet, and Yoongi called out for whoever it was to enter, his eyes never leaving the form of his daughter resting on his lap. 

“Yoongi-hyung, can I borrow your recording equipment?” Hobi asked, coming into the studio, a grin lighting up his features as he caught sight of Jag-Eun laying on Yoongi’s lap. “Oh, I forgot you have the little princess here today! How’s (Y/N)’s first day back at work going?” The younger man plopped himself carefully down beside Yoongi on the couch, reaching out to run some fingers across the baby’s fuzzy head gently. 

“I think it’s good. She keeps calling and texting to make sure we’re all right though.” Yoongi replied, flashing a smile down at his daughter, whose lips curled slightly upward in response to the expression on her father’s face. She was so close to smiling, and Yoongi wanted to be there when she did. 

“Your mommy’s kind of a worrier.” Hobi laughed, talking to the baby, as he pinched one of her cheeks lightly between his fingers, her face crinkling upward in response to the stimulus. 

“That’s what I told her.” Yoongi grunted, albeit his voice held amusement, as he motioned toward the discarded pile of blankets. “(Y/N) sent her here with enough blankets to warm an army.” 

Hobi laughed again. “Really? I don’t think it’s that cold in here!” 

“That’s also what I said.” Yoongi grumbled, before leaning over to press a kiss to his daughter’s warm, flushed cheek, shaking his head in exasperated amusement. “Between you and me, baby girl, I think mommy loves us both so much, that she doesn’t know how else to show it, so she just gives us blankets and jackets.” 

Hobi followed Yoongi’s gaze to the corner of the studio, where a coat rack held dozens of unused jackets, and then back to the rumpled pile of blankets, and he laughed, Yoongi joining in, the baby watching them with slightly startled, wide eyes. 

“But also between you and me, baby girl, it’s not a bad thing to be loved so much. Not a bad thing at all.” 

JUNG HOSEOK

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!” 

Hobi glanced up from where he was pushing Korain on the swing, the twin giggling as he tried to grab and eat his feet on every forward pass, to where his other son stood on the peak of the playground equipment, waving to them from the top of the long, curly slide. 

“Kyong! How’d you get all the way up there?” Hobi called out to the other twin, still pushing Korain in a repetitive motion. “You must be a mountain climber!” 

“Stop, daddy! I want to go on the slide with Ky!” Korain protested, losing interest in the swing as he caught sight of his brother. 

“Okay, okay.” Hobi pulled the swing to a stop, hoisting Korain down and onto his feet, as he patted his bum in the direction of the playground equipment. “Go on then.” 

Hobi watched Korain run off to climb up the ladder to his still waiting brother, letting out a slight sigh, as he reached up to adjust the backwards baseball cap sitting on his head, before digging in the pocket of his pants for his phone. 

There was one unread message from you and he pulled it up, a slight smile crossing his lips at your obviously rushed words. 

You: Hey, baby! I’m late for a meeting, but just wanted to tell my three favorite boys that I love them! See you all tonight. <3

“Daddy! Look, we went down at the same time!” 

Hobi stuffed his phone back into his pocket and looked up at his son’s words, as Kyong and Korain appeared at the end of the yellow slide, laughing and elbowing each other as they struggled to get off together. 

“Wow. That’s super tricky, guys.” Hobi said, a smile in his voice, as he crossed the playground to help them down from the slide. “Are you guys superheros or something?” He tickled them both slightly, and they giggled again, dodging around his hands to run back to the ladder for the slide again. 

“Come on, Ko!” Kyong called down to his brother, who was already hot on his heels. “Let’s go down again!” 

Hobi watched them climb the ladder and disappear into the opening of the slide again, their shouts of glee echoing down the slide as they readied themselves to go down again, making him smile as he listened to their happiness. 

“They’re adorable.” A woman’s voice made Hobi glance to his right, as another mother arrived at the park, putting on her squirming daughter’s coat as she addressed him, the boys arriving once again, at the bottom of the slide. 

“Thanks.” Hobi replied, offered her a bright grin, as she straightened with a sigh, finally released her impatient daughter onto the playground. 

“I don’t know how you do it. I’m exhausted just with one.” The woman smiled, as she watched her daughter climb up after the boys toward the slide. 

“Ah.” Hobi waved his hand at her in a casual manner as he watched the boys carefully, making sure they weren’t pushing or shoving each other on the ladder. “You get used to it. It was definitely an adjustment at first though.” He laughed, briefly remembering when the two of you had found out you’d be having twins, and how surprised you both were. 

“Well, enjoy your day.” The woman gave him a little wave and retreated to one of the benches underneath the shade of a tree outside the ring of the park. 

“Daddy, daddy!” Korain emerged from the slide once again, excitedly running over to his father, Kyong emerging shortly after and following on his heels as they both came to a stop in front of Hobi, reaching for his hands. “Come down the slide with us!” 

“Ah! Do you think I’ll fit?” Hobi teased, as they dragged him toward the ladder that led to the tall slide. 

“We’re superheros, remember?” Kyong spoke up, pushing him up the ladder in front of them. “We can MAKE you fit.” 

Hobi laughed, reaching the platform of the slide, and waiting for the boys to join him, he motioned to the slide, as he said, “You guys go first. So I know it’s not scary.” 

“It’s not scary, daddy.” Korain said seriously, as he planted himself at the top of the slide, glancing over his shoulder as he said, “See?” and then he disappeared down the tube. 

“Yeah, and we’ll catch you at the bottom, daddy.” Kyong was next, sitting down in the mouth of the slide, confident in his and his brother’s ability to catch their father at the end of the ride. 

He disappeared down the slide, and Hobi took his place, long legs stretched out into the darkness before him, as he called down to the unseen twins, “Okay! I’m coming! You guys ready to catch me?” 

“We’re ready!” Their voices chorused up from below, and Hobi grinned to himself, as he pushed himself off and down the slide, bending his legs so that they wouldn’t jam into the walls of the obviously child sized attraction. 

Reaching the end, he slid off the end of the slide into the twin’s outstretched arms, holding himself up by his arms so as not to crush them, as they all tumbled to the ground in a pile of limbs and legs, the twins laughing wildly. 

“Hey, you guys said you’d catch me!” Hobi scolded teasingly, as he tickled the still downed twins’ sides. 

“Again, again!” Korain squealed, heaving himself to his feet, Kyong right behind him, leaving their father no time to catch his breath, before he two, was following them back up to the top of the slide, to once again, go again. 

KIM NAMJOON

Moon-soo held tightly to Namjoon’s fingers, slightly unsure, as he stood at the very edge of the ocean, the incoming surf barely washing over the tops of his feet, as he watched the waves with uncertainty, but also with curiosity. 

“The ocean’s cool, huh, Moonie?” Namjoon asked his son, crouching down beside him, the boy’s small hand still resting against his large palm for reassurance. 

“Uh huh.” Moon-soo, still distracted by the waves and the feeling of shifting sand beneath his feet, didn’t look up at his father as he answered. “Why does it go in and out?” He asked, making a wave motion with his free hand. 

“Well, it’s science.” Namjoon said, trying to think of a way to explain the tide to a three year old. “The moon, that we see in the sky at night, yeah?” He bit his lip, watching as Moon-soo continued to stare at the surf as if mesmerized, although he nodded to let his father know he was listening, so Namjoon continued. “Well, the moon pulls at the earth, and that’s what makes the waves.” 

“Oh.” Moon-soo replied simply, before he finally glanced at his father and asked, “What lives in there?” 

“Oh, lots of things.” Namjoon said, settling down to a cross legged position on the wet sand, as the waves once again returned, washing up against his thighs and and calves. Moon-soo hesitated, watching his father sit bravely in the water, and then he carefully lowered himself down beside Namjoon, as he explained, “There’s fish and seals and plants and jelly fish and crabs. Look.” 

Namjoon dug into the sand beneath the waves and pulled out a small seashell, pressing it into his son’s hand, as he looked down at it with bright wonder lit in his dark eyes, causing Namjoon to smile slightly at his awe. “That’s a shell. Something used to live in it, but it’s empty now.” 

“It’s pretty.” Moon-soo turned the shell over and over in his small fingers, before he looked up at his father, his eyes lighting up, as he said excitedly, “I’m going to bring it back to show Mommy and baby Hana!” 

“I think that’s a great idea, Moonie.” Namjoon replied, as he watched his son tuck the shell carefully into the pocket of his swim shorts. “Mommy and baby Hana will really like that.” 

There was silence for a moment, as they sat there, the sound of seagulls loud against the soft sound of the waves washing in and out across the sandy beach, and then Moon-soo sighed, his own fingers digging into the sand, as he asked, “Why couldn’t mommy come with us? She always comes with us to the beach.” 

“Well, Moonie.” Namjoon found another shell, handing it to Moon-soo for his collection, as he pondered the best thing to say in the situation. 

Moon-soo had always been bright for his age, you had always said he was smart, just like Namjoon, which wasn’t a bad thing, but it definitely made him more aware of when someone, usually his parents, were trying to bullshit him. It was just easier to tell him the truth about things. 

“Remember how mommy and daddy had to go to the hospital to have baby Hana?” At his son’s nod, Namjoon pressed forward, digging around in the sand beside him absentmindedly for more treasures as he spoke. “Well, having baby Hana was really hard on mommy’s body. And so she needs to stay home to rest a lot until she feels better.” He reached out, rustling his son’s hair affectionately. “But that just means you and I get to spend some time together until Baby Hana and Mommy can come with us again, okay?” 

“Okay.” Moon-soo seemed to accept his father’s explanation. 

After another few moments of silence, Namjoon’s fingers closed around something, buried in the sand, and he said, his voice slightly excited as he turned to his son, “Moonie. Look at this.” 

Moon-soo leaned toward him, face expectant, and Namjoon held out his hand, uncurling his fingers carefully to reveal a tiny hermit crab nestled in his large palm. As father and son watched, the crab came out of its shell-delicately swirled with pink and ivory-and waved its eye stalks, as spindly legs moved across Namjoon’s skin. 

“Wow.” Moon-soo said, reaching out to put a delicate finger on the crab’s shell, as it ducked back inside to evade his touch. “Can we take that to show mommy?”

“This guy has to stay here.” Namjoon explained, as he carefully lowered the crab back to its home in the wet sand. “This is his home. But we can definitely find some more shells to take home to mommy.” 

“Okay.” Moon-soo said happily, as they both began to sift through the sand once again, looking for only the prettiest of shells to bring home to you. 

PARK JIMIN

“Yunnie, Yunnie, Yunnie.” 

Jimin paused in his coloring, crayon clenched between his fingers, to glance over at his daughter, happily scribbling on her own side of the paper, as she hummed her newly learned name over and over under her breath. 

Her dark hair, pulled up into messy pigtails, fell over her forehead and into her eyes, as her tiny pink lips, so much like his own, were pursed in toddleresque concentration, purple crayon held awkwardly between small fingers, as she scrawled nonsense pictures across the paper. 

“Yun Hee, that’s right, that’s your name, baby girl.” Jimin said as she continued to repeat her name in almost song like form, her two year old voice varying in pitch, as she looked up at his words with bright eyes, a grin stretching to reveal tiny, white teeth. 

“What’s my name, Yun Hee?” Taehyung, his forehead damp with sweat, hair slicked back from the heavy dance practice he had just completed, slid down onto the practice room floor beside Jimin, leaning his back against the wall, as he took a long swig from his water bottle, waiting for the girl’s reply. 

Yun Hee, glancing up from her coloring to stare at her uncle, her gaze flickering between him and her father, who lay across from her on his stomach on the floor, thought for a moment, before she exclaimed brightly, and without hesitation, “Un-Tae!” 

“Uncle Tae! That’s right, baby.” Jimin said proudly, reaching out to tug at one of her full cheeks, causing her to giggle at the action. 

“Damn, I miss when my kid was that age.” Taehyung commented, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. 

“Oh yeah?” Jimin glanced up from the coloring he had resumed, Yun Hee once again singing her name to herself, as she doodled happily across from him. “You thinking about having another one, Tae?” 

“Yeah, right.” Taehyung snorted, rolling his eyes at his brother. “As if. My wife would kill me.” 

Jimin grinned, thinking of you, and how done you were with this pregnancy, and as he turned back to the picture, he said with amusement, “I think (Y/N)’s actually going to kill me for making her do this again. She’s thrown up everyday since we found out.” 

“Yikes.” Taehyung grimaced, his gaze moving once again to Yun Hee, a boxy grin taking over his features as he watched her, lost in her own toddler world. “However, you should tell her that we all appreciate her being willing to bring another Jimin kid into the world. Because Park kids, as we can see, “ He motioned to Yun Hee, “are cute as hell.” 

“They are indeed.” Jimin mused, his gaze also falling to his daughter, a fond smile lighting up his face as he watched her, brow furrowed in concentration, looking so much like you when you were focused on something. “Actually, Tae.” He continued, his voice thoughtful as he pulled his cellphone out of his back pocket, flashing Taehyung a dangerous grin, as he pressed your contact. “You should tell (Y/N) that. I think she’ll really appreciate it.” 

“Jimin.” Taehyung’s face dropped with worry, as he saw your name come up on Jimin’s screen, ringing echoing loudly over the speakers in the empty room. “You told me yourself she’s not in a good mood. I don’t want to die today.” 

“Hello?” 

Your voice came over the speaker, and Taehyung swiped his hands across his neck, trying to tell Jimin to abort, although he blatantly ignored his friend’s actions, as he said cheerfully, “Hey, baby! Just calling to check on you! How’re you feeling?” 

Jimin shot a look at his brother, as your groan could be heard through the phone, and then you whined in annoyance, “Jiminie, I swear, I have puked up everything I’ve ever eaten in my life today. There’s nothing left. I’m going to die and this baby, courtesy of you, will be responsible.” 

“Hey, baby.” Jimin said, after you had finished your rant, raising his brow at a now very obviously panicked Taehyung. “Tae is here with me. He has something he wants to tell you.” 

“Mommy?” Yun Hee, having left her coloring, settled into Jimin’s lap, pointing toward the phone and your voice, her face questioning. 

“Yeah, baby girl, it’s mommy! Say hi to mommy, Yun Hee!” Jimin said, holding the phone down for an instance so your daughter could hear you. 

“Hi, princess!” Your voice called through the phone, followed by the sound of kisses pressed to the receiver. “Be good for daddy, okay?” There was a pause, and then, “Tae, you wanted to tell me something?” 

Yun Hee, no longer interested, toddled back over to her picture, and Taehyung reluctantly took the phone from Jimin’s hand, as he glared at the older brother, before saying hesitantly, “Hey, (Y/N). Sorry about the puking. That sounds shitty.” 

“It is.” 

Taehyung swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing, as he shot a grinning Jimin a pleading look, before sighing, and saying in defeat, “I just wanted to tell you thank you for your service. Yun Hee is the cutest, and I’m glad you’re willing to suffer to bring another Park baby into the world.” 

There was silence, and then your voice, deadly serious, came through the phone. “Taehyung. I appreciate the fact that you think my kids are pretty. But next time I see you, I’m going to barf directly on those expensive Gucci slippers you love so much.” 

“Okay, gotta go, bye (Y/N)!” Taehyung threw the phone back at Jimin and scrambled to his feet, hurrying from the room as Jimin laughed at his reaction, your own chuckles joining his after a brief moment, as Yun Hee colored on happily in the background. 

KIM TAEHYUNG

Taehyung took another bite of his mall pretzel, and washing it down with a swig of his smoothie, he glanced again over at his daughter, who wasn’t her normal self, as she quietly moved her food around her plate. 

“Ara.” Taehyung said with a sigh, setting down his drink, as his daughter met his eyes reluctantly. “What’s going on? You usually love our weekly dates.” 

“I know, dad, it’s not that.” Ara sighed heavily, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, the bags of new clothes and shoes rustling at her feet, courtesy of said shopping trip and weekly date with her father. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

Taehyung knew that he should keep prodding her, that he shouldn’t let this go, but also, another part of him didn’t want to pry. He wanted his daughter to trust him, to confide in him, but what if she did and he was completely out of his depth? What if she needed to ask about periods or something else that you would handle far better than he could? 

Another sigh from across the table, churro still untouched in front of her, and Taehyung decided he needed to ask again. 

“Ara. What’s going on? Did something happen at school?” His tone, serious, turned lighter, as he motioned to her uneated dessert. “Come on, sweetheart. You usually love churros.” 

“It’s just.” Ara started, and then hesitated, her dark eyes, so much like Taehyung’s, swirling with conflict, her young face reflecting the indecision she felt in the moment. “There’s this boy.” She said finally, with another sigh, not looking her father in the eye. 

“Oh.” Was all Taehyung said, although his insides had clenched a little at her answer. He was happy she was opening up to him, but boys? She was in middle school. He hadn’t been prepared to be having this discussion this early, and deep down, honestly, he hadn’t ever wanted to have this discussion, because that would mean his little girl was growing up. “What about this boy?” 

“He’s just in my homeroom at school.” Ara continued, as she finally took a small bite of her churro, glancing around the mall self consciously as she did so, as if said boy would suddenly appear. “His name is Woonho.” 

“Okay, Woonho.” Taehyung repeated, trying to be casual, as he took another drink from his smoothie. 

“Anyway, I like him, but so does Tessa.” Ara explained, tangling and untangling her fingers together nervously, in a habit she had picked up from you. She was a spitting image of her father, but she had always taken after you in mannerisms. 

“And you can’t both like him?” Taehyung asked, feeling out of his depth, as Ara shot him a horrified look following his innocent question. 

“No, dad!” She said, annoyance clear in her tone, as she rubbed her worn sneakers together in irritation under the cafe table. “We can’t both like him. Because the midyear dance is coming up, and he can only ask one of us.” 

“Ah.” Taehyung leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, suddenly realizing what the problem was. “So there’s a dance, and you want him to ask you, but you think he’ll ask Tessa?” 

“I don’t know.” Ara exclaimed in exasperation, throwing out her hands, as she slumped lower in her chair. “Although he’ll probably ask Tessa.” She grumbled out, brows lowering into a frown. 

“Okay, look.” Taehyung leaned forward once again in his seat, eyes on his daughter, as he offered her a gentle smile, her gaze finally meeting his. “Ara, I’m going to give you a piece of advice that someone gave me when I was interested in your mom, okay?” 

She nodded, and he continued. “You can never assume anything. You don’t know if someone likes you if you don’t ask them. Humans aren’t mind readers, we weren’t made to be. So, if you’re interested in someone, the best thing to do is simply ask they if they’re interested in you back.” 

Her brow furrowed in thought, and then she asked, slight disbelief in her voice, “So you’re telling me, you just walked up and asked mom straight out if she liked you?” 

“Yup.” Taehyung replied simply, sucking his straw back into his mouth as he took another swig of smoothie, his eyes still on his daughter’s befuddled face. 

“No way.” She said, still not believing him. 

“Yes way.” Taehyung pointed at her, his voice confident, as he stated, “I asked your mom point blank if she liked me, and here we are, years later, married, with the greatest kid in the world.” 

The corners of Ara’s mouth lifted slightly at her father’s words, and then she asked hesitantly, “So I should just ask Woonho who he likes? Me or Tessa?” 

At her father’s nod, something in her face steeled, and she said, her voice much lighter now than before, “Okay. I’ll talk to him on Monday.” 

“That’s my girl.” Taehyung said proudly, as he stood from the table, gathering their shopping bags. “Now. Let’s go and find you a dress for this dance.” 

JEON JUNGKOOK

“Daeseok, look buddy! Do you see the elephant? Do you see it?” Jungkook asked excitedly, holding his infant son higher in his arms, so that the baby could see the large gray animal in the enclosure before them. 

It was a Saturday, and you had had to work unexpectedly, but Jungkook had jumped at the chance to spend time with his son on his own, ignoring your protestations that the zoo was still a little old for Daeseok, and so here they were, father and son, happily watching the elephants with bright eyes. 

“Look at his trunk, son. Look how he eats the hay.” Jungkook said, his eyes never leaving the elephants, easily just as enamored as the baby in his arms at the sight. 

When he finally pulled himself away from the elephant enclosure, Jungkook shifted the baby’s weight in his arms, adjusting the tiny beanie that covered his son’s head, as the spring air was still a bit nippy, and asked, “What should we see next, Daeseok? The small animals?” 

Carrying the baby easily to the next building along the walkway of the large zoo, Jungkook pushed through the doors, the warmth washing around father and son, as they entered the building that held all the smaller animals in the zoo. 

Walking to the first glass encapsulated display, Jungkook gently tapped his finger against the glass, looking down at the baby in his arms, whose bright eyes were staring up at his father, as he smiled and said gently, “Look, look at the monkeys! See how they swing from the trees?” 

They stood there for another moment, the baby staring at his father, Jungkook staring at the monkeys, and then they moved on, the next display holding a number of squawking and fluttering brightly colored parrots, as they fought over places on branches. 

Jungkook looked down at his son, the noise and screeches of the birds finally having drawn Daeseok’s attention away from his father, and he watched, with wide, glassy eyes, as one of the parrots flew in front of the glass, delayed baby gaze following the bright splash of colors as it passed them by. 

Next, Jungkook crouched down in front of a low wall, the other side of the barrier made to look like a segment of forest, and as they watched, the pink, twitch nose of a bunny came into view, followed by the small animal’s fluffy body as it came out of its hiding space and into clear view, resting on its back legs as it studied Jungkook and the baby with brown orbs. 

“That’s a bunny, son. Mommy says that’s what daddy looks like.” Jungkook said, slight exasperation in his tone, as he watched the quivering whiskers of the rabbit, head cocked. “I don’t see it though.” He said stubbornly, as he stood, knees creaking as he straightened. “I think I’m more of a lion, myself.” 

They continued on, through the rest of the small animal building, Jungkook pointing out snakes and alligators and meerkats, to the enamored baby in his arms, nestled in the crook of his father’s elbow, as he watched his father’s face with unwavering gaze. 

“What’s next?” Jungkook asked, manuevering around with his free arm in the backpack, as he pulled out the wrinkled map of the large zoo. “The big cats? Yeah?” He bounced the baby slightly in his arms, long strides headed toward the corner of the zoo that held the lions and tigers and jaguars. 

When they reached the section, Daeseok had begun to fuss in Jungkook’s arms, and looking down at the face of the baby, features screwed up in obvious distress, Jungkook said, snapping his fingers in realization, “You’re hungry, huh, buddy? Let’s find a place to sit for awhile.” 

Finding a bench to the side of the tiger exhibit, Jungkook dug around in the bag until he found the bottle you had packed, and satisfied that the breastmilk you had pumped before they left was still warm enough, he popped off the lid and stuck the nipple into Daeseok’s searching mouth. 

The baby fussed for a moment longer, struggling to latch to the nipple, and then he quieted, as he began to suck down the milk contentedly between small, pink lips. 

“There you go, buddy.” Jungkook said quietly, settling back into the hard bench, as he ran  finger down the baby’s soft cheek. “You prefer the actual thing though, don’t you?” He chuckled, referencing Daeseok’s obvious preference of breast over bottle, saying jokingly to his son, “I don’t blame you, son. Not one bit.” 

As the baby suckled happily in his arms, Jungkook let his gaze drift over to the majestic form of the tiger, stalking along the glass of its enclosure, its black stripes stark against its orange fur, mouth open to reveal long, white fangs, as it watched the zoo goers with predatory, yellow eyes. 

“Bunny, my ass.” Jungkook grumbled beneath his breath in slight irritation, as he shifted on the hard bench, looking down at his contentedly eating son in his arms. 

[vannahfanfics]

Good Morning, Sunshine

Category: Friendship Fluff, Crack Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Eijirou Kirishima, Katsuki Bakugo, Denki Kaminari, Hanta Sero, Mina Ashido

I’m not sure how this artwork by @deliathedork led to a story about Bakugo getting his wisdom teeth removed, but inspiration strikes in strange ways, I suppose LOL This is the most crack thing I have written, ever, but I enjoyed every word of it and I hope y’all do too!

Eijirou grinned wide as he pressed the “record” button on his phone, focusing the camera on Katsuki, who was stretched out on an oral surgeon’s chair. Eijirou waited with bated breath as Katsuki’s red eyes flickered open, bleary and unfocused. He was just rousing from surgery, having had all four of his wisdom teeth removed.

Oh, this was gonna be so good.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Eijirou trilled from behind the camera. Katsuki’s head bobbled on his neck like a baby’s as he struggled for a second to pinpoint Eijirou’s voice. When he focused on the red-haired boy, he squinted his eyes real tight.

“Shitty Hair?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Eijirou responded, a hand over his mouth trying desperately to suppress his snickers. Katsuki looked around in confusion at the oral surgeon’s office room, trying to process all the equipment and the assistant who was cleaning off the bloody tools. “You just got your wisdom teeth out, Baku-bro.”

“My what?” His voice was heavy, both with the anesthesia and the thick gauze pads shoved into his cheeks, making him look like a sleepy chipmunk.

“Your wisdom teeth!” Mina repeated with a girly giggle. She came bounding into the camera frame, putting her hands on her knees as she leaned over the hazy boy. “You just had surgery! We’re here to take you home.” 

Katsuki stared at her with fuzzy red eyes before he slowly lifted his hands to his cheeks to prod at them, as they were still numb.

“I can’t feel my face!” The camera shook in Eijirou’s hands as he snorted with laughter. Katsuki sounded more panicked than he ever had, his eyes going wide as he tried in vain to get the nerves in his face to work. “Is it gone?” 

“Buddy. Buddy,” Hanta interjected, coming on to the other side of the screen with a goofy smile. “It’s just the anesthetic, bud. Your face is still there,” he reassured him and pulled up his phone so that Katsuki could see himself in the camera. “See?” 

Katsuki brought his face super close to squint at the screen, making Hanta slap a hand to his face and quiver with barely-suppressed giggles.

“Hey, that’s me.” 

Biting his bottom lip, Eijirou flipped his camera around for a second to focus on his reddening face before uttering, “It’s only been three minutes and I am losing my shit.”

He flipped it back around to follow Katsuki as he stumbled out of the oral surgeon’s office, supported between Hanta and Denki as he fumbled on wobbly knees. He kept cursing loudly, and then walked right into the floor-to-ceiling glass window next to the exit. He felt like he was going to wet himself when Katsuki angrily kicked the window with the toe of his shoe and told it to “get the fuck out of the way”; as he splayed out his palms and crackles started going off, Mina hurriedly jumped in and dragged him through the exit door, but Katsuki kept throwing glares back at the window. 

Eijirou got real close to the window, close enough that his reflection was in clear view in the camera, and grinned, “Sorry about him, man, he’s just real out of it. No hard feelings, right?” 

He was snickering as he scampered out of the exit door after the rest of his friends. He followed the unsteady Katsuki to Denki’s car, watching him fumble with the door for a second.

“The motherfucker won’t open!” he complained loudly, and as he scrunched up his face Eijirou thought for a hot second that he might actually burst into angry tears. 

Eijirou hurriedly leaned in to open the car door for him.

“Relax, bud, it’s cool. It’s cool. Go on and get in there.” 

Head swaying from side to side like he was drunk, Katsuki half-slid, half-fell into the car and began tugging insistently at his seatbelt. After a few seconds of fumbling, he actually did manage to snap it in place, and he squinted up at Eijirou as Denki propped his chin on his shoulder.

“Hey, Baku-bro, how you feelin’, man?” the blond asked teasingly. Eijirou flipped the camera around as they waited for the boy’s response, making a few funny faces into the camera before switching it back to focus on the half-asleep Katsuki.

“I feel funny.”

“I bet you do,” Hanta laughed from the other side of the car, getting into the front passenger seat. “Come on, Denki, let’s go; we gotta get Katsuki’s pain meds from the pharmacy before they close,” he called at the blond before ducking into the car. Denki quipped a quiet, “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’” before hopping away from Eijirou and jumping into the driver’s seat. 

Eijirou walked around to the other side to slide into the middle seat next to Katsuki, with Mina squished against his right. It was only a few seconds before Katsuki began tapping his index finger against the car window.

“Where’s the fish?”

“Fish?”

“Yeah, fish, Shitty Hair! What kind of shitty aquarium is this? There’s no fish!” 

“Bud— oh Jesus— bud, there’s no fish. This is a car. We’re on our way to the pharmacy.” Katsuki’s head swiveled around so he could blink hazily at Eijirou. “You know, a pharmacy, where they sell medicine and stuff.” 

Mina was bent over double in the seat next to him, snorting like a pig as she tried not to burst into hysterical laughter. Katsuki looked down at his lap like he was contemplating something before tipping his head to the side and looking back at the redhead.

“Can we get some vitamin gummies?”

“I’m going to piss myself!” Denki howled in the driver’s seat, and Eijirou put the camera on him as he fell into the steering wheel and accidentally honked at the person in front of him. Hanta hurriedly rolled down the window to stick his head out and shout an apology at the old woman, who had flipped Denki the bird.

“I want vitamin gummies,” Katsuki insisted loudly, grabbing the headrest of Denki’s seat. Eijirou reached out to pull his thick arms down.

“Bud. Bud, relax, we’re gonna get you some vitamin gummies. Just sit back.” Under the influence, Katsuki was surprisingly docile, allowing Eijirou to push on his chest to ease him back against the seat. Katsuki looked out the window again and then scowled deeply.

“Where the fuck are the fish?!”

“Ahahaha! Oh my— oh my God, I can’t!” Eijirou turned the camera on Mina, who was holding her belly with tears streaming down her pink cheeks as she giggled uncontrollably. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up! Help!”

“You should take some vitamin gummies, Mina,” Hanta quipped from the front seat.

“Vitamin gummies? Where?” Katsuki demanded, leaning over the central console to grab at the sleeve of Hanta’s tee shirt. Mina let out a pained cry and began laughing harder, her bubble-gum pink face a bright shade of crimson, while Eijirou coaxed Katsuki back into his seat. Once he finally got Katsuki settled back in, he flipped the camera back on himself, pointedly looking up out of the corners of his eyes as if he were addressing God.

“Please, this pharmacy better have vitamin gummies.”

“Where the fuck are the fish?!”

“Denki, drive, I’m gonna pee myself!”

“We’ve still got three minutes! There’s an empty bottle of lemon soda on the floor back there somewhere.” 

Eijirou had his camera trained on his own face again, smirking as a resounding slap! echoed in the car, followed by Denki’s high-pitched yelp and Hanta’s snort of laughter.

“That’s gross! I’m not peeing in a bottle, especially in a car full of boys!”

“Would you do it in a car full of girls, though?” Hanta asked innocently. Eijirou mouthed “Oh my God” and grinned stupidly as Mina slapped him upside his head too. Hanta yelped and jumped forward into the dash, cradling his head.

“You’re being gross!” Mina whined. 

“Well, now you don’t have to pee anymore, do you?” Hanta griped back. 

“… Well, I didn’t until you said something! Drive!”

In the background, Katsuki kept screaming about fish and vitamin gummies. Eijirou had to inform him that no, fish could not ingest vitamin gummies, and Katsuki grunted back, “That’s fucked up. They’re missing out.”

They arrived at the pharmacy and Mina scrambled out to run to the bathroom, while Denki and Hanta went inside to purchase a bottle of extra-strength Ibuprofen. Katsuki sat patiently in the car seat, and Eijirou kept switching the camera view, making a different face each time. 

Suddenly, Katsuki unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door to climb out.

“Hey, hey, where are you going?”

“Dog.”

“What?”

“There’s a dog!” Katsuki yelled as he landed unsteadily on the concrete lot. Eijirou hurriedly unbuckled his seatbelt and slid out after him just in time to capture Katsuki lumbering over to a very confused lady walking a Chihuahua puppy. Eijirou hurriedly ran over as she shrunk in on herself.

“Hey, hey, sorry, he just got his wisdom teeth out and is a little out of it,” he explained quickly as Katsuki crouched down to inspect the puppy, who was barking insistently at him. “I think he just wants to see the dog, is that okay?” 

The dog owner relaxed and laughed, leaning down to pat the puppy’s head reassuringly and ask Katsuki if he wanted to hold it. The boy’s red eyes went huge and he nodded dumbly, mouth hanging open and a little blood dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the concrete. 

“Aw, jeez, you’re bleeding everywhere, dude,” Eijirou laughed and grabbed the front of his shirt to hurriedly wipe at his mouth. Katsuki plunked down on his behind as the woman picked up the Chihuahua, which had calmed down and was wagging its tail furiously, and set it in Katsuki’s hands. It was such a small little thing that Katsuki could easily cup it in one big palm. “Hey, thank you, miss, I— Holy shit, Katsuki, are you crying?”

“It’s so small,” Katsuki whispered as he gently petted the baby Chihuahua’s head, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. 

Eijirou was losing it at that point, trying to hold the camera steady as he wheezed behind it and ran his hand repeatedly through his spiky red hair. 

“It’s so small,” Katsuki repeated like he was in awe. The Chihuahua leaned up to begin licking the tears dripping from his chin and he literally began ugly sobbing. Eijirou squatted down because he felt like his legs were about to give out, little giggles leaking out of his chest that felt swelled to the point of bursting.

“Bro- oh my God, this is too fucking funny— bro, bro, you good?”

“It’s so smalllllllll!” Katsuki tipped his head back and howled with another ugly sob. Eijirou was crying too at this point, and he flipped the camera around to showcase watery eyes and pink cheeks.

“I’m dying, this is it, guys. This is the last thing I am ever gonna do on this Earth and it is so fucking worth it— Bro, Katsuki. Hey.” 

Katsuki angrily barked “What?!” at him, still cradling the Chihuahua as it began lapping up his tears again. Eijirou didn’t know what he was going to say because he was too busy wheezing and crying. Blearily, Katsuki looked down at the Chihuahua again and hugged it to his chest.

“So small…”

“Eiji? Hey, what are you doing over there?” 

Eijirou flipped the camera as Mina approached rapidly from within the store.

“Look, look, Mina!”

“Oh my God! A puppy! Oh my God, is he crying?”

“He’s fucking bawling.”

“Why?”

“It’s so small!” Katsuki yelled at her, and Mina’s knees wobbled as she almost collapsed on the spot, laughing hysterically. She had to take a minute to compose herself, and at this point Hanta and Denki came out of the store with a bottle of Ibuprofen and a bottle of vitamin gummies. 

It took a few minutes to get Katsuki to relinquish the Chihuahua back to its very giddy and entertained owner, but he finally did. The whole time she was walking away Katsuki kept cooing, “Bye-bye small puppy, bye-bye,” which left the four of them puddles in the parking lot. Somehow they managed to all get back in the car without pissing themselves laughing. Eijirou held the camera as Mina opened the bottle of vitamin gummies and handed two over to Katsuki.

“Look. Look, buddy, it’s your vitamin gummies.”

“Fuck yes,” Katsuki muttered and plucked them out of Mina’s hand. He tried to scoop them into his mouth and missed, and they bounced down into his lap. He didn’t seem to realize that and looked around for a second before screaming very shrilly and loudly, which scared everyone in the car shitless. Denki cursed loudly as he jerked the wheel, swerving for a second with screeching tires before righting the car; thankfully the road was empty. He looked back into the camera with a mixture between a scowl and a laugh.

“Give him his fucking vitamin gummies before he makes me crash!”

“Ahahahaha, holy shit, what the hell is happeniiiiiing?” Hanta was howling in the front seat. 

Snickering, Eijirou hurriedly plucked up the vitamin gummies and put them back in Katsuki’s hands.

“Hey, hey, calm down, bud, here they are, right here.” Katsuki stared at them a minute before picking one up and nibbling on it, now the epitome of calmness. Mina was back in a fetal position wheezing and crying.

“Eijirou, you’d better send me this goddamn video.”

“Oh, it’s going on YouTube, definitely. We’re going viral, guys.”

“WHERE ARE THE FUCKING FISH?”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t, oh my God,” Eijirou wheezed as he doubled over, holding up the cell phone to record whatever Hanta and Denki were doing in the front seat. Dully, he could hear Mina say “Go left at the next light, Denki.” He took a minute to compose himself before flopping back upright, hitting the back of the seat. He flipped the camera around to look in amusement at it.

“This is the best day of my life.”

“Idiot! I said go left!” Mina screeched next to him, leaning over the center console to shake Denki’s shoulder.

“I did go left!”

“Your other left, dumbass!” Hanta shouted at him. “How did you ever get a drivers’ license?!”

“I’m a good driver!” Denki whined as he pulled a U-turn at a turnaround and glared at Hanta. “I just get nervous with so much going on!” 

Eijirou was making faces in the camera again, just reacting to the hell that was breaking loose in the small camera. His eyebrows began to inch up as he caught ashy blond hair creeping into the side of the camera view, and then all of a sudden, Katsuki’s head thunked against his own.

“Hey, hey, guys, shut up, he’s asleep.”

“Seriously?” Mina whispered loudly. Denki and Hanta both glanced back and identical grins split their faces. Hanta grabbed his cell phone and snapped a photo, and then grabbed Denki’s and did the same.

“Oh, man, this is gold.”

“He’s so cute!” Denki laughed as he glanced up into the rearview mirror. 

Eijirou grinned widely and bit his lip, side-eyeing the snoozing Katsuki. His mouth was hanging open, a bit of the drool-and blood-soaked gauze poking out. Eijirou reached up to pat the side of his head.

“Sleep tight, buddy. You had a hard day,” he smirked before finally stopping the video recording.

~~~~~~~~~~

Katsuki woke up just long enough to stumble in the UA dorms and totter to his bedroom, taking a dose of Ibuprofen before passing right out. It took less than five seconds for everyone to scramble down into the common room to watch Eijirou’s masterpiece, which he kept having to stop because everyone was cackling and howling too loud to hear the precious audio he had recorded. Mr. Aizawa soon came out to ask them what the hell they were laughing so hard about so Eijirou showed him the video too, and even he managed to crack a smile and snort.

The next morning Katsuki awoke groggy but fully functional, with no memory of anything he had said while under the effect of the drugs. He kept getting really mad when they would snicker behind his back, demanding to know what the hell was so funny, and they all lost their minds when Denki snatched up Mineta and screamed “It’s so small!” at the top of his lungs. Katsuki riddled out then that someone had an incriminating video of him, and he chased Eijirou all over the dorms threatening to blow him up unless he let him see it. Eijirou finally relented when he promised not to blow up his phone, and they all gathered in the living room again to see Katsuki’s reaction to his drug-induced self.

It was almost as golden as the event itself. He went pale, wide-eyed, hands over his mouth as he watched himself act utterly ridiculous. He jumped up and started shouting obscenities when he got to the part where he started sobbing over the Chihuahua and had to be restrained from destroying the phone by Hanta, Tenya, Fumikage, and Izuku. By the time they finished the video he was red-faced and sucking in heaving breaths, far beyond the point of mortified. Eijirou, between laughs, kept telling him that it was okay and it was all in good fun. He calmed down a bit, muttering something about not putting it on YouTube. Eijirou hadn’t after all, thinking it unmanly to do something like that without permission.

But Denki did, and it had ten thousand views already. Needless to say, the video went viral and became the official meme of UA, and it was easily Eijirou’s crowning achievement.

Payback sure was a bitch, though, because Katsuki had a devilish grin and phone in hand as Eijirou was going under for his own wisdom tooth surgery… But that’s a story for another time.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[kashimos-hajime]

i’ll be good

Summary: “I have to believe that even if something seems like it cannot be fixed, it doesn't mean it's broken.”

WARNINGS: really not that much for once, just a tiny bit of angst Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: we’ve made it. i hope you enjoy the finale. now, it’ll be known what all of this has been for. all the tattoos (both yours and loki’s), the pain, the allusions, the title and a callback to the VERY BEGINNING! and who knows? maybe i’ll write more for our big jacket boy. for the proper vibes of this chapter (and the whole fic, really), i recommend listening to I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ...

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“She’s been dead for three days, at the most”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“If I had to guess, and I don’t, it would’ve been the snake bite.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Snakes. Fucking snakes.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“It’s your fault!”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Look at me. Look at me! I fucking love you.”

Beep. Beep.

“You think love is enough?”

Beep. Beep.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Beep.

“Neither do I.”

...

“We can’t let this happen again.”

Beep.

“This isn’t that case.”

...

Beep.

“Clear!”

.

Your chest burns, aches as a click, click, click echoes in your ears in time with every breath you take, and you groan. It’s dark outside — or are your eyes just closed — and you turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut with every clank of plastic. Your neck flares up, your muscles protesting against the movement as a soreness spreads up and down.

Your head, oh, god, your head. It’s like a stampede of wildebeest came to stomp all over you and then an elephant decided to toot its trunk into your ear at full blast. Your hand moves on its own accord, every muscle in your limb nothing more than putty as you try to move it towards your head.

Fuck...

You can’t move your hand. Your fingers twitch and a prickly sensation pokes at your palm. So you aren’t paralyzed, not anymore. You’re not numb, except for whatever’s probably cutting off your circulation. Okay.

Okay.

Something warm, hot, is pressed against your hand, wrapping around your digits and palm tightly. Wetness has gathered in the crease of your thumb, and you frown, sinking deeper into the softness surrounding your head.

You need to see. You need to focus on that despite the aching pains in your chest, the cracking agony in your skull.

Your eyelids peel back, and the soft light to your right makes you squeeze them shut again. Dry-eyed, you blink at the coldness before trying again. With wet eyes, you open your eyes and squint, trying to clear your throat. Something jostles in your throat and a cough erupts in your chest. Your other hand, untouched by the wet heat, reaches for your mouth and you let out a whine. Your throat shudders as nurses swarm your bed, telling you to calm down. The heat leaves your hand and you reach an arm weakly for the retreating heat, only for it to flop back down on the bed.

“Is she alright?” a voice barks, deep and rough over the croonings of the nurses stroking at your shoulder and working at the pain. They peel the tape securing the intubation tube to your mouth and slowly pull it out. You gasp, eyes squeezing shut and a nurse elevates your bed until you’re nearly sitting.

The nurses continue to work, monitoring your vitals or something and you feel something nudge at your lips. Turning your face away, you grunt. Your throat feels like it nearly rips and cool fingers touch your jaw.

“Try opening your eyes, miss. You’ve been out for a while. Here, water.”

Sipping greedily, you nearly cough at how slippery it is, how quickly it slips down your throat. Slowly opening your eyes, you let your head drop deep into the pillows. Someone curls your fingers over something hard, and you run a finger over what feels like buttons.

“This is your remote. This button to call a nurse, these to adjust the elevation of the bed.”

“Detective, you have to wait. She might not be fully lucid—” the nurse beside you begins and you turn your head slowly to the sound. Although your whole world is still a big blur of colours and lights and shadows, you know the shape of him from miles away. Lifting a weak hand, you squint at the IV line and oxygen clip on your finger. “She’s dehydrated, and malnourished. She needs rest, alright? Don’t strain her or we’ll be forced to remove you.”

“No, no, I won’t. Just… let me see her.”

“We’ll be right outside, miss,” the nurse whispers in your ear but you barely hear them as a warm, crushing thing clamps down on your hand. A rough thumb strokes away the wet on your skin. The other hand brushing hair away from your face as his chapped lips press against your forehead, you smile up at him. 

“L… David.” Your voice cracks and he presses his wet face against your palm as he sits down. The hot tears run over your skin, and you realize then that the sticky heat of your palm had been him. What else could it have been?

“I called 911 on the way, I… I didn’t know.” The feel of his muscles moving against your palm, just the heat of him, sends strength into your arm and your thumb rubs over his wet cheek. Wrapping weak fingers around his neck, you pull him closer and he lets out a soft sigh, leaning over the bed to press his cheek against yours. Stale coffee, bearglove deodarant, gum. Home floods your nose, and you nose at his cheek, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. “They said it’d be touch and go — she fucking overdosed you with ketamine and they had to intubate, you were paralyzed — and they said I needed to get my bullet wound checked out, but I—”

“How’s Anna?” you ask, first on your very long list of things you need to ask him about. He sniffs, kissing your knuckles before setting your arm back down. Fatigue runs its way up your body, and, with your eyes at half-mast, you smile.

“Still in recovery.”

“And you got a GSW? I wasn’t hallucinating that?” You push him back so softly yet he pulls back instantly so you can look at him. Your hand cradles his face on its own accord, and you spot the bandage taped to his face that’s stained with new blood. Your fingers, brittle and weak, brush over his cheek. You let out a sharp, breathless laugh. His right eye is red with blood, and dark holes circle his eyes. You don’t know if it’s the drugs still left or just your frank gratitude that he’s still alive, but you merely admire the swell of his eyebags, the sunken quality of his eyes. “Did they say your CT was clear?”

“Still waitin’ on that, but I’m up and around. So long as the nurses can keep an eye on me.” He drags his chair closer and leans into the bed, elbows digging into the mattress. You smile tenderly as he presses your knuckles against his forehead, head dipped as if in prayer. “Oh, god. Fuck, I thought… I never want to choose again. I never…” His lips lift to find your fingers and you squeeze his hand weakly as his eyes close and you sniff. Your own tears begin to burn at your eyes.

“David, hey. David. Loki. Loke.” Your throat aches but you swallow, blinking wet trails down your cheeks. Your other hand rests on your abdomen and your gaze flickers towards it, seeing nothing there. You lift up the covers, hand travelling over your hospital gown and lift it up to find nothing but smooth skin. Raising your head despite the screaming in your neck to stop, you gaze down at yourself. Nothing. Furrowing your brow, you drag your hand up to your face where the crow had pecked at your cheek. Nothing. Nothing. “Oh, my god.” You let your head drop into the pillows with a relieved smile, and the tears that run down your face are anything but misery.

“Are you okay?” His lips move against your fingers, his eyes never leaving your face as you sink into the pillows in relief. Your whole body seems to melt as a wave of cool washes over you. It chases away the uncomfortable heat growing in your stomach and lets you close your eyes. But you don’t/

You turn to gauge his reaction, instead. “Yeah, yeah. I just… had a lotta dreams about birds.” 

It’s crazy just how fast a face can change. All of a sudden, his fingers tighten around your palm, his eyes squint and shine, he looks so much older and your weak smile prompts one of his own smiles, barely there, just a hint. It causes an old wound in your heart to nearly split open, aching like an old joint in the rain.

“Yeah?” 

You slip your hand from his grip, drag your knuckle over his cheek and he kisses your wrist where the IV isn’t digging into your skin. “Yeah.” You blink slowly, savoring every bit of his face and you sigh. “I had a dream about her, too.”

“Yeah, me, too,” he whispers and your lower lip trembles before the tears come. You feel so exhausted. You just want to sink into a bunch of clouds and sleep a century with him by your side. You’re just so sick of crying.

“I love you,” you sob, pulling his hands towards you. You need more of him near, more of his heat and his scent and him, and your fingers catch his sleeve. He gets up, the chair scraping against the floor and you open your arms. He settles into bed beside you, careful not to crush your IV and you turn to press your lips against his hair. “I love you. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“Why the hell are you sorry?” he asks into your collarbones and you melt when his fingers trace the tiniest of shapes into your back. “Fuck.” Your tears slip down your face, nestling into his slick hair and your fingers gently scratch his head, tracing over the edge of the bandage as he lets out a soft groan. “If I had to bury you, too, I don’t… I don’t know how—”

“You don’t have to,” you promise, and he looks up at you, eyes porcelain blue, fragile as wisps of smoke, alight with new life. You feel the broken pieces of him click together in your arms as he tentatively presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth. Curls of hair fall boyishly into his eyes and you push them back with your inked hand.

“Get some rest,” he whispers against your jaw and you close your eyes. His heat envelopes you and your heart feels like it stitches itself back together as the bits of yourself you lost so many years ago come back like a moth to a flame. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. I promise.”

He tucks into the semi-colon of your body, a little snug nuclear radiator comma that holds the shattered pieces of you together and keeps you safe as you slip away, at last, to a deep sleep.

.

“Can you stand? Are you okay?” David’s voice is so warped in worry you nearly smile at how much it reminds you of another time, when he was worried for a whole other reason. You’ve been transferred into the same recovery room as David and he sits on the edge of his bed, hands out. His face is red in the light, his eye looking like it’s been sucker punched in the socket, and he looks much worse for wear than the ICU, but the small cut from where you’d punched him what feels like days ago is just beginning to heal.

“I think I’ll use the wheelchair when we go for a walk,”’ you say, your legs shaky as soon as they brush the floor. “Yeah, walking is not going to happen, right now.” David takes hold of your hands and you take a deep breath as he comes to sit next to you. Sunbeams stream against your back, and you nearly sigh at the heat of him next to you again. It’s so familiar.

It feels a lot like home.

“Not much of a walk then, is it?” he teases, stealing your breakfast placed at the table on the end of your bed. He puts the newspaper in your lap and you take it, unfolding the page to reveal Alex Jones on the front. You sigh. The man’s been transferred to a mental care facility after reuniting with his family, and you’re quite sure that he won’t ever make a full recovery. You fold the newspaper in half, and spot the picture of Keller. Eyes scanning it briefly, you look at the man beside you.

“Still haven’t found him yet?”

“No. No sign of him anywhere.” You unfold the newspaper and he opens up a fruit cup. It’s the most appetizing thing out of all the assortment on your tray. You send him a soft smile, leaning against his shoulder as he digs his spoon in.

“Um, detectives?” 

You lower your paper, the thing crushing in your lap as Loki sets down the fruit cup. Your eyes widen. You hadn’t expected to see them so soon. Grace Dover stands with Joy, Nancy Birch, and little Anna in her wheelchair. The poor girl is pale and dark-eyed, the chair dwarfing her. Your heart rends.

“I hope we’re not interrupting.”

“No, ‘course not.”

As the girl comes closer, you spot the shiny red whistle around her neck. David shakes his head, a tentative, soft smile that makes your heart melt on his lips as you set the paper aside. Your eyes train on the tiny girl who stares at you with a burning fire as her mother leans down to stroke her cheek.

“She’s doing real good.” You turn to look at David to see his eyes chained on the little girl and you wrap an arm around his waist, squeezing gently. “She’s gonna be up and around in a few days, aren’t you, buddy? She just wanted to come and say thank you and hi to her heroes.”

Your small smile grows at the defiant little raise of her chin and David’s hand on your knee squeezes gently as he looks down, unable to figure out what to say. He exhales through his nose, glancing from his knees to you. You nod, smile shrinking but growing more tender.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Anna.”

Your hand falls away from David’s waist and joins his hand on your knee. Your fingers interlock softly. Grace looks between the injured detectives and her company before clearing her throat minutely.

“Would you mind giving me a minute?”

“Yeah. Say goodbye, Joy.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be out in a minute. Say goodbye, Anna.”

“Bye,” Anna whispers just barely, fingers lifting to wave and you send the little girl a smile in farewell.

You give a little half-wave, too, as she goes and Grace smiles after her daughter as she leaves. When the room, however, is left to the three adults, the temperature drops. You shuffle closer to David, arm weaving with his despite the strange pain that festers in your legs. The hospital gown isn’t enough to fit the cold grief in her face.

“She found her whistle,” David murmurs. Your head, still full of water, tries to nod but it explodes in pain, and David turns to support your neck immediately, gently lowering you onto his shoulder with a warm hand to your throat. Grace’s gaze soaks in the gesture but she doesn’t comment on it as she replies.

“No. She keeps insisting that Joy helped her find it… on Thanksgiving before they were taken. But I think she’s just confused. I got her a new one.” 

David nods and you press your temple into the cotton of his tee, sniffing in the smell of antiseptic. The smell is all too familiar, and reminds you of a lot of things — good and bad. Your nose twitches and his thumb runs over your pinky knuckle. He’s here. He’s here with you. Always has been. Since the beginning.

A strange silence encompasses the air as Grace’s gaze sinks to the floor. She lets out a sharp breath, something more of a scoff as if she doesn’t know whether or not to tell you before she raises her head. “He hasn’t contacted me. I know you don’t… I know you probably don’t believe that—”

“We believe you,” you whisper and Grace nods, eyes dropping again.

“Do you think you’re gonna find him?”

“Yeah.” 

“And he’ll go to jail?”

“Probably.”

The charges would be stacked. Kidnapping, assault, depending on what he’s sued with, it’ll be multiple charges. You shiver at the thought of the court case. You tried your best to save him, yet here he is. The fingerprints he left, the location, the blood-stained clothes, all too much incriminating evidence for you to argue against. Not that you would. 

“Anyway, thank you for everything.” The woman’s face crumbles and you press your lips together in a sympathetic frown. Her voice fades and she turns away, slapping a hand over her mouth and David’s hand slides over yours, squeezing tight. “Oh, god.” She pauses at the exit, and David looks away as your eyes train on the woman’s barely-shaking shoulders. Breath hitching, she turns just barely, just enough that you can see her red cheek, the soft tears. “I miss him. He did — he did what he had to do to find Anna, and I thank God for that. He’s a good man.”

The woman leaves with a barely uttered farewell and you can only echo her ‘bye’ before she’s gone. You watch her go before David presses a kiss to your temple unconsciously, shoulders curving forward.

He is, your thoughts whisper. Good men do desperate things for the people they love. Your gaze flickers to David who’s already looking off at the wall, no doubt letting those words sink in, and you, you just sag in the bed. Everything in his eyes is just a reflection, an extension of who you are, and you twist your wrist, interlacing your fingers with his.

“David,” you whisper, and he blinks hard, turning to look at you. Your free fingers reach to brush along his jaw, and you lean forward to press your forehead against his cheek.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks, quiet and soft. You raise your head, fingers falling to dance over his forearm where a calligraphy tattoo marks him and your lips press together in a tired smile. He glances down at the ink on your knuckles, at you and you kiss him softly.

“Okay.”

He helps you into the wheelchair. A nurse doesn’t have to accompany you since David is getting discharged this afternoon, and you grab a blanket for your legs, covering the hospital gown. David helps you shrug on a jacket and the two of you walk out into the walkways surrounding the hospital. It’s a bare garden, leaves stripped away and melting snow dotting bushes as the two of you set off on a path.

The fresh wet wind curls against your cheek and you inhale, letting the coldness of it slink into your body.

“You were right,” you begin once you think you’re away from prying ears. No one is outside besides the two of you, and your eyes flicker from the tree branches to the benches. You’re quite sure it’s lively and lovely and green other times of the year. A small slice of Eden for those suffering in your mortal world. 

“About what?”

“It wasn’t that case,” you say simply. You reach up to touch one of his hands and you just place your palm over his, despite the cold wind nipping at your knuckles.

“Yeah. I… I heard her, the aunt, talk to you. I… she was the one who did it, and I’m really fucking glad she’s dead.” You turn in your chair to look up at him but he doesn’t look at you. Against the pale grey sky, he looks ashen, the blood red of his cheek the only sign of life in him. You squeeze his hand. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

“We’ve cut so much shit out of our lives because of her, you know?” he says, parking you by a bench in the shade of a bare tree. The bench is mostly dry and he swipes off the snow before sitting down as close as he can to you. “And I’m grateful. I’m grateful that you stayed and I stayed but… but there are so many things we could’ve done, I…”

“You think we cut her out?” you ask gently, brow furrowing. “I… I didn’t know we were trying to burn her memory away.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I… I didn’t.” You look into your lap, fingers playing with a stray thread of the hospital jacket. “I thought you bought those gummies on purpose. The candies you keep on your dash? They… they were her favourite, y’know? And the tattoos, right here.” You tap his knuckles where astrology signs are inked darkly into him. “When did you get them? Three, four years after?” Right after our dog died. She loved that dog, you realize. His eyes widen and his breaths come short as he watches you. She’s ruled our whole lives since she's been gone, you tell him silently. Outloud, you point out, “They’re each of our astrology signs.”

“I thought you wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m a detective, David. It’s my job to notice things.” You slot your fingers with his. “We’ve never had peace with it, huh.”

“Of course not. Shit. Just… shit.” He leans into you, his head nestling against your shoulder and you tilt your head to press your cheek into his hair. “I miss her. I fucking miss her.”

“I know, baby.” 

It’s so quiet here, peaceful, and you feel like you don’t ever want to move from this place. Everything here… it’s what you want now. Quiet. His fingers dance over the ink on your knuckles as your eyes close, nail tracing every number along your skin.

1 9 9 6

.

Keller Dover is in surgery for eight hours.

It’s meticulous work, digging out a bullet and saving a tourniquet-bound leg. You sit at the police station, awaiting word in the Captain’s office as David paces back and forth. The two of you may have been discharged, but you’re supposed to be taking it easy.

This is not taking it easy.

The Captain glances at the two of you.

“I didn’t know… that that was the reason this case was so important to you,” he begins and David sends the man a glare. He means well, you guess, he just can’t help not knowing things. You slouch into the couch, playing with the masonic ring you’ve taken to wearing again along your thumb. David’s matching ring glints in the light as he tugs at the gold chain around his neck. The words engraved on the inside of the gold band press into your skin.

“We had a reason to keep it a secret, Captain, but everyone fucking knew.”

“If I knew, neither of you would’ve been on the case.”

“If you knew, Anna wouldn’t have been found,” you retort distantly. David sits beside you, his hand finding the small of your back and you look at him, twisting the ring around your thumb. “Respectfully, sir, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up at all.”

“Of course. The two of you have done fine work,” he praises and you take hold of David’s knee. “The P.S.P. are breathing down my neck in an effort to snag the both of you.” Your mouth nearly drops open and you straighten up, blinking. Your eyebrows knit together as David cocks his head. “They want you for their Criminal Investigation Unit. Good pay, perks. Better than what you can get here.” 

Captain drinks his brandy, and you rub David’s knee, getting his attention.

Quiet, you tell him. Like that hospital garden. We can have that here. David’s hand on your back reaches up to cup your neck before he looks up at the Captain. He blinks, hard, and the red skin along his eye wrinkles when only hints of a smile curl at his mouth.

“Tell them we’ll stay,” he whispers. “We’ll stay here.” You touch the chain hanging around his neck, the one he hid underneath shirts and sweaters and now one he shows openly, and you smile at the golden letter that hangs on it. The Captain bows his head, draining the rest of his brandy and setting the glass on the table before heading out of the office.

“I’ll make the call. The two of you… thank you for staying.” He sends you both a nod and David gives a pressed smile to your boss. The door clicks shut. Your fingers slip over the golden R and you sigh, pressing your forehead into the curve of his neck. His thumb strokes the cord of your throat as he turns to kiss your hair.

“Maybe we should buy a house,” David mutters aloud and you smile, using your other hand to run over his ribs, run over the robin mid flight on his heaving chest. He takes hold of your wandering hand, dipping his head to look at you. You trace the tattoo of the cross as he holds you tight. “Get out of that flat.”

“That’d be nice.” You curl against him as the two of you lean into the couch and he hoists your legs into his lap as his hair falls over his eyes. You tuck it back with a smile, lifting your chin to kiss the marble of his cheek. It’s still an angry red, but you’re used to it. It means he’s healing, and so are you. “But I wanna go visit her first.”

“Really?” His voice rumbles in his chest and you close your eyes. You could fall asleep to his voice, through the nightmares, through the memories. He holds you close to him and you press your cheek against the cotton of his grey tee. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think we should.”

“Okay.”

“But in a minute.” Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt and it twists underneath your palms. “I just… I just need a moment with you.” His lips find your hairline, hands soothing away the ache of ketamine in your system and you nearly shiver at the memory of the vulture in your stomach. He traces your side, the curve of your thighs, the bow of your lips and you feel a smile pull at your mouth.

Rough stone has been picked away from your skin, smoothed away with sandpaper and chiselled off with a hammer until all that is left is soft skin and a mind that knows better than to make the same mistakes. Summer heat kisses your flesh in the heart of winter as David runs his lips over the inside of your wrist, the tips of your fingers. He simply indulges, and so do you.

He is ceramic in your hands, glass, malleable metal that bends at your touch and you press a sneaking kisses down his neck, at every point of the tattooed star. 

“We should’ve been better,” he whispers when you’ve exhausted yourself in lazy and sweet kisses and have resorted to just sitting on the couch, legs tangled together, bodies pressed in inexplicable heat. “Just… just been better for her.”

“Yeah, well… I have to believe this is what was meant to be.” Your eyelashes brush against his cheek as your words ghost against his jaw. “After everything… you’re still here, aren’t you?”

He smiles — you can feel it — and so do you. “So are you.” He turns his head away to look at the clock and he sighs, detaching himself with a groan. “We’ve gotta get outta here. You hungry?” You straighten your legs, sitting up on the couch as David stands and runs his hands through his hair.

“Yeah. I know a place.” He sticks out a hand towards you. You grin and place your hand in his. As he pulls you up, you can’t help the words that slip out. “We’ve gotta figure out your zodiac sign.”

.

You set the bunch of flowers down, white flowers bright against the grey stone as you kneel in the dry dirt. The lavender looks like it wilts in the wind as David crouches beside you, reaching forward to touch the stone. 

He looks like a man scorned, but a bitter smile still finds its way onto his face as you set down the glass container full to the brim with gummies. Kissing his necklace, David closes his eyes and sits down flat next to you. You brush your fingers over the etched letters and an emptiness inside you grows as you take in the polished thing. You haven’t come here… in so long. It’s been so long. Your heart falls apart again as you press a kiss to the stone.

“I’m sorry we haven’t been here in a while, honey,” David rasps, fingers trembling as he runs them over. “We’ve been so busy and fuck, I miss you so much. I… I know someone’s been takin’ good care of you up there. God, probably. You know he loves his angels.” You watch as his face crumbles and you close your eyes, a shivering breath crawling out of your mouth as you bow your head. “You’re still my baby girl. I didn’t forget you, I promise. I love you. I love you.” His forehead presses against the stone and you open your eyes as tears slip down your nose and cheeks, catching on the bow of your lips before dripping onto dry dirt.

“We saved a little girl,” you begin, the words burning through your throat and chest. The weak smile that surfaces shakes uncontrollably as you let out a breath, muscles aching. “She reminded me a lot of you, and I know that doesn’t mean shit, because you’re still gone, but it just… it felt good. Knowing I could save her when I couldn’t save you. Although,” you murmur, “your daddy saved the both of us.” Polished stone glides over your fingertips. “I love you so much, darling. Your daddy killed the woman who took you. She’s going to hell, now, and you can rest.”

“You know your daddy. No one hurts his girls without paying for it,” David murmurs, lips brushing against the stone. His eyes are shut tight, tears tracking down his blotchy skin, and you reach over with a quavering hand to brush them away. One of his hand flies to yours, holding your palm to his face and he kisses the heel of your hand.

“We’ll be okay, without you. I think… I think we’ll be okay.” You sniff, a laugh biting through your pain as your other hand flattens against the stone. You can almost feel her… feel her presence. A tiny body against yours, warm like a fire and smelling like clean sheets and chocolate. Ribbons of tears cool against the wind as you press your cheek against the top of the stone. “I love you. Daddy loves you.”

“I love you so much, baby.” His eyes closed, his breaths mist in the air as you reach out for his hand on the stone. Immediately, his fingers lace with yours. “You keep me going. You and your mom.” He sends you a weak smile and your hand his cheek strokes away the fresh, hot tears that warm your skin despite the winter wind biting at your fingers. The two of you sit there around the tombstone for what feels like hours, pouring your souls out, and you weep when snow begins to fall. A bird caws in the distance and you raise your head as a tiny little thing flits to a branch above your head. 

The red-breast creature chirps and a wet, desperate smile makes its way onto your face. You want to believe that, despite everything, this is your little girl. The bird chirps again, and you turn to your…

Your something.

“You think it’s her?” you whisper and he chuckles throatily, kissing your tear-stained cheek with tear-stained lips.

“I think she’s telling us to get off our asses and get some rest,” he replies. Snowflakes land on your skin like feathers and you lick them away from your lips. “You telling us to go home, baby?”

The bird chirps and the two of you smile. Your fingers find his, his interlock with yours. You kiss the stone farewell, and stand. David lingers still, and you swallow the cold that settles in your gut as you squeeze his hand.

“See you soon, baby,” he whispers and you pull him up. You nudge the glass container closer to the stone as you blow a kiss to the sky. “Come on. Let’s go home.” You wrap an arm around his waist and nod, the knots in your throat preventing you from uttering a single word. The emptiness inside you is more pronounced, you think, as you walk through the cemetery, but you feel a lot more human, too. You know that hole inside you won’t ever fill, but perhaps it’s something that doesn’t need to be fixed. 

You lift your head to the drifting snow as you walk to the car together. All is silent in this solemn winter land and you pull off the masonic ring, fingertip running over the inscription. 

The same inscription carved into the stone you’ve left behind. 

Robin Loki

1996-2003

David presses a kiss against your wet smile as he twists the keys in the ignition. You chuckle, wiping at your cheeks and you reach for the container of gummies on his dash. The Sedan rolls into motion and you sink into the chair, eyes closing. 

To say you love Loki…

Maybe it’s not so much of a stretch after all.

tags: @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki @space-helen @dulharpa @bohemianrhapsody86 @bubblemyg @sataninsatin @detectivelokiisabae @deviantly-gayy

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me -Chapter 29

Warnings: none really

Tagging: @ocfairygodmother​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​

The water is scalding. Causing her to wince; ripping the breath from her lungs as she steps underneath it. Accepting it’s brutality and punishment in an attempt to exchange physical pain for internal. She bites down on her bottom lip hard enough to break skin and draw blood; holds her breath and bouncing up and down on her heels as she suffers through the temporary agony in the hopes of gaining long term relief.

Her heart aches. A pain far more intense than anything she’s ever experienced in her thirty-five years.  An emptiness has settled deep inside of her; holes that had long ago been patched back together threatening to burst wide open. The anguish is unbearable. The start of what feels like prolonged state of mourning that comes with expected yet still devastating loss. It’s a painful and bitter pill to swallow when you’ve the end of your rope and no matter how desperately you try to hold on, you still wind up torn apart and broken in the end.

Tyler’s confession had blindsided her; knocking the wind clear out of her and sending both her emotions and her reality into a violent tailspin. She’d a setback when it came to alcohol. After all, he’d fallen off the wagon three times in the last six and half years and the last time she’d relegated herself to the fact that it would always be part of their life. Comforting herself with thoughts of how at least he wasn’t a mean or a violent drunk. Loud and obnoxious, and often overly emotional and sensitive and sometimes even absentminded and neglectful, but never intimidating or aggressive. That she would never tolerate.

But he hadn’t had Oxy in his system since the rehab stint after Dhaka, and it had been successfully flushed from his system and he’d never gone back to it again. It’d been a tough battle, but he’d come out happier and healthier without the added weight of dependency. For almost seven years he’d never given the drug a second thought and had dedicated himself to living a cleaner life; hating the mere thought of taking anything stronger than over the counter pain medication despite being in near constant agony.

Things had been better. Even with alcohol still in the picture. Once he was off the Oxy he became calmer. More content. Those jagged and rough edges softening. But then the Dhaka nightmares began and was closely followed by depression and PTSD; powerful and unrelenting demons that had dragged him into the very depths of hell. Convincing him that he -and everyone around him- would be better off if he had died that day on the bridge. There’d been no reasoning with him while in that state, and it had taken two legitimate suicide attempts and as many psych ward stays to convince him to get the help that he so desperately needed.

But they’d made it through. Somehow emerging from the darkest and most dreadful times -and a six month separation- stronger than ever. Surviving things that would have torn most couples apart. And even though the battle with alcohol had remained, not once had he ever mentioned needing or wanting or Oxy. Even while rehabbing from painful knee and shoulder replacement surgeries. He’d just battled through it; never complaining, barely wincing or grimacing even on the worst days. He’d accepted it as his new natural state of life; permanent punishment for the bad decisions and the horrible things he’d had to resort to just to stay alive. A life of physical suffering in exchange for having a life at all.

It had been hard. Hearing the confession as it tumbled from lips. The stark and brutal realization of just how lost and troubled he actually is; seeing the desperation and vulnerability...and even shame and disgust...in his eyes and all over his face. It’s difficult; loving someone that much and having to watch them suffer. Knowing that there’s more you can do for them and feeling completely and utterly helpless. There’s no words that can make things better or take all the pain -both physical and mental- away.

She’d known the moment he’d said it that things were out of her reach. That HE was out of her reach. That there was nothing more she could say or do that would make even the slightest bit of difference. That if things keep spiralling out of control and the want and need became too powerful to control, he would fall back into old habits. And that will be the final straw. No more chances. No more thinking that love alone is enough to save someone. It should be -and it would be- in a perfect world. But there’s only so much she can take; only so much fight left in her. And if he gets to that point, she will have lost him. With no chance of ever getting him back.

The tears come now. Spilling down her face and joined by painful, choking sobs that cause her entire body to quake. Tears of anger and frustration; profound sadness that accompanies an impending loss. The ache in her heart and the tightness in her chest increasing, and she places both palms and her forehead against cool, smooth tile and closes her eyes. Standing directly under the steaming, pounding water until there’s no more tears to shed and the sobs settle into nothing more than soft, pitiful whimpers.

You can do this, she tells herself, even though the emptiness and the tremendous sense of loss say otherwise.  You’ve gotten through worse. You got through Dhaka. You got through what happened on the bridge. You can get through this too.

She thinks of those minutes and hours immediately afterwards; sitting in a packed OR waiting room still clad in the same clothes and Doc Marten boots she’d been wearing on the bridge. Covered in dirt and grime and blood. So much blood. Some of it still bright and damp and smelling fresh, other areas thick and dark and stiffening the fabric of her t-shirt. It had caked and stained her hands and gathered under her nails; travelled all the way to her elbows and was streaked across her face and forehead and had even settled in her hair. She’d been alone. No Nik. No Yaz. No team members whose names she didn’t remember. And the shock of just what had happened -the things she’d seen and the things she’d done- had left her feeling numb. As if her body and mind were acting on their own accord and she had absolutely no control over them.

She can remember the looks on other peoples’ faces. Their outright horror and disgust at being confronted by so much blood,  their obvious concern for her fragile mental state, and genuine curiosity. Complete strangers had offered her drinks of water and juice and small snacks, yet couldn’t refrain from asking well meaning yet horribly invasive questions that she had no reasonable answers for. A nurse had brought her a pair of scrubs and socks to change into and had escorted her to a staff shower so she could clean herself up. And she remembers standing under the water watching as all the blood washed away; swirling around at her feet before disappearing down the drain.

She hadn’t been in the waiting area for ten minutes before the surgeon had come out with his first update; grim faced and stern, not an ounce of confidence in his eyes. Giving her the clear plastic bag packed with Tyler’s belongings; whatever could be salvaged, that was. Combat boots, cell phone, the watch and the bracelets he’d been wearing, the utility vest. She’d spent half an hour in a public washroom trying to scrub the latter clean; sobbing uncontrollably as she tried to ignore the rips and the tears and the bullet holes, using hand soap to attempt to get all of the blood and dirt out. Her stunned and foolish brain convincing her that it HAD to be done. After all, he might need it again.

Tightly screwing her eyes shut, she drops her chin to her chest; breathing slow and steady as she lets the steaming water pound against her body. And while soothing, it does nothing to wash away the vivid and haunting memories that will forever plague her mind.

****

She finds him on the couch; in nothing but a pair of tattered old sweats with his legs stretched out and his bare feet propped on the coffee table.  Eyes closed and breathing soft and steady; Addie lying high on his chest with her face against his neck, his cheek pressed against the side of her head and a protective hand on her back. It’s quite the sight; that big, strong man made up muscles and tattoos and scars with a tiny baby clad in a bubble gum pink sleeper. And she’s quiet and stealthy as she picks up his cell from where it sits on the coffee table, quickly snapping a picture before returning the phone to its resting place.

“What’cha doing?” It’s a groggy mumble, stirred awake when he feels her plucking the empty baby bottle from where he’d set in between his thighs.

“You fell asleep,” she explains, then places the bottle on the table. “Want me to take her? I can put her in her crib and you…”

“Leave her. She’s fine for now.”

With his free hand he reaches out and takes hold of her wrist, gently tugging her towards him and down onto the couch. Arm wrapping around her when she settles in tightly against him; legs tucked under her, head against his shoulder, a hand on his stomach.  

The familiarity of him is comforting; smooth skin against her cheek, the smell that clings to him, the warmth of the strong, solid body and the feel of those tight, well defined abdominal muscles under her fingertips as she slowly and methodically traces each one. Yet she can feel the tension in her shoulders and that aching -that dread- that lingers in the pit of her stomach. And she wonders if he’s fallen asleep again; if those demons and those monsters have finally agreed to let him rest.  Until she feels the brush of his thumb along her shoulder and then his body moving against hers as he carefully moves Addie from her resting place; laying her along his forearm with her head in the crook of his elbow, then tucking her tightly into him.

“Everything okay?” Tyler asks, and she nods. “You haven’t said much since we got home.”

That was eight hours ago, and since then they’ve maybe had five minutes of meaningful conversation. Despite putting on a good front with the smiles and the laughs, they’d been fabricated for the most part. She’d been quiet and distant. With him, with the kids, even with Salena who’d cover over to ‘hangout’ with Ovi and Kyle while they held down things on the homefront.

He’d thought things were okay; that his confession and the open and honest -and completely rational- talk afterwards had been a good start. That while it was going to be a long, hard road, at least they were beginning it on the right foot.  And he hates how weak it makes him feel; how the last seven years of fighting PTSD and depression and everything that comes with him have left him a neurotic, self conscious mess.

“There hasn’t been much to say,” she says, as her fingers continue their exploration of his abs and the small scars and imperfections that mar his stomach. “It’s been one thing after another since we got home.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s been a little...I don’t know…”

“Off the reservations?”

He chuckles. “That works.”

“And it annoyed me that there were so many goddamn people here. Ovi and Chloe and Kyle and Salena.  Like what the hell? We’re not a drop in centre or a shelter for wayward youth.”

“Well someone did have to watch the kids.”

“They should have left when we got back. They didn’t have to stick around. It’s like having four other kids. We have to entertain them and feed them and worry about keeping them happy. I’m their maid or their mother. Like, fuck off already.”

Tyler grins. “You’re feisty tonight.”

“It just pissed me off. I love having my brother visit and I like Salena and it’s nice to have a friend. But God. Go away. I like when it’s just us and the kids and I don’t have to worry about other people.”

“Fuck ‘em. I don’t worry about anyone else. Just my people. That’s all that I care about.”

“Is it wrong that I’m glad my brother is next door eating the neighbour’s ass like a cupcake?”

“When you say it that way? Yes. It is. It is wrong. In so many ways.”

“I mean, I know he just met her and despite what he says, I know it’s one of the main reasons he broke things off with Nik. But at least he’s out of my hair. I’ve got enough to deal with. I don’t need his bullshit on top of it.”

“You know what I think? I think we’re the last two people who should be talking about things happening too fast between him and Sabrina.”

“Salena,” she corrects. “I don’t know if you actually don’t remember her name, or if you just call her Sabrina just to be a dick.”

“It’s just to be a dick,” Tyler admits.

“You honestly don’t like her? It’s not just you being paranoid for no reason?”

“It’s not that I don’t like her. I just don’t trust her. And not in a paranoid or overprotective way. I’m working on being okay with the ‘you having friends’ thing. I’m good with that. There’s just something about her. Something that doesn’t sit right. And you've always said I have good instincts.”

“Very good instincts. Amazing instincts, actually.”

“Well they’re telling me that there’s something not right with her. That she’s not who she says she is. Who you think she is. Even Millie said she doesn’t trust her.”

“Well in all fairness, Millie is five and hates anyone who doesn’t put pineapple on pizza or who eats steak cooked past medium rare.”

“I just want you to be careful. I’m not saying don’t talk to her or don’t hang out with her. ‘Cause I get that you need friends. Just be careful around her. Don’t get too close, don’t say too much. That’s all I ask.”

“Okay,” she says, a smile on her face as she pats his stomach and kisses his shoulder. “See how agreeable I can be when you don’t freak out and we actually talk about things?”

“You are less of a bitch.”

“You know, you start out so well and you always manage to end so badly.”

“Kind of like everything in my life.”

She frowns. “That is not what I meant and you know it. I meant it as a joke. I was teasing you.” She tousles his hair, then runs her fingers through it. Loving the messy ‘bed head’ look it so easily takes on. “Are you alright? You’re not…?”

“Thinking about getting drunk and high? No. I’m not. I honestly haven’t thought about that since this morning. I don’t think about it all the time. It’s not every day, twenty four hours a day. Just when shit happens.”

“Like Ovi wanting help,” she concludes. “And your dad. And the nightmares.”

Tyler nods.

“I mean I get it. I do. I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling or what’s going on in your head, but I know you struggle. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate and a lot of things inside of you that are weighing you down. And I know the kind of life you’ve lived. The things you’ve seen and the things you’ve had to do. That would mess anyone up.”

It’s been a lifetime of turmoil. An abusive childhood, the death of his mother at a young age, a tumultuous marriage right out of high school, and the death of his first child. And he’d spent years devoting himself to the military and then to the job. Never taking time to truly rest and worry about himself.

“I don’t want you to think less of me,” he says. “I don't want you being disgusted or disappointed or…”

“Okay, first off,” Esme interjects. “I won't let you talk about yourself like that. Because none of that is true. I’m not disappointed or disgusted. Not in the slightest. And I could never think less of you. Because I know what kind of man you are and I know you’re strong and resilient and you’re loyal and protective and all those amazing things that make you, you. I mean, yeah, I won’t lie; there’s some things about you that drive me batshit insane.”

Tyler smirks.

“But it’s stupid shit like your snoring and how cold your feet are and you have the nerve to put them against me in bed. Or how you refuse to separate laundry before putting it in the machine and we’ve had to throw out so many clothes. Or how our last Christmas in Colorado you actually used a staple gun to put the lights on the house.”

“Don’t hold back baby,” he grins. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“But it’s dumb stuff like that. It’s the little things that drive me nuts but don’t make me love you any less. And I bet you have a whole list of things that drive you crazy when it comes to me.”

“It’s not actually a list, but…”

“But they’re still things that drive you nuts, right? Do they make you love me any less? Even the more serious things. Are they horrible enough to make you think less of me?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then why would I think that way about you? You’re not a terrible person because you’ve got issues. It’s not like you were a mean or an abusive drunk. That would have been a lot worse.”

“You would have totally kicked my ass if I ever got like that.”

“I would have given you the ass kicking of a lifetime. And then I would have taken your kids and left and I would have made sure you never found out. And that would have hurt you a lot more than anything physical I could have done.”

It’s the harsh and honest truth. As much as she wants him around, she would be more than capable of surviving without him. Of taking the kids and giving them a good life; somewhere safe and happy, away from the turmoil and heartache that booze and drugs would cause. And he wouldn’t blame her if she did leave. If that six month separation had taught him anything, it’s that she’s a hell of a lot stronger than anyone...even him...gives her credit for.

“If you go back to that...the booze...the meds...especially the meds..I can’t stay with you, Tyler. I can’t. Not because I don’t love you. Because I do. With everything I am and everything I have. But I love my children more and I won’t let them grow up like that. I refuse to let them go through that. I can live with going back to the job, but if you go back to the way you were when we met...if Oxy comes into this house or I find you’re sneaking off and doing it somewhere else...we’re done. I’ll walk out of here and I will take those kids and I won’t look back. And I know you don’t want that.”

“I don’t want that.”

Emotion chokes at him; tears filling his eyes as he looks down at the baby sleeping soundly against him. So tiny and so perfect. Everything that’s beautiful and good about the two of them existing in those six pounds and fifteen inches. Five times he’d experienced this; the joy and the profound love that comes with being a dad. And six months away from his kid had felt like a lifetime and had nearly destroyed him.

“You could survive without me,” she says. “But I know you wouldn’t survive long without them.”

“I don’t want to live without any of you,” he tells her. “We’re in this together. The second we found out about Millie and when we decided to get married. I don’t want to lose them and I don’t want to lose you either.”

“But you will. If you go back to the way you were.  The booze, the Oxy, the death wish. If you go back to that, we are not going to make it. Because I need to think about those kids first. I won’t let them grow up like that and you shouldn’t want them to either.”

“I don’t. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that person again.”

“I can handle the job. If you decide you want to go back, I can accept it and we can live like that. That won’t kill us. But the rest will. And I don’t want that.  I don’t want to have to walk away. Because I love you. More than I ever thought I could love someone, especially after Mark. I’d rather live with you than without you.”

“Even with the snoring and the cold feet?” he teases.

“I just tell you to put on socks or to roll over and be quiet. Sometimes I plug your nose until you can't breathe and you wake up.”

“So you are homicidal.”

“I’m not trying to kill you. I’m trying to wake you up and to stop your snoring. Now if I covered your nose and your mouth, you might have a valid concern.”

Tyler smirks.

She tightens the hold on his hair, then presses his lips to his temple, followed by his ear, then down to his cheek. Lips warms and feathery as they travel along his jaw as she speaks. “You are the strongest person I know. That I’ve ever known. And I need you to fight this. Harder than you’ve ever fought anything else. Even after Dhaka. Because you have little humans that love you and adore you and would miss you so much. If you can’t do it for myself or for me, do it for them. I mean look at her…” she reaches across to him to run a palm over Addie’s head; the dark hair soft against her skin. “...look how beautiful she is. How perfect she is. You did this. You helped make this. Something so amazing. Why would you not want to fight?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t know I have anything left to fight it.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You don’t give up. You’re not a quitter. Maybe before we met and you felt like you had nothing to lose and thought you deserved to die. But now you have everything to live for. So if you think I’m just going to sit back and let you...of all people...just give up, you have another thing coming. So stop,” she kisses his cheek. “Stop your shit and get it together and fight this thing. Promise me, Tyler. That you’re not going to give in to this.”

“I’m not going to give in,” he assures her. “I don’t want to lose you or my kids. That would kill me quicker than anything else ever could.”

“See , now THIS is when being ferociously stubborn is a good thing,” her face and voice seem brighter. “And isn’t she something else?” She traces the outer edge of Addie’s ear with her fingertip. “She’s just so tiny and so perfect and so amazing.”

“And beautiful,” he adds. “Just like her mom. We did good, yeah?”

“We did. Five times. It’s surreal, isn’t it? If you think about where you were seven years ago compared to now.”

“I don’t even want to think about where I was seven years go. I mean, other than when you walked into my place looking all cute and shit in your little shorts and your tank top.”

“I still can’t believe you remember what I was wearing. It’s not like it was anything spectacular. Not like Nik and her blouse cut down to her belly button nearly.”

“I never paid attention to what she was wearing. I was too busy looking at your ass in those shorts.”

She laughs. “You were honestly checking out my ass?”

“And other things,” he admits. “I’m a guy. I’m gonna look. Especially when fresh meat walks through the door.”

“Fresh meat? Really? That’s what you thought of me?”

“I don’t mean it in that way. I didn’t know who you were; I’d never seen you before. And you just show up out of the blue and walk in looking like that? Yeah, I checked you out.”

“You were very sly about it because I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you. I was nice to you.”

“That was nice? That was you being nice?”

“Okay, so maybe you annoyed me a little.”

“I annoyed you now?” she laughs. “How did I annoy you? I barely spoke to you or looked at you.”

“I didn’t like that Nik just showed up like that and brought someone with her. And it threw me off that you looked like you did and your ass looked like it did. And I hadn’t had sex in like four months, so…”

“That’s what it was! I annoyed you because you were sexually frustrated.”

“Pretty much,” Tyler nods.  “And you were wearing those shorts and that strap of your tank top kept falling down. I kept wanting to push it back up but Nik was there and that would have been really awkward if I’d kicked her out and made her wait while I banged you.”

“Awfully bold of you to assume I would have succumbed to your advances.”

A sly grin spreads across his face. “You so would have.”

“Actually, yeah. I would have,” she agrees, and then bursts out laughing and drops her forehead onto his shoulder. “You’re a bad influence! You and your blue eyes and your stupidly handsome face. For what it’s worth, you sort of annoyed me too.”

“How? I behaved myself.”

“You did. But I was annoyed at how ridiculously good looking you were. I’ve seen a lot of mercenaries, but I’d never seen one that looked like that.”

“So you were checking me out too.”

“Of course I was. I’m not blind. I know a good thing when I see it.”  She jumps off the couch and heads for the kitchen, returning with a carton of ice cream and two spoons. “I mean, you were all tall and big arms and broad shoulders and the pure definition of walking sex. And the voice…” she drops down beside him once more, handing him a spoon and pulling off the lid on the ice cream. “...that would have sealed the deal. If you had said drop your pants, I would have done it, no questions asked.”

“Talk about a wasted opportunity.”

“Well we made up for it over the course of five days,” she reasons. “I couldn’t give it up in the first ten minutes. I already looked like a big enough slut after knowing you for three days.”

“For the record, I never thought you were a slut.”

“That’s reassuring. I thought you were one, so…”

He frowns. “That’s not nice.”

“A guy doesn’t look like you and not get laid a lot. I’m just saying. And the things you knew how to do and how well you did them? Yeah. I knew you were a player.”

“Yeah? Well for someone who claims to have only been with three guys including me, you knew a little too much and were a little too willing to let me do certain things.”

“You’re going to complain about it seven years later? Really?”

“I’m not complaining. I’m just saying how it seemed.”

“Well you spend four years never having an orgasm other than the ones you give yourself, then let’s see how you feel when someone comes along and gives you multiple.  I have to say, you were on the ball that night.”

“I wanted you to keep coming back for more so I had to make a good first impression.”

“Oh believe me. You did. Because here I am, seven years later, looking like a hot mess after having five kids, and still putting out.”

“You’re beautiful. Always have been. Always will be.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Even after that many kids?”

He gives her a wink and leans in to kiss her. “Especially after that many kids.”

****

He groans as he stands; a grimace on his face and limp more pronounced as he carries Addie to her playpen; gently placing her inside and then tightly tucking a blanket around her.

“You okay?” Esme asks, as he returns to the couch, sitting down beside her once more. “You haven’t limped that bad in a long time.”

“I’m just stiff as hell,” he assures, then frowns as he reaches for one of the spoons. “Are you trying to make me fat?”

“You’re in a bulk. Ice cream will help you do that. Although I should be getting you fat. So then I don’t have to worry about all those thirsty teachers and playground moms.”

“You already don’t have to worry about them. Besides, you should be more concerned about the neighbor.”

Esme grins. “She thinks you’re a snack.”

“A snack? Fuck her. I’m the whole goddamn buffet.”

“Plus extra dessert. And those warm lemon smelling face cloths some places give you.”

Tyler grins. “I think that’s honestly the best and the weirdest compliment anyone has ever given me. Just so you know, you’re the whole dessert section of the buffet. Plus extra chocolate sauce and sprinkles.”

“You keep sweet talking me like that and I may just jump you right here.”

“Yeah? You promise?”

“We’ll see…” she singsongs, and they lapse into a companionable silence as they dig into the ice cream. Listening to Addie’s soft breathing and the sounds of the nocturnal wildlife that lingers on their property.

“So…” he breaks the silence. “...I was thinking.”

“Uh oh. I don’t know if I like the way you said that.”

“About what you said today. About the job. How you’d be okay with me going back.”

Both eyebrows arch as she regards him.

“I just want you to hear me out, okay? Just listen to what I have to say before saying anything back or freaking out on me. Can you do that?”

Esme nods.

“I have an idea. Actually, it was Ovi’s idea first but I tweaked it and made it make more sense. More beneficial. For me. For us. As a family.”

“Alright,” she swallows some ice cream and helps herself to another spoonful.

“What if I started my own operation? If I got my own group of guys together and made up a  team and got the word out that we’re available and looking for work? What if I was the boss. The Nik of things, so to speak.”

“Where would you find the guys?”

“It’s been almost seven years since Dhaka but my name still has a lot of pull. I let people know I’m looking for mercs, there won’t be a shortage of interested people. And I have a few that have been itching get back into it  and would jump at the chance.  Remember Nathan?”

“The marine from New Zealand?”

“He’s been wanting to break away from Nik for a while. Says she’s losing her touch and things are going to shit.  He’s put his name out there but has gotten a lot of interest.”

“What are his numbers like?”

“Decent. Got a good kill record. Not that that means everything when it comes to the job. But he hasn’t gotten seriously hurt, hasn’t gotten a client or a teammate killed, or royally fucked up.”

“So he’d be one to take a chance on.”

Tyler nods.

“Who else?”

“Just guys I’ve worked with before. That I know work hard and I can trust. Nik won’t be happy though.”

“Because you’re getting into it and getting a piece of that pie?”

“That and I’d be pinching some of her guys. And she knows if people know it’s my operation, we’ll start pulling all the big jobs. Word travels fast in the game and if surviving Dhaka did anything…”

“It boosted your reputation,” she concludes. “Big time. People will be shocked. If you decide to get back in it. Especially if you get back in as a boss. Is that really something you want to do? Or would you rather be right in it getting your own hands dirty?”

“I’d rather come home to my family. And there’s a way better chance of that if I just run things. I mean, I’d have to go where the jobs are, but I wouldn’t have to go out right out in the field. I’d just stay behind and run shit.”

“Hmm…” Esme taps the bowl of her spoon against her lips as she considers his word.

“What are you thinking?” Tyler asks. “And be honest. Don’t just say that you think I want to hear.”

“Well, first, I think it’s a huge step for you.”

“In a good way, or…”

“Of course in a good way. In a very good way. You have the experience. You know how you want things done and you know how you want guys to be. And you know they’ll work for you and that they’ll work well.”

“But…”

“Actually, there is no but. Not that I can think of. And I already told you that I was okay with you going back. Even when it was just the thought of you back out in the field. Could you run things from home? Until there’s a job and you have to go wherever?”

“Baby, in this day and age and with the technology out there? I could run things while taking a shit.”

“And it’s something you’d be happy with?”

“I think so. I think it would stop me from missing the job. I’d still be in life, but not actually in it. I would be a hell of a lot safer, that’s for sure.”

“I know I’d feel better about it,” she admits.

“It would take a bit. To get everything off the ground. I might need your help.”

Her eyes widen.

“Just with intel stuff and getting the word out. Nothing serious.”

“I am not getting involved like I did in Ireland.”

“I wouldn't want you to. Strictly behind the scenes. I promise.”

She sighs. “I suppose I could help with that. What’s in it for me? What kind of payout do I get?”

He grins. “My undying love and loyalty?”

“I already have that. Next.”

“Lots of dick?” he tries again.

“I already get that.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know then. What do you want?”

“I want to go away. Just the two of us. For a couple days. Three at the most.”

“Okay,” Tyler agrees. “Where?”

“I want to go to Kimberley.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Why the hell would you want to go there?”

“I want you to call Koen and tell him we want to stay at the shack. That we’ll pay for him to stay somewhere else for two or three days. I want to go hiking and I want to camp for a night at that gorge you told me about. Where you jumped off the cliff and scared the shit out of Rata.”

“That’s all you want?”

Esme nods.

“Really? You don’t want flowers or expensive jewellery or…”

“I don’t want those things. I want to go away. With you. Just the two of us. And that’s where I want to go. Can you make it happen?”

He gives a confident smile. “Consider it done.”

[smol-and-grumpy]

With All My Heart - P.01

This is the epilogue to Dear Dean.

Grant that I shall never seek so much to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, or to be loved as to love, with all my heart.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Jamie Blum)

Warnings: Flangst

WC: 2645

A/N: This is the first part to the epilogue. You might see some other parts because I can’t stop coming back to them whenever I’m inspired. As always, thank you @themoonandotherslikeit​ <3

May 2nd, 1946

Hi Sammy,

I’m writing to you on the first page of the new notebook Jamie gifted me. 

She’d caught me scribbling notes on papers around the house-- habit I picked up while I was a prisoner in camp, I guess. I just feel like it’s the only way I can tell what’s really going on in my head. I’ve seen things, Sammy, and I’ve done things I’m not entirely proud of.

I remember there was a day when I woke up and my boots were gone. Apparently, if you don’t tie it to yourself at night, you will wake up without them. I’ve learned it the hard way. I spent a couple of days walking bare feet in the freezing cold. I almost lost a fucking toe, can you imagine? I can be thankful that I was an officer and didn’t have to work outside. I walked upon a dying soldier one day, his boots were still intact. I took it from him, Sammy. Of course I waited until he was gone. I still feel bad about it to this day, but those boots were the only thing that kept me from losing my feet. I tied them tightly around me ever since. I know you wouldn’t be proud of what I’ve done, but I just had to survive. I promised Jamie to come back and that promise was literally the only thing that kept me alive. 

You remember the feeling of hunger we had while Dad was gone for a long period of time? Where we barely had enough to get by and we ate cereal with water because milk was just too expensive? Now, take that and make it 10x worse. The feeling of hunger in camp is always present. There was not a day, an hour, a minute where I wasn’t hungry. You adjust through time, but the road from being hungry to your stomach feeling numb, that’s the worst. 

I don’t even know why I’m writing about camp because it’s basically the only thing I don’t want to be reminded of. Back to the notes, shall we?

There were a couple of notes around the house, that always started with Hi Sammy, but I’ve never gotten around to write more. I just couldn’t, Sam. I didn’t know what to write to you, since I know that you won’t ever get to read them anyway.

On my Birthday, Jamie had the wrapped up notebook in her hand and told me that she wants me to write down my thoughts. It should be some kind of therapy, she said. I know she’s right, but I just couldn’t start to write anything in it until today. 

Hope’s sleeping on my arm, by the way, so I’m scribbling in here one armed, hope you can still read it. I know that you won’t, but let us just pretend that you will, alright? 

I’m sitting in our study, that used to be Jamie’s old room. There’s a window by the desk, and I can see our garden from here. Jamie’s tending to some crops, leaving me to take care of little Hope. I still don’t know if I’m doing a good job with her, but Hope doesn’t complain, so I’ll take that as I’m doing alright. She’s almost a year now. Her Birthday is a couple of days away, and we invited people to come over. Trenton’s Mom is coming, and some neighbors with their kids. Jamie didn’t want that, though. She said Hope’s too little to know it anyway, but Jameson insisted. Maybe he thought that he could score it with one of the single moms, I don’t really know. 

I live in her house now, and her brother Jameson (who’s apparently is a real charmer with the ladies) is living with us. He’s a war veteran, too. He had lost a leg, but he’s cheerful as fuck. I built him a new room downstairs next to the living room, at least now he doesn’t have to sleep on a couch. He helped me build it, too. The two of us were working well into the night every night for two weeks. I also took care of Hope during that time because Jamie attended nursing school in the evenings. During the day, I found work in a nearby Garage. The owner liked me enough to promote me, can you imagine? Me, looking over 20 people? Yeah, you’d have a field day making fun of me.

I went back to clear our old house, Sammy. I took your belongings with me. I hope it’s okay that I kept some things that were hard for me to part with. I gave some of it to Jess. I’ve contacted her after I settled with Jamie. I couldn’t do it before, there was just too much going on and my leg was still in a cast. I’m sorry. She’s doing good, Sammy. Did you know that she too was pregnant? I guess it happened on that last furlong back to the states, huh? I don’t know if she told you or if you held back this big news from me until you were ready to tell, and frankly now, it doesn’t really matter anymore. She had a little boy, he has the same eyes as you. There was no doubt that it’s yours, Sammy. Congratulations! 

I felt so proud, but also sad that you’ll never get to see him, never get to see him grow up, and he’ll never know how wonderful you are. His name is Samuel Jr. by the way, but if it’s true that the dead are watching over us, you might have heard it from Jess already. She told me she prays to you every night. We keep in touch and we had them both here for Christmas. We talked about you most of the night (apart from Jim and Jack, Jamie’s brothers who didn’t make it back home). It’s good, Sammy. Don’t worry about us. I’ll promise to look out for Jess and little Sam. You have my word. That’s the least I can do.

Jamie is pregnant at the moment. We’re expecting twins in about a month and a half. I should have known that there were chances that we will end up with twins since Jamie herself is a twin and her mother and grandmothers both were twins. I’m scared, to be perfectly honest with you, Sam. Imagine me with two tiny babies. Yeah, that’s a really good joke, isn’t it? Except it isn’t a joke.. Jamie is freaking out, since her mother died in childbirth, she’s afraid that she’ll end up the same and has written a will and what not. I don’t really know how I can help her get over the fear, since my head is not really the right place for fucking rainbows. It doesn’t mean I don’t try, though. We talk a lot when we get a quiet moment in bed. Her head on my chest, painting figure eights on my skin. It’s good if the subject of the discussion wasn’t so dark.

The girl is fucking huge, by the way. That’s the reason we cleared out Jamie’s parents old room and bought a new, really big bed. There was no way we could have fit in the old bed they had, with Hope occasionally coming in to snuggle with us during the night. Next step would be to clear out Jim’s room. But we’re in no rush. It seems like Jamie needs time, and who am I if I don’t allow her the time she needs to grieve Seeing that I’m still writing to you, I’m not exactly the poster child for it, right? 

Should have seen us when we went furniture shopping for a new bed, Sammy. Jamie waltzed through the store, and I carried Hope around. I think we were in there for hours, and Jamie still hadn’t found a mattress she liked. I let her, even if my arms were numb from carrying Hope, but she’s carrying two babies, so who was I to complain, right? The salesman though, he was so sick of us, I could tell. He pulled me aside, asking if I had no say in this. I couldn’t help but laugh. Of course I didn’t have to help Jamie put him into place. I just told him that maybe he should think about women as something else than a homemaker, then maybe we wouldn’t want another salesman about now. We found another sales clerk, the only woman working in there. Mom would have been so proud. It wasn’t an expensive bed, so the commission for selling ain’t that big, but we sure will have to go back there a couple more times and he can be sure that we won’t be asking for him. So, there’s that.

Actually, the salesman asked me if my wife could maybe make up her mind because he could have sold three beds (at least) during that time. I was a little taken aback when he said wife, not gonna lie. I asked Jamie to marry me, I really did. Jameson offered to babysit when there was a fair last autumn. I didn’t have a ring because I kinda spent all my money l on the new room for Jameson and nursing school for Jamie. Plus I gave Jess some, to help her get by with the little one. I gave her your ring which they handed me after they went through your belongings. I was surprised it was still intact. You shielded it pretty good from the blast, Sam. I gave it to her anyway, said that you wanted to propose and as a symbol, she could keep it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jess cry so hard. It’s good Sammy, I’m good with it. The ring was supposed to be hers. 

Anyway, I asked Jameson if it was okay for me to ask Jamie, because I was being polite and that’s what they do, right? Asking the dad’s? But since there’s only Jameson, I went along with it. Jameson just bent over laughing, asking me what took me so fucking long and honestly, I didn’t know. It was good as it was at first, but then I thought about Jamie writing to me once that Jim sent her the silk fabric of his reserve parachute so she could walk down the aisle in white silk. Yeah, I thought about that, and I knew that I had to because I wanted to see that, too. There’s no question that I love her though, so. 

We were at the fair, and I only had money for a toy ring. You know those from the gumball machines? It’s not romantic at all, I know, but I guess when you’ve been through war together, you can look past that. I got on one knee and she almost said yes. She was beginning to show already, and she said that even if she wanted to marry me, there’s no way the fabric Jim sent was enough to wrap around her so we kinda haven’t set the date yet, but it’ll be after the twins will be born. It kinda gave Jamie some hope and will to get through childbirth, I guess. I bought her gum later too, so there’s that. 

Cas stayed in Germany, but not for long if you were wondering. He went back into combat and was leading a battalion in Japan. I wrote to him regularly, because if someone deserves to come back it’s Cas. I was rooting for him. He came back, which I still don’t know how he pulled it off because I heard that 8 out of 10 people weren’t gonna return.

Remember Harvelle? He went back to France and married Lisa. He told me to come visit, but you know me, flying is not really my favorite. I guess I just need time, maybe someday we will. I know Jamie wants to. She wants to visit Jim and Jack, and I really wanna visit you, Sam. I really do. I hope one day I will be able to.

The war is now over, Sammy. Had been for about 6 months. We won, even if we’ve lost so much along the way.

How naïve were we to think that we’d get out of there alive? Remember, they prepared us pretty well, didn’t they? We thought it would be a piece of cake. Go in there, kill some Krauts, come out unscattered, and go home with a fat paycheck for the ‘service’. The moment I saw people being shot at when we got off the landing craft, I knew that this is no fucking piece of cake, and they’d been lying to us all along. But what could I do? You just have to keep on going, keep on fighting for a chance to somehow get back home. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t really fair to lie to us about how big it really was. It wasn’t really fair to let us think that we’d get to go home as soon as we did our deeds. It also wasn’t really fair to think that the war would be over by Chrsitmas and not handing out clothes to shield us from the cold. Nothing was fair, was it?

Well, some of us did get back, but we’ve all lost something in the war. Some a limb or two, some their hearts, and some did lose parts of themselves. We’re not the same person we went in as. We came out broken and bend. We can’t even get it fixed because nothing could fix what we’ve lost. 

There’s really nothing I could do other than carry on. I carry on for the ones who aren’t as lucky as me. The ones who won’t get to marry their loved ones, the ones who won’t get to see their children grow up, the ones who had their lives cut short, the ones who got their young adult lives stolen from them, most of all, Sammy, I carry on for you. I’m doing all the things you will never get to do, only because I know that you will come back and haunt me, maybe smack me over the head for being a jerk, if I don’t do it. I’ll do you proud, I promise. It’s the only thing I can do and think about. You were always the voice of reason, weren’t you? Even now if I have to think hard about doing something, there’s a voice in me asking “What would Sammy do? What would Sammy think? What would Sammy want me to do?” 

I miss you so much, Sam, you have no idea. If it wasn’t for Jamie, I don’t know if I’d be here. It’s her voice that guides me out of the dark whenever I wake up and think I’m still in Normandy. It’s her embrace that pulls me out of the water around me that threatens to drown me, whenever I have weird thoughts. It’s her, who carries me up to the bed whenever I look too far into a bottle because I can’t shut off the noises of shells exploding around me. I don’t think I even deserve her, but she’s an anchor to me and Jameson. I’m only a little sad that you guys never got a chance to meet, Sammy. If you did, I’d probably be too jealous of the bond you would have. No offense, but I’m greedy, and I want her to myself. I’m just being honest.

Hope’s awake, as you can see from the saliva smeared on the ink. I need to go get something into her belly.

I can’t believe how much I drifted off when all I wanted to say is Happy Birthday, little brother! I love you.

Dean

@dean-winchesters-bacon​ @beautifulbowleggedangel​ @flamencodiva​ @weepingwillowphoenix​ @adoptdontshoppets​ @fangirl-and-medstudent-help​ @liwopanyaasss​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​

[eldonash]

State of Love | Orobas&Carrington

Time frame: Middle of July. Part of Collisions and Obsessions Plot Who: Orobas and Carrington @carringtonblackwood​ Triggers: Some horror elements, mental/emotional breakdown Summary: Orobas delivers Carrington’s rescued sword, but reveals the poor state he is in because of the promise binding with Lydia, and her asking of him to find true love. Carrington gets Orobas to believe he has felt love. Orobas has a mental breakdown. 

Orobas’ face was mostly healed, though having taken extra feedings to do so, and rested inside his coffin. It was scarred in places where the holy water had eaten away at his jawline and caused holes through his cheeks near his gum line. It wasn’t overly obvious, scarring a vampire wasn’t the easiest, but it was there, in the faintest ridges, and the skin sealing closed imperfect. He didn’t care about the scars. Orobas had a low undercurrent of pain throbbing in him every second of the day ever since he decided not to follow through with Lydia’s promise. Equally believing just as she did, that this was impossible and therefore couldn’t require him effort. Orobas couldn’t feel love. He had the sword wrapped in cloth, cleaned properly being someone who sharpened and kept his own collection of blades very well cared for. He stood for two hours just outside the door. Unable to knock, his mind racing, and a bad feeling surfacing to his throat that made him thirsty and angry.

Carrington was perhaps a bit too worried about the other vampire. He wasn’t used to others being quite so blunt about their state of being. Most wanted to say they were fine, or that there was no need to worry. Or a thousand other excuses that did nothing but obfuscate the truth. Orobas hadn’t done that. He wasn’t alright. And Carrington wanted to know why. Because something had happened. It was the only explanation. The severity of that ‘happening’ was yet to be determined. So when Orobas arrived at his home, Carrington gave him time to knock. Time to announce himself. But the other vampire just stood there, on Carrington’s doorstep. As if he were waiting for something. Or avoiding it. Finally, Carrington wondered if Orobas was waiting on him perhaps. So he moved from where he had been reading on the couch in the sitting room and through the foyer to the front door. He opened it slowly, stepping back and inviting Orobas to come in at his leisure. Though his eyes traveled curiously over the bundle of cloth in the other’s hand before returning to his face. 

That was when his curiosity turned to a deep frown of concern as he saw the scars dotting Orobas’ previously smooth skin. Without thinking, Carrington reached out to touch his fingertips to the other man’s chin, tipping his face ever so slightly towards the light. He knew what holy water scars looked like. Better than most.  

“Who did this to you?” 

Orobas stepped into the home, honestly not realizing he had been lost in thought for so long at the door. Even after having moved, he was still distracted. So when Carrington stepped closer, Orobas allowed the observing touch to manipulate his face, mostly out of a hazy place he was finding himself. Though he trusted the other, Carrington's touch was exceptionally soft, and not surprising in expressing his concern. Always such a gentleman. “Hmm, not the best moment,” he said dryly, and expressionless, “I didn’t have much of a choice. Holding it in my mouth for thirty seconds was a lifetime in that moment.” He reached up and removed the hand on his face, and placed it on the wrapped sword, manipulating Carrington’s fingers so it wouldn’t fall, not that there was doubt, but in a selfishness to touch him. Having been so sure he had lost the other weeks prior, such emotions still not fully processed or understood. He stepped back, hands moving behind his back, looking ever stoic. 

“I have a Fae wanting to play games as payback. This isn’t the first time I have had adversaries coming for me. I should be okay. Though, this last bit she is requesting is challenging.”

Carrington closed and locked the door once Orobas was inside. His gentle examination was done without forethought of why, or of the possible consequences of touching the other without his permission. But Carrington rarely thought about consequences at times like these. Because although they hadn’t known each other long, Carrington found that the other vampire was… important to him. In ways he wasn’t quite sure he understood just yet. 

What he did understand was the feeling of cold fury that swallowed everything else as Orobas explained what had happened. He didn’t miss the numb haze that seemed to have cocooned the other man, like shellshock or worse. Carrington grew very, very still. The only thing that changed was the edges of his expression. It hardened, as did the icy-blue gaze that never left the other vampire’s face. Until Orobas placed the cloth bundle in his hand. The shape inside was achingly familiar, and for a moment Carrington’s attention was pulled towards it. He uncovered it with shaking fingers, and when he saw the sword he’d thought he’d lost forever, for a moment his fury was doused in wondrous disbelief. His expression faltered, and his carefully placed fingers tightened around what was a most wonderful and humbling gift. Carrington had so many questions. How? Why? When? Where?? 

But all he could manage was a slow, reverent nod as he raised his eyes back to Orobas’s scarred face, and the story of what had happened to the other vampire continued. Fae. Because of course it would be fae. “Payback for what?” Carrington asked, his grip on the newly returned sword tightening. “A mouthful of holy water is hardly a game. It’s torture. And you’re not okay. You said it yourself.” He took a step forward, closing the gap between them slightly. His eyes burned brightly as his cold fury returned. “Tell me what they’ve done. And we’ll either beat them. Or make them regret ever putting their pieces in play.”

“Payback for using her as bait, a promised sealed for almost taking her life is a deep debt. She will pay for it. I swear it.” Orobas should have smiled then, a creepy knowing grin that his enemies knew well, but he didn’t, the barest twitch to his lip in a faint snarl broke the frozen features. His life were fast snapshots. Runs of laughter and slaughter, war drums and frenzy, and Orobas was a man who was feared across the globe. His enemies ran deeply across the East, and in the American, and European cities where people crossed their paths and they wiped out clans. And yet those who survived, they dare not show their face, to walk up to Haxian and Orobas was suicide. However now, such a woman wanted to test him, with confidence, with surety. Anger coiled hotly in his center and he staggered from it, grabbing his head lightly with a press of fingers to his forehead. The sounds in the space changed, the subtle flutter of bat wings, his body almost falling apart into a swarm without his consent. Pain flashed across his features. 

His eyes were blood red, they hadn’t changed back to normal since his injury. His hunger swirled like a rotting core, unable to be fulfilled. He looked forward, fangs in his mouth exposed and suddenly smiled something corrupted.

“You know the stories of who I am Carrington. What I have done, and that I don’t regret a second of it.” He faintly laughed then, but the emotions on his face were deeply complicated and a little crazed. “I know, you have walked such a path in the past, and yet you can stand before me understanding things I can not. I want to cut you up and demand you explain yourself, and I equally want to fall at your feet and beg you to tell me what I don’t know.” 

He licked his lips, head tilted, cracks along his skin like he was so close to shattering. “Carrington, can I love someone?”

Bait. Alright. Carrington could understand how that might irk someone. Especially if that someone was an already temperamental fae. He could also understand the need for revenge someone might feel if they’d almost died. Carrington certainly felt it for the slayer who’d nearly taken his. But patience was a virtue, as they say. And knowing when the time was right was everything. To hear that Orobas had already decided to make this person pay for what they’d done to him settled Carrington’s fury, but only just. 

Seeing the scars of the fae’s cruelty on Orobas’ face, and knowing that particular pain all too well, was enough to keep Carrington’s anger burning brightly. And when something in the other vampire shifted, and he staggered, Carrington put out a hand to touch his arm light as a feather. The air was… heavy, or it seemed, around Orobas. Heavy and trembling… like something unseen shuddered in fright. Or in anticipation. When he looked up at Carrington, eyes and fangs on terrifying display, and smiled, for just a moment, Carrington got a glimpse of the man Orobas had been before they’d met. The human side of Carrington, long buried and nearly forgotten, shuddered ever so slightly. But the vampire wasn’t afraid. Uncertain, perhaps, but not afraid. 

He watched the eerie play of emotions across Orobas’ face, never settling in one place too long before twisting into something else. The confession that followed was something that Carrington was wholly unprepared for. Both in the hearing of it… and in the way he felt himself respond. Again, not with fear, but with something else. Something he didn’t understand. Something that… coiled hot and tight and almost painful in his gut - like a festering wound that needed to be opened up and drained. Something that needed to be cut out… by choice. And by the hand of someone that knew how. It was such a sudden reaction that Carrington was unable to help himself. “Part of me wants to let you…” he murmured, his eyes a deep, furious blue as he watched the subtle changes move over his companion. But the question that followed was as unexpected as the confession that came before. 

Carrington blinked. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Yes, of course you can love someone.” His tone eased just a bit, softening around the edges but not losing any of its heat or concern. “Why would you think otherwise?” Being who he was didn’t mean Orobas was incapable of love. It might not be the same sort of love as Carrington might feel for another, but love was relative, wasn’t it? 

Part of me wants to let you… He shivered and ached. Fangs exposed further with a yawned trigger that had him moving forward quickly to grip the collar of his shirt and crowd his space. Orobas’ hands tightened with a creak of joints, and the shock of pleasure in permission lit up the darkest parts of the monster. But there was pause. If Carrington was referring to his soul over painful emotions, Orobas wanted no part of such beautiful destruction. He’d fight him with all he had to preserve it. Shaking hands lifted from the grip in cotton and threaded to the side of his neck, and held his gaze with crazed desperation. Carrington, without hesitation, affirmed the impossible. Yes. 

“How?!” Orobas shrieked, the cells in his body separated and reformed. Making him appear further from humans as his features sunk in. Pain like swallowing glass racked through him as he denied it more. The promise bound wanted him to believe it, and Orobas couldn’t see it as a possible truth. He staggered into his friend, fighting this magic was impossible, and it was only getting worse. Carrington was sure in his words, and Orobas was furious. Why. The one word vibrated down Orobas’ spine. His other hand pressed into Carrington’s chest where a heartbeat would have long ago resided. His legs were surprisingly weak as he exposed the deep despondency rotting within. The stoic mask shattered.

“I have never thought about it. I don’t know what it is, what to define it as. I am not made for this. Haxian has told me I can not be loved! I don’t see how it is possible--” Orobas would choose to torture anyone over admitting he’s felt such a thing as love. Right? “Why do you think I can? How would I know?” 

If Carrington had breath to release, it would’ve rushed out of him as Orobas closed in quick as a viper. Not with fear, but with something unnameable. Something that shifted in the darkest parts of Carrington’s psyche. The part that was still locked in a coffin. Still chained to a wall, half-starved and incoherent. Still strapped to a table, having pieces cut out of him, regardless of intent. The parts that still haunted him, and needed exorcising. Parts that required catharsis in the form of choosing pain, instead of having pain chosen for him. It was rare that anyone understood such a thing. Though something told him Orobas would. In his own way. The same thing that told him Orobas would likely enjoy it. But it wasn’t something Carrington would ask for. It wasn’t fair. And right now there was a different subject on the table. Love. Which was just as frightening and dangerous a thing as the two men discussing it. 

Carrington frowned slightly at Orobas’ exclamation, but that was his only reaction. Other than to steady him as he staggered. Was this part of the fae magic that Orobas found himself tangled in? Was the pain he felt because he was still fighting it? Damn the fae and their trickery. Whatever it was - be it magic or simply emotions the other vampire didn’t know how to deal with - it was clear Orobas was suffering. But didn’t they all? 

“Love is never a choice,” Carrington told him firmly. “Not in my experience. Even when we fight and rail against it, it’s unstoppable. Like the sunrise or the tides.” He held Orobas firmly in his grasp so the other man didn’t fall as he spoke. To hear that Haxian of all people had put the notion of being unable to feel love in Orobas’ head… Carrington felt a sudden flare of anger at the elder vampire. 

“It’s complicated. And different for everyone.” Carrington squeezed his friend’s arm. “Trying to define it… can be an impossible thing.” It had been a long time since Carrington had felt such an emotion, yet he remembered it vividly. “But… why do you think it’s not possible for you? Because your sire has told you as much?” He was aware that Haxian would likely know everything that was said here today, but Carrington wasn’t out to insult the elder. He only wanted to understand what his friend was going through. And to help, if he could. 

Such questions Orobas asked. Carrington wasn’t sure how to answer, only that there wasn’t just one answer to be had. They were infinite and ever-changing. But one thing stuck out above all the rest. At least at this moment. Carrington gripped Orobas’ arms, a small furrow in his brow. 

“If you truly couldn’t feel love, you wouldn’t be questioning it.”

Carrington was telling him that he’s loved all along and such a thing was so incredibly unbelievable that it threatened the foundation of his entire life. That it couldn’t be defined made this even more confusing. If this had been the case, then all those friends he’s had, the ones that he buried himself, or watched die in his arms from a large scale battle, likely hurt so badly because he had cared about them. Orobas always swallowed it down, blamed them easily for their stupid mistakes to find themselves gone from his side, but never sat with the actual grief of it. Pain was so simply turned into anger, which turned him into a weapon-- which always forced them to leave as he would take things too far. Bring too much attention. Haxian always had to drag him away and he never, not once, processed it. In four hundred years. 

“Haxian didn’t mean it that way--” he defended his master easily, “we always left because I took things too far. I killed hundreds of people at a time! I always brought too much attention.” Realization on those spiralling moments gave him stillness and it was troubling, his gaze far away, processing things he’s never thought on. He almost wished to fall into a coma for a few decades. The starvation and torture be damned.  

Grief was a powerful motivator indeed. But didn’t grief come from love? Wasn’t grief the result of all the love you still had to give, yet had no place for once someone was gone? Carrington often thought so. Because those that didn’t love something couldn’t mourn it. At least in Carrington’s opinion. But defining love… that was an impossible task. Because it was different for everyone. Orobas’ rage and the violence that followed were but one form of what was an extremely complicated, and quite often contradictory, emotion. 

“Perhaps he pulled you away because he feared what else would come if you stayed. Perhaps-” Here Carrington paused, uncertain. He didn’t dare question the bond between Orobas and his sire, or the intentions of Haxian himself - it wasn’t Carrington’s place - but perhaps in the throes of such terrible, all-encompassing rage, Orobas had… misinterpreted. “Perhaps, as you say, he didn’t mean that you couldn’t love. Perhaps- perhaps he felt that you shouldn’t. For your own well-being.” It was merely a theory, and a hesitant one at that. But Carrington wouldn’t lie to his friend. 

Orobas winced, holding his chest as more pain throbbed. “That bitch--” he whispered under his breath, as a war drum thrummed loudly in his mind. “Bitch--” he repeated, getting angrier and angrier as he tried to figure out what to do about this last request. To find true love? How?! 

“Bitch!” He hit Carrington, but he wasn’t aiming to hurt his friend. He slid down until he was on the ground as something inside of him clearly broke-- and he screamed as it all bubbled over and spilled out. His features transformed, a frightening echo of the future Elder visage within him, if he contained wings of a bat, they would have stretched and collided into the walls. 

Anguish and frustrations pealed out in a shriek that made his body shake badly. When it tapered off, something profound met Carrington’s face. The tracks of tears, voice hoarse. This admittance was cold as ice, cruelness saturated, hatred seeping around them thicker than tar in the space. “Seems fitting-- all my enemies in the world and this is what runs the risk of taking me out.”

So he watched Orobas’ face as he processed everything Carrington had said. Along with everything that had happened before this moment, standing in Carrington’s home. When Orobas beat his fists against Carrington’s chest, he didn’t flinch, other than the tiniest furrowing of his brow. It didn’t hurt, not really. And if it gave Orobas an outlet that would help him work through what he was feeling, Carrington would willingly stand there and take it. All night if he had to. He did frown deeply as Orobas sank to the floor. Carrington followed, going to one knee and gripping the other man’s shoulder as the Elder inside him pressed against his skin. As if it threatened to break loose and explode violently into the world, tearing asunder anything that had brought pain or injustice to Orobas over the course of his long life. 

Carrington stayed there, knelt in the floor with Orobas, as an age seemed to pass. There was no pity in the act. No grief or sorrow. No patronizing the other’s reaction. There was, above all else, a low-boiling anger towards the woman - the fae - that had done such a thing to his friend. To make him suffer merely for the sake of suffering. It was cruel, and while Carrington had taken a lion’s share of lives over the centuries, and was hardly innocent, one thing he had never been was cruel. He had never stood for it. And he wasn’t going to start now. This fae woman would pay. 

The shriek that echoed through Carrington’s home was terrible indeed. If Carrington’s heart had still held life, if he’d been human… there was no doubt it would’ve shuddered with a sudden sense of primal fear. The ancient knowledge held by mankind that there were things in the dark with sharp teeth and a thirst for blood. Things that would hunt and catch and devour you whole if you strayed too far from the safety of your cave or your fire. But Carrington wasn’t human. He was the creature that crept through the shadows. That moved just outside the firelight, waiting… watching. 

So when Orobas looked up, Carrington didn’t flinch or look away. He could feel the hatred as it saturated the air around them, oozing into the cracks and crevices, and surrounding them on all sides like a dark, unyielding carapace. He slowly took Orobas’ face between his palms, blue eyes meeting Orobas’ dark ones. “You’re not going anywhere. Not if I can help it. But… you must believe that you can do this. Otherwise…” Carrington merely frowned, leaving the rest unsaid. Because unless Orobas himself truly believed that he could experience love, then it wouldn’t matter how much anyone else believed he could. It wouldn’t matter one damn bit. 

Believe it. All of him ached, and anger was easy, this twisted need to cut it out was a prevalent instinct. Orobas wanted to slip under the surface of hatred and let it consume him, he wanted to feel the burning hot flare of letting everything boil over until his name marked another catastrophe. To hear someone scream at him, terrorized and fearful. The scent of blood, the destruction-- echos of it all thrummed in his mind. But this one conversation changed everything. Even now, there was pause to fall into what he knows. 

For the first time-- he questioned the motivations of Haxian. 

When Carrington gripped his scarred face, it twitched into an eerie smile. Corruption bled easy, manifesting as shadows under his skin, making any hope to appear human dissipate in an instant. The tracks of tears were rare for the monster, and the vulnerability not often allowed. But he didn’t feel disgusted with himself over it. The moment was calm, but colder than ice. His hands gripped Carrington’s, their stare down intense, and spoke more than any words they were sharing. He slowly pulled away and leaned back so he was seated with a creak of limbs. Exhaustion had his motions continuing until he was laying down on his back right where he was, dealing with the pain of this promise had been wearing him out already, but with Carrington’s advice to believe he could, he did feel almost faintly better. Belief, was obtained now. 

Orobas could believe he felt such a thing, even if it was challenging his foundations and he wasn’t sure how he missed it. He closed his eyes, and tossed his arm over them. 

“Hmm,” a familiar throaty sound came from his chest. “This changes so much--” His voice was hoarse and tired. “How I see everything-- but I hear you dear friend. Perhaps, I haven’t seen things clearly. That is my error. If the truth is I have felt it, then I will find it. There isn’t another option.”

[hanscom]

meet me at the moon [rated: T]

Summary: The Losers get married, to the best of their ability.

Written for the @poly-losers-club Fic Exchange, but mostly for @poetromantics​.

Beverly was admitted to the hospital on a Monday.

It was nothing serious. No, really. Three stitches, max. But Eddie got freaked out by all the blood gushing from the gash on her forehead and insisted on driving her to the ER, full-speed. The others followed at a more reasonable pace, but eventually the calm afternoon waiting room was full of life: six grown men hovering around her, visibly stressed in a variety of ways, from Eddie pacing the room in fast, flurried strides to Richie sprawling across a whole row of seats and complaining loudly about whoever it was that banned smoking indoors. It was enough to give Beverly a headache. But that also might have been the head wound.

It took half an hour for her to be called back. The bleeding had stopped by then, but it had crusted around her shirt collar and itched like crazy. She just wanted to go home and change, but Stan was already guiding her out of her seat and towards the waiting nurse. The nurse didn’t comment on Stan’s presence — probably because Stan just looked so no-nonsense, all intense eyes and heavy frown — but she paused when the others rushed to join them.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding uncertain. “Only family is allowed in the room.”

“I’m her brother,” Richie announced instantly.

“Yeah,” Bill chimed in without hesitation. “Me, too.”

“So am I,” Eddie said, but he didn’t sound too sure about it. He’d never been a great liar.

Mike elbowed him and said, “I am, too.”

“He’s adopted,” Richie was quick to add.

“We all are,” Bill agreed.

“Except Ben,” said Mike.

Ben looked startled by the sound of his own name, but he recovered fast. He’d gotten good at playing along with Richie’s schemes over the years. “I’m her husband,” he said. As if to prove it, he moved to Beverly’s free side and looped an arm around her. The way she leaned into him was not entirely for show.

“We’re family,” Stan told the nurse. His strong voice left no room for argument.

The nurse wavered.

Richie pulled himself up to his full height and looked down at her. He didn’t look nearly as intimidating as he probably thought he did. “Listen, lady. You can either let me into that room, or you can leave me here to make a scene. Your call.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide. He put a hand on Richie’s arm as if to settle him. “Please don’t get him started,” he whispered urgently to the nurse.

The nurse looked across the room and made eye contact with the receptionist, who had been watching the entire scene with interest. She shrugged and popped her gum. The nurse seemed to take this as permission. She sighed, straighten her clipboard, and led their entourage through the heavy doors and down a blindingly white hallway. She settled Beverly into a hospital bed, took her vitals, and assured them the doctor would see them soon. She didn’t seem happy about it, exactly, but she did smile when Ben thanked her, so Beverly didn’t work up the energy to feel bad.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Riche threw himself onto the doctor’s stool with a groan. “I hate hospitals,” he announced.

“You didn’t have to come,” Bev pointed out. “I’m fine.”

Richie glared at her. “You have a gaping head wound,” he said. “I can practically see your brain matter.” Eddie gagged, then punched Richie’s arm in retaliation. Richie, unrepentant, went on. “Besides, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I stayed home watching Netflix while you withered away in a hospital bed?”

Stan shushed him sharply and looked around, as if they might have missed some stranger cramming into the room with them. “Don’t say boyfriend right now,” he admonished. “We’re her brothers, remember?”

Richie made a face. “It was the best I could do on the spot. Figured it was easier than trying to explain the concept of polyamory to some poor ER nurse.”

“It was a good call,” Bill assured him.

“Bill, please stop encouraging Richie’s stupid ideas,” Stan sighed, his voice taking on the cadence of someone reciting a line they’ve rehearsed a thousand times. Bill’s endless support of Richie’s constant chaos was a well-worn argument in the Loser household.

“Yes, dear,” Bill said dutifully, but when Stan turned away to fuss with Bev’s bedsheets, he winked in Richie’s direction. Richie blew him a kiss in return.

Mike shook his head. “Can’t you guys act like normal people for twenty minutes?” he asked, but he was grinning about it.

“Normal?” Richie repeated, incredulous. “You expect me to act normally while our poor, sweet girlfriend is confined to a sick bed?”

“Poor, sweet sister,” Stan corrected him, as if he didn’t know it was a lost cause.

Richie threw his hands up. “This is stupid,” he said. “No one’s listening. And besides, it’s not my fault Ben always gets to play husband.”

“You’re the one who said you were her brother first,” Eddie pointed out.

“Yeah, but only because Ben would have blown our cover immediately,” Richie retorted. “He can’t keep his hands to himself for more than twenty seconds.”

Richie, admittedly, had a point. Ben was tactile. He liked to hug, to hold hands, to feel the heat of another person’s skin against his own. Even then, he was standing at Bev’s side, their fingers loosely laced. He smiled self-consciously, but didn’t pull away. “Sorry.”

Bev squeezed his hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said firmly. It wasn’t that Bev preferred his presence. She would have been just as content with Mike at her side, or Stan, or one of the others. But Ben took comfort from standing so close to her, and she would never deny him that.

If it were anyone else, Richie would push the issue. Would dig into the soft spot, would wheedle and whine until he got his way. But it was Ben. They were all a little bit soft for Ben. So Richie just smiled and said, “It’s cool, man. You make a good husband.”

“I’d marry you,” Eddie agreed. The only thing he and Richie never fought about was their mutual affection for Ben Hanscom.

“Me, too,” Mike chimed in. Stan and Bill nodded along.

Bev squeezed his hand again. “I would marry the hell out of you,” she told him softly.

And maybe it was the head injury, but it actually didn’t sound like such a bad idea. They could do it in the backyard. She could make her own dress. They wouldn’t even have to invite anyone. It could be just the seven of them, the way it had always been.

“We should do it,” she said.

Ben looked down at her. He was leaning over the bed, his broad body blocking most of the blaring overhead light. He looked like something straight out of a fantasy. She could so easily picture him at the end of an aisle, dressed to the nines in a fitted suit, eyes brimming with happy tears.

“We should get married,” she said, more sure this time.

There was a pause. Slowly, Richie uncurled from his sprawl and sat up straight. His eyes were suddenly very big behind his glasses. “Someone get the doctor,” he gasped. “I think she might have brain damage.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Eddie chastised, but he glanced uncertainly at Bev like he wasn’t entirely convinced it was a joke at all.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Bev?” Bill asked. He raised his hand and made a peace sign. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Beverly rolled her eyes and started to tell them all that she was just fine, thanks very much, but she was interrupted by a quick knock on the door. It opened, and a middle-aged man in a white coat swept in. If he was surprised to find seven people crammed into one examination room, he didn’t show it. He smiled and introduced himself as Dr. Williams, and then he set to work poking and prodding Beverly’s forehead. The gash there wasn’t very long, but it was deep enough to warrant a few stitches. Beverly had expected that, so she allowed him to clean the wound, numb it, and sew it back together. The entire process took less than ten minutes — just long enough that, by the time the nurse returned to handle her discharge paperwork, the marriage conversation seemed to have been forgotten. Eddie was much calmer now that the wound was bandaged, and Richie had slipped out of the room with Bill to share a cigarette. Stan and Mike were both listening patiently to the nurse’s explanation of how to clean around the stitches without damaging them. Ben was still holding her hand. She wanted to get his attention, to insist that she really had meant it, but it didn’t feel like the right time anymore.

—

Time went on. The stitches dissolved. There was barely even a scar left. Her forehead was still a little tender if she put pressure on it, but otherwise, it was like it never happened.

Beverly still thought about it sometimes, though: the whole marriage thing.

Did she want to be married? She’d never considered it before. It had never felt like a possibility. She’d never really been the kind of kid who dreamed about a big, white wedding. The closest she had ever come was the time they’d put on a pretend ceremony in the underground safety of the clubhouse. She’d been ‘marrying’ Bill back then, which had been nice. She’d worn a crown of flowers that Eddie had picked for her. Stan officiated because he was the only one of them who knew anything about religious ceremonies. Richie walked her down the aisle. Ben cried. Mike snapped a few pictures. They had all pooled their money to get the film developed. One of the better shots was still floating around in a photo album somewhere.

They had probably been too old to play pretend, but maybe that was the thing. Maybe they had all known, deep down, that it hadn’t really been pretend at all.

—

Beverly forgot, on occasion, that her boys knew her as well as she knew them. Even better, sometimes.

She had fully decided to forget about the whole thing. It was a ridiculous idea. She couldn’t marry all of them, after all, not officially. And maybe it made her selfish, but she refused to choose. She wanted them all, equally, forever. A wedding probably wouldn’t change things, but she wasn’t willing to risk it.

And then Ben proposed.

Looking back, she really should have expected it. He had been antsy for days, more so than usual. She had walked into a room more than once to find him huddled up with Stan or Mike or Bill, talking in quiet tones that fell silent the second they noticed her. It was suspicious, sure, but her birthday was coming up. All of the guys got a little weird around her birthday — except Richie, who was always weird and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

Except this one, apparently. Richie woke her up one morning by crash-landing in her bed, covering her face with wet, sloppy kisses. Bill stood off to the side, laughing at her misery. She accepted the attack by going completely limp. Richie was as eager and excitable as a puppy, and sometimes the only defense against him was to ignore him until he got bored and moved on.

But he was particularly persistent that morning. And then, eventually, Bill joined them in the bed, tugging her free from the covers and coaxing her into consciousness with promises of breakfast. “Mike’s cooking,” he said. “He made your favorite.”

It was sort of weird, because her favorite was usually reserved for post-fight apologies. She tried to remember if she’d argued with any of them recently, but she couldn’t remember. Richie was still kissing her face in quick bursts, and it was hard to think when she felt surrounded by both of them, warm and comfortable and sleep-slow.

They eventually maneuvered her out of the bed and into the bathroom. There was a pile of clothes waiting for her. Stan must have picked them out, because everything coordinated perfectly, down to the socks. That was another weird thing. Stan didn’t take over her wardrobe unless she seemed particularly tired or stressed, which she didn’t think she had. But it was still a nice gesture, so she got dressed, brushed her teeth and her hair, and then wandered down the hall and into the kitchen.

The whole house smelled like bacon and vanilla, but the scent was so strong there that her mouth started to water reflexively. Mike was standing at the stove, an apron draped from his neck. He was shirtless underneath it. She crossed the room and stood behind him, arms around his waist, cheek against his back. She could hear his strong heartbeat and the steady rhythm of his breathing. When he said, “Good morning, beautiful,” she felt the deep rumble of his voice.

“Morning.” She kissed his bare back, between his shoulder blades, and then released him. Eddie was sitting on the counter, his feet dangling. She patted his knee and they shared a smile. And then Stan was guiding her to the table, where a fresh cup of coffee was waiting for her. It was already doctored to perfection, perfectly sweet. She took a long, grateful sip. Richie and Bill and Ben were gathered around the table in their usual places, watching her. She wasn’t used to so much attention. Sharing a life with six other people meant there were at least six other topics of conversation at any given time. Now, though, they were all looking at her like she was the only person in the room. She slowly lowered her coffee mug. “Guys,” she said warily. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Bill said, too quickly.

Richie feigned hurt, but he wasn’t very convincing about it. “Can’t we do something nice for you without having an ulterior motive?”

Bev considered the question. It was technically possible, but they were all staring at her as if waiting for something, and there was absolutely something ulterior about that. “You guys are being weird,” she accused.

“Richie’s always weird,” Eddie offered.

“It’s not just Richie,” she countered, casting an accusatory glance around the kitchen. None of them met her gaze for more than a few seconds except for Stan, who was cool as a cucumber, like always.

“We do have something to discuss,” he said, as if that wasn’t perfectly clear, but he raised his hand to cut her off when she opened her mouth to ask what the hell he was talking about. “Breakfast first, okay? Then we’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

Beverly hated being left out of the loop, but at the very least none of them seemed angry or upset. Anxious, maybe, but mostly they all looked excited. Richie was practically vibrating in his seat. Bill’s grin was huge. She caught Eddie and Mike sharing a glance, both of them seeming pleased as punch. Ben hadn’t said a word all morning, but when they made eye contact, he winked at her. The kitchen felt warm and welcome. Stan was waiting patiently for an answer, but there was a smile playing around the corner of his mouth, like even he couldn’t fight off his good mood. She sighed, but offered a nod. She could be patient. Probably.

Breakfast dragged on. The boys were usually useless at hiding things from her, but that morning they were all equally tight-lipped, refusing to steer the conversation away from mindless morning chatter. Beverly tried to listen, but she found herself zoning out more than once. Maybe it made her a bad partner, but she didn’t care about the weather or Bruce Willis’ new action movie. She would never say that out loud, of course, but they probably knew anyway. She wasn’t participating much in the banter. She was mostly staring at her plate full of french toast, wondering what the hell might be coming.

Nothing could have prepared her for the ring.

It was like a magic trick. One minute, the boys were all gathered around the table, chattering amongst themselves. And then she blinked, and there was Ben, kneeling beside her chair. No one was speaking. She couldn’t even hear their breathing over the blood rushing suddenly through her ears. Ben was saying something, but she couldn’t hear that, either. All she could do was look back and forth between his moving mouth and his outstretched hand, where the delicate silver band was pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It was inset with a single large diamond, and surrounded on either side by three smaller gems, all different colors. There were seven stones total. Her heart was pounding.

Ben’s lips stopped moving. He was staring at her, looking more and more uncertain by the second. Had he already asked? God, she’d totally missed it.

“Say it again,” she croaked. She needed to hear it.

Ben smiled, somewhere between self-conscious and unbearably fond. “Beverly Marsh,” he said, his sweet voice trembling. “Will you marry us?”

Beverly launched herself at him. He was already unbalanced on one knee, and the force of the impact brought him to the ground. He shouted, and there was a flurry of amused noise from the others, but Beverly held firm and pressed her mouth to every bare inch of his face she could reach. “Yes,” she gasped. She didn’t have to think about it. She’d done nothing but think about it. For months. “Yes, yes, oh my God, yes.”

Richie’s face appear in the periphery. He had knelt down beside them. “I think that’s a yes, bro,” he said, his big mouth beaming. Bev released Ben only to turn onto him, grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him in for another fast series of kisses. Bill was next, and then Mike. Stan helped her to her feet and then drew her into his arms, slowing her frenzied attack into something softer. By the time she was passed on to Eddie, she had settled. They didn’t kiss but she held him for a long time, cheek to cheek. It felt wet. She realized they were both crying.

And then there was Ben again, back on his feet. He looped his arms around her and drew her against his broad body. “You mean it?” he asked softly.

“Of course I do.” Beverly didn’t think she had ever meant anything more. “I love you.” Except maybe that.

Ben picked up her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. The gems glittered and gleamed under the light. She turned her hand this way and that, throwing the light, unable to tear her eyes away.

She was getting married. Holy shit, she was getting married.

—

As it turned out, planning a wedding was fun when seven people and no paperwork were involved. Everyone had a job. Mike would take the pictures. Stan was going to officiate. Bill and Ben spent long hours in the backyard, draping fairy lights around trees and along the gutters. Eddie made a thousand trips across the city, taking on every last errand in earnest. Richie mostly just stayed out of the way. It worked.

Bev set immediately to work designing her own wedding dress, but she drew the line at making six suits. Most of the boys already had something to wear, but Eddie’s suit jacket was too small and Richie had never worn formalwear in his life, so a month before the big day, Bev kicked them out of the house and refused to let them return in anything less than a tuxedo. They were gone for a couple hours, and then Richie had swanned through the house in an admittedly well-tailored suit, looking proud and pleased. He claimed the whole experience hadn’t even been that bad, especially when he had convinced Eddie to join him in the fitting room — said, of course, with an emphatic wriggle of his eyebrows. Eddie squawked a few token protests, insisting that was not what happened, but the blush that flared across his face really said it all.

The days ticked down. Some felt like a dream, and some felt like stark, terrifying reality. Beverly asked herself every day if she was ready. Every day, she knew she was.

And then, suddenly, inexplicably, it was time.

Beverly woke up alone in her own bedroom. She dressed herself, dotted on some makeup, and pinned up her hair. Somewhere in the rest of the house, the boys were dragging on their suits. She wished she could be with them, could fix their lapels and straighten their ties, but Stan was a stickler for tradition. Apparently it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, even if it was a fake wedding. Beverly personally thought a wedding with six grooms could stand to break a few traditions, but Stan insisted. 

There was no music to guide her down the aisle. Richie had busted the speakers out of his boombox, and the dog that lived next door barked relentlessly when there was too much noise. So, instead, when Beverly finally opened the back door that morning, she descended the stairs into the yard in silence. Her bare feet made quiet shifting noises against the carpet of grass. Her dress dragged the ground with a soft whisper. The boys were standing in a line, wearing black suits and ties of varying color. It reminded her of her ring, of all the different gems there. She stared at the six of them, all so different from one another. They were beautiful on their own, but all of them together was enough to stop her heart.

Richie started crying almost immediately. That set off Mike, who clung to Bill as if he couldn’t bear to hold himself up under the weight of all the emotion. Bill’s eyes were shiny when he looked at her. Eddie wasn’t looking at her at all, his head ducked down, his shoulders trembling. Even Stan made a noise suspiciously like a sniffle. The only one of them who kept it together was Ben, and that was only because he was staring at her, wide-eyed, as if everything was finally starting to sink in.

“Getting cold feet?” she asked softly, approaching him. 

He reached out with surprising speed, gathering her into his arms. “Never,” he said, and then kissed her with so much passion she sagged against him, knees weak.

Beside them, Stan cleared his throat.

“Ah, leave ‘em alone, Staniel,” Richie goaded. “We’re newlyweds.”

“Not yet, we’re not,” Stan said primly. He gently pried Beverly away from Ben and gave them each a stern look that quickly melted into fondness. “Dearly beloved,” he began when he was satisfied they would keep their hands off one another. “We are gathered here today—”

Beverly couldn’t help her giggle. There was something funny about Stan giving the whole speech in front of their empty backyard. He paused to peer at her, fighting a smile. “Something to add, Miss Marsh?”

“Are we all supposed to say vows?” Bill interrupted. He actually looked nervous.

“What’s the matter, Bill?” Richie slung an arm around Bill’s shoulders, leering down at him. “Don’t tell me you have writer’s block.”

“I’ll show you writer’s block,” Bill muttered, shoving his elbow into Richie’s ribs. Richie yowled, jolting away from him. He accidentally treaded on Eddie’s foot, who shouted and swore a blue streak, which set off the neighbor’s dog. Stan tried to get things back on track to continue his speech, but the dog was howling too long and loud for him to be heard.

There was nothing else to do but for the seven of them to spill back into the house, laughing and jostling against one another, drawn together as if magnetized. Beverly couldn’t keep her hands to herself. She had to touch Stan’s perfect hair, Mike’s brilliant smile. She ran her fingers along Ben’s jaw, and across Bill’s chest. She sat in Richie’s lap on their oversized couch and let Eddie pull her feet across his legs. He didn’t even complain that she was getting dirt all over his new pants.

Silence fell after awhile. Even the dog outside calmed. They could have gone back out, tried again, but none of them made a move. All of a sudden, despite the weeks of effort, it didn’t feel important. That was the thing, wasn’t it? A wedding was nice, but it would never feel as good as quiet moments like those, all of them draped together in small ways, a closed circuit of endless affection. What did it matter if they were married? The ring was nice, but it didn’t change the sweet curve of Bill’s smile, the beautiful drag of Stan’s fingers through her hair, the gentle rhythm of Richie’s breathing, the sharp familiarity of Mike’s cologne, the easy weight of Eddie’s hand on her ankle, the gorgeous taste of Ben’s mouth.

Beverly had been theirs in every possible way since she was a kid. She didn’t know how to belong anywhere else. She didn’t want to figure it out.

And the best part was that she didn’t have to. They had offered her forever, after all.

She fully intended to take them up on it.

[laurelsofhighever]

Chapters: 45/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Chapter Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Fereldan Civil War AU, Romance, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Summary: Something’s happened to Rosslyn.

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

The dog lay with his head in Alistair’s lap, boneless from the sedative the horsemaster had given him, with only the occasional twitch of an eye as a broad hand passed soothing strokes over his ears. His wound had been treated with charcoal and merrybud oil to draw out the poison, and more oil had been rubbed along his gums so that the rich blood supply there might also be purged. Amell, the healer who had tended both Alistair and Teagan after West Roth and had travelled from South Reach with Rosslyn’s house guard, had offered hope that Cuno would recover, had murmured that if he had been smaller, or slightly longer away from medicine, the outcome might have been different. She had left only moments ago, with an apology that she couldn’t do more – venom was tricky for magical healing, because of the way it acted on the blood, she said. That left only Alistair under the canvas roof of the picket lines, curled up in enough straw that he hardly felt the cold, with one leg numb and his mind far enough away that he barely noticed anyway.

Rosslyn looked harder, sterner than he remembered, dressed formally in embroidered split skirts that matched the elegance of court attire with the practicality needed for the field, with cavalry boots and riding breeches underneath that clung to the shape of her legs. He shouldn’t have noticed. She had barely glanced at him, and when she had, the set of her eyes in her summer-tanned skin had retained all the snap of winter, the aloof cold that had set them so far apart at Aeylesbide, that spoke of worse things than mere offended pride, and that was, at least this time, entirely all his fault.

No, he reminded himself. Not mine. Eamon’s. He had thought himself angry when he confronted the arl in Orzammar, but having seen Rosslyn’s pain with his own eyes, the way she stood out of reach and contracted in around herself as if his very touch might burn, the urge to inflict that same pain on Eamon had curled tight in his fist and surged through his veins.

“At least she had you,” he muttered to the dog, and chuckled. “Although you certainly picked your time to be dramatic. I was this close to telling her everything.”

Cuno slumbered on, oblivious. His nose twitched.

Alistair smiled, his fingers idling in the loose folds of the dog’s ruff. “I can’t let it be like last time,” he confessed. “And I can’t lose her. I can’t –”

A rising tide of noise outside distracted the line of his thoughts. At first he thought the commotion must be some disagreement or excitement among the ranks, but as he listened, he recognised a tinge of alarm in the shouts, and a whisper of dread breathed across the back of his neck.

“No…”

Carefully settling the dog in the straw, and glad he hadn’t been given a chance to remove his sword, he emerged from the lines and set off towards the source of the noise. Others had been roused, too, but he ignored them. The grip on his sword hilt tightened. His pace quickened, until a distant, panicked shout broke him into a run, heart pounding, and he skidded to a stop in front of Rosslyn’s pavilion. The place blazed with light, the entryway thrown open with soldiers prowling about its insides like hounds casting for a scent.  

“Your Highness!” one of the guards cried when he was spotted.

“What happened?”

The woman, one of Rosslyn’s house guard, shifted on her feet. “Her Ladyship’s gone, Ser. Someone cut through the back of the tent wall. Looks like there was a canny right ding-dong, but they took her.”

“Where were the guards?” he snapped, already storming through to eye the evidence for himself.

“Drugged, Ser. We’ve put out the word – nobody leaves the bounds of the camp until Her Ladyship is found.”

Alistair had stopped listening. Panic rode high in his throat but he squashed the sick coil of his gut and forced his mind to focus. The back wall of the pavilion sliced; bedclothes scattered over the floor, in a trail towards Talon. The sword lay on the floor next to its stand, half out of its scabbard, as if someone had lunged for it and been interrupted.  

And then he spotted a gleam of something underneath the food of a blanket, and his heart stuttered. His dagger, the one he had given her, discarded in the middle of the fight with a congealing line of scarlet along one edge of the blade. Beneath the surge of hope it gave him to see she had kept it, his ears rang, and bile crawled up his throat.

No. No no no no no…

He grabbed a torch and strode into the dark, following the trail of blood.

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

“If you scream, I’ll cut that pretty throat of yours,” the assassin promised, in an accent delicate but unmistakably Orlesian.

Rosslyn snarled. “Why haven’t you already? unless you’ve realised that I’m your only insurance for getting out of here alive.” The words were slurred, a match to the unresponsive drag of her limbs, and the sweet taste in her mouth that remained from whatever paralytic powder her attacker had blown in her face.

Around them, the camp buzzed like a nest of kicked ants, bristling with stings and shouts, and yet somehow the small, slight woman at Rosslyn’s back was managing to stay out of sight, her arms pressing daggers against Rosslyn’s neck and stomach to stop her crying out, the stolen scout armour sharp through the single thin layer of her nightclothes. Feeling was returning, but she pretended otherwise, exaggerating the flail of her arms and the wobble in her legs – her captor was fast, it would take surprise and opportunity to be free of her.

The dagger at her side bit deeper.

“I suggest you be quiet, ma petite,” the assassin hissed.

“You’re the one who poisoned my dog.”

“How clever!” The assassin gave a brittle chuckle. “My employer warned me I could not touch you with that infernal animal on guard, and so I took steps to get it out of the way. Be grateful I am more used to human targets.”

Drizzle collected on Rosslyn’s hair, sheened her face like a cold mask as she swallowed her rage. They would know by now that she was the target, and people would be looking – dogs with her scent – even if the assassin made it to the edge of camp, going further would be near impossible.

“Baudrillard?” she tried, aiming for distraction.

The dagger poked her again. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Marjolane!”

The assassin froze. With precise deliberation, she spun around, dragging Rosslyn with her sharply enough that the blade held at her neck nicked the skin. Ten feet behind them, A figure stepped onto the path from behind a tent, bow nocked and draw-arm half pulled back, ready to loose.  

“Ah, Leliana,” the assassin crooned. “How lovely to see you again, chérie.”  

“I recognised your trick with the dog,” Leliana replied, casually, though her eyes were trained on Marjolane like a cat’s. “Though I am certain you meant the dosage of the viper’s sting to be lethal. You must be getting sloppy in your dotage.” She drew her arm back further. “Let her go.”

Marjolane chuckled again as she backed away. “Not even you are that good a shot, chérie. I would move her into the path of the arrow before it had a chance to reach me.”

Rosslyn stayed silent. She watched Leliana for any sign of movement, any indication that she would act, but forced her body to remain unresisting, heavy, a burden to her distracted captor, and all the while she measured the slow creep of the tingles up her arms as feeling came back to them.

“You would be left without a bargaining chip,” Leliana pointed out. Her draw arm was starting to shake.

“Perhaps,” the assassin answered. “But your desire for her survival is much greater than mine. You would not dare chance it. And nor would any other fool here,” she added, as another figure came barrelling into view through the nearest row of tents.

Alistair halted behind Leliana when he saw what was happening, his knuckles white on his sword and his face thrown into flickering relief by the torch he held aloft in his other hand. The snarl that contorted his features when his mind processed the details of the scene in front of him sent a shiver down Rosslyn’s back, but when she met his eye and shook her head, he held back.

“Good boy.” Marjolane had turned to him, was still backing away, but with her attention split in an extra direction, her options for escape were thinning.

“Where are you going?” Leliana called. Her blue eyes still burned, but the expression around them had crumpled into something almost desperate, the tension in the drawstring faltering. “You do not seem to realise, we have a score to settle. You framed me, had me caught and tortured. Why did you hate me so much?”

“Hate you?” the assassin repeated. The daggers at Rosslyn’s neck loosened, imperceptibly. “I never hated you. But did you think I did not know where you were, that I watched you? ‘What is she up to?’ I asked myself, as I saw you scrabble around in this country that smells of wet dog.” She snorted. “And then, of course, you wound your way into the confidence of this Falcon of Highever, and I saw – I saw that you planned to use this influence to set yourself against me.”

Rosslyn caught Leliana’s eye, a warning not to be baited, a signal to be ready.

“How fortunate it was that I found another who shared my concerns,” Marjolane continued, smug with her success. “Once I have delivered her to my employer, I will be free once more, and you will be free to crawl out of this filthy mud hole and come back with me, back to the life you were made for.”

Leliana shuddered, but swallowed her resolve. “I came to Ferelden to be free of you. Now I see my mistake. You’ve caused too much pain for too many people, Marjolane. It ends here!”

In an instant, Rosslyn dropped, twisting, her weight an advantage against the smaller woman. Above her, she caught the dull thud of an arrow hitting flesh, the breath of someone knocked back. A dagger came into her hands and she surged upwards again, driving the blade hilt-deep into the cavity beneath the ribs. An eternity passed and Marjolane clawed at her, gasping, her dark eyes wide with confusion then fury by turns, before finally she slipped off the steel and collapsed unmoving in the mud. Silence fell. Rosslyn stood and let the dagger fall from her hands. Her pulse roared in her ears, her breath a laboured rasp, as if her body couldn’t quite believe it was still working, and when she brought her hand to the sting in her neck, her fingers came away sticky with blood.  

A sob roused her from her shock. Leliana had sunk to her knees, her shoulders slumped and shaking, one hand over her mouth, leaning on her bow like it was the only solid thing in the world. She barely seemed to notice when Rosslyn knelt beside her to coax her into an embrace, and only wept harder at her stilted, murmured assurances that everything would be alright.

“It’s over,” she repeated, again and again. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

“Come on, we can’t stay here.”

Half-entreating and half-hauling her friend upright, Rosslyn finally took stock if where they were. Her limbs still felt heavy from the poison she had been given, the lack of coordination unhelpful given she now supported Leliana’s weight as well as her own, but adrenaline steadied her, and she grit her teeth as she began leading the way towards the healer’s tent. Something warm fell around her shoulders as she took the first steps – Alistair’s cloak. She had forgotten him in the heat of the moment. His hands lingered just a little as he made sure the fabric covered her properly, his eyes tight at the corners, but to her relief he said nothing, only fell into silent step behind her as she led Leliana away. When the first guard found them, he took charge and ordered the man to find somewhere to keep Marjolane’s body, and again she was grateful.

Amell greeted them at the entrance to the modest infirmary, though whether she had been roused by the commotion or just hadn’t gone to bed was impossible to tell. She didn’t say a word as the three of them emerged from the gloom, only hustled them inside and laid gentle hands on Leliana’s shoulders to guide her to the furthest and most private pallet from the opening. The sobs had subsided now, and only the shining tracks across her pale cheeks betrayed the loss of composure.

“She’s had a shock,” Rosslyn explained as the mage ran a brief check of her patient. Without any occupation for her hands, she drew the edges of Alistair’s cloak closer, taking comfort in its fastness and the warmth of his scent on the collar, however much her better judgement warned her not to.

“Someone should send out, and fetch Captain Morrence.”

“Well it’s not going to be you,” Amell replied in clipped tones. “You’re not going anywhere until I look at your feet.”

“My…?”

She was barefoot. She hadn’t noticed before, with the combination of the knife at her throat and the soporific she with which had been dosed, but looking down now, every sensation crowded in at once; her toes burned with cold, her soles were bruised and bleeding, and to top it all, the loose trousers she wore for sleep were caked halfway to the knee in mud. Dazed, she accepted the healer’s fussing without complaint and sank to the nearest pallet, though she had to stifle a hiss as her feet were first rubbed clean of the worst of the dirt, then dipped into a bowl of warm water sharp-scented with herbs and vinegar.

“No lasting harm done,” Amell informed her with a smile as she sent a healing spell twining up her legs.

She was too tired to answer, the pain and the dregs of her resolve stolen away by the magic. “Will Leliana be alright?” she asked instead.

The healer shrugged. “Depends what happened. I gave her a draught so she won’t have to deal with it until the morning, at least.”

The chantry sister’s form, distinguishable only by the red shock of her hair, was already curled under the covers of the farthest bed. With a sigh, Rosslyn turned away and watched in silence as Amell cleaned the worst of the cuts in her feet, trying to ignore the faint headache growing behind her eyes that might have been the day’s stress or the paralytic, or even just the bright wisp-lights of the infirmary. After a moment or two, she realised Alistair had left, and berated herself for missing him. She said nothing, and Amell, satisfied with her work, went to discard the muddied water.

“Oh, Your Highness!”

Rosslyn turned. Alistair stood sheepishly in the opening, with a pair of boots in one hand and some spare clothes thrown over his arm. From what she could tell, he had had a narrow escape from the contents of the bowl

“I think they’re too big,” he apologised when he saw her looking. “But the quartermaster was very grumpy at being woken up. They should do, at least as far as, uh…” his smile faltered as he set them next to her, and she dropped her gaze.

“Thank you,” she said. “And you, Enchanter. It was lucky we brought you along.” Twice over, she added mentally, as her mind drifted to Cuno, resting under the horsemaster’s care. She didn’t dare ask if he was otherwise.

Amell smiled again, a pretty expression that brought out dimples in her cheeks. “I enjoy the excitement, though by all accounts of luck you should’ve had enough for a while. You’re cured, by the way. Off you trot.”

“I’m –? Oh, thank you.” She stood and tried her feet. They were still tender, but the lingering magic in her veins would probably take care of that by morning. The mud caked onto her clothes stuck unpleasantly to her skin, however, and her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“If Your Highness would like to excuse himself?” Amell prompted.

“What?”

“Her Ladyship needs to change.”

“I – oh.” He froze, eyes bugged wide as he gulped back his embarrassment. “I’ll, um – of course… But if I could – I mean, Teyrna Rosslyn should really have someone to escort her back. See she gets there.” His hands twisted together, and he peered at her through hopeful lashes. “May I?”

Her mind was too fogged to craft a proper refusal. She nodded.

And yet she took her time getting changed, making sure the boots were laced with proper tightness in case they slipped and gave her blisters, until she could no longer put off going out to meet him. He was waiting for her in the pool of light outside the tent, and fell into careful step beside her without a word, respecting the space she put between them. Even so, his gaze burned hot against the back of her neck, adding to the weight of the silence with every step they took, but she didn’t turn. When they finally did reach her pavilion and the guard posted outside, she might have cried with relief, because it marked the point where she could get him to leave, to drop her back into her certain loneliness where her actions were prescribed, the requirements of her easy to meet.  

One more day, just one, and I’ll suffer through whatever I must.

Servants had tidied away the mess, all the evidence, as if her fight with Marjolane had never happened. Talon stood in its sheath, back in its stand by her armour, with the scattered blankets once more laid neatly over the bed and the shadows chased into the corners by the steady light of lyrium glowstones. Even the tear in the wall had been mended, patched up with neat stitching like a darned sock.

Alistair still hovered behind her.  

“Of course,” she realised. “Your cloak.” She shrugged it from her shoulders, ignoring how cold the air suddenly seemed without it, and kept her gaze on the floor as she held it out. “Here – thank you.”

“Maker’s breath, I don’t care about the cloak.” He all but lunged across the space, taking the garment only because it was in the way. “How could I think about that when you might’ve been… Are you alright?”

Startled, she leaned away, shrugged, swallowed back tears. “fine.”

He inhaled as if to say something, but his gaze fell to the line on her neck where the assassin’s blade had broken the skin. Seemingly without thinking, he reached out to touch her, but she flinched away, the graze of his fingertips a shock that brought heat surging to her face. Her head felt squeezed, pressed in a vice, with her throat closing and her limbs held taut to keep from shaking. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She wanted him gone. She wanted to sleep, or to throw herself into his arms, or cry, or run screaming down the mountain that she couldn’t do this anymore, or –

“I’m fine,” she managed for a second time. “A little choked, is all. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

His hand still hung in the air where he had reached for her. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

Her patience snapped. “I already know.” Grief corded into a jagged lump at the back of her throat and she reeled away to put her desk between them, teeth clenched to calm the rage boiling hot enough to turn her stomach. “I know. Cailan isn’t exactly… reserved with his expectations, he’s made everything about it clear. And… you don’t need to worry, I – I understand. You owe me nothing. I’ll hold you to no obligations.”

The sigh of her name, uttered with a tenderness as if it had been waiting on his lips for months, set like a lance in her gut. But she stood her ground. South Reach had been worse than this, and she had endured.

“Rosslyn,” he said again, firm. “I’m not getting married.” When she didn’t move, a breathy, half-hysterical giggle slipped his tongue. “At least, not to Valesh. Really, I should have worked out sooner that’s what was planned but… well, if I’d gotten your letters…”

“What?” Her mind couldn’t focus, whirled with the chorus of an entire flock of starlings, so bewildered that when he eased a cautious step towards her, she forgot to pull away.

He swallowed. “Your letters – they were intercepted. I didn’t realise until I read the one you sent with Duncan, and then, well…” He turned, and brought something out of a back pocket, a pristine stack of papers tied together with ribbon, which he held out as cautiously as a traveller might offer an apple to a wild deer. “I left as fast as I could to find you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Eamon.” The name escaped as a growl. “He was trying to separate us, for the good of Ferelden, apparently. I am so sorry that I didn’t realise sooner.”

Questions tripped over themselves on her tongue. Uncomprehending, she traced the lines of her name written in a broad, meticulous script as he handed the package to her, as if the action might bring the clarity drowning in the blackened landscapes of her brain. So much had already happened. Her legs wobbled at the end of their strength, so she staggered like a drunkard to the bed and collapsed onto it without ceremony, still marvelling at the treasure in her hands. At least a dozen letters in his hand, hidden away, never sent. She had fortified her heart against his indifference, wrapped it in barbs and palisades and strong iron shields, and yet this one simple revelation was enough to bring the walls of her castle shattering to the earth.

Alistair followed her.

“All this time,” she croaked as he knelt before her, as his fingers brushing tentative across her wrist, the other warm on her thigh. “You wrote all these… even though you thought I wasn’t writing back.”  

He smiled like blossom in spring. “I did.”

“You didn’t get my letters?”

“None since the darkspawn attack.”

“I wondered, that’s why I –” She looked up. “And… and you’re not betrothed?”

This time, he laughed. “No – no, I’m not.”

What little air remained in her lungs left her in a lightheaded rush. It didn’t matter which one of them moved first, only that in an instant, she had her arms around his neck, wrapped in an embrace tight enough to block out everything but her relief. The scent of his skin hadn’t changed, nor his warmth, the softness of his hair against her cheek. She dropped the letters as she tightened her grip, buried deeper into his shoulder, because what did they matter next to having him here, real, holding her like he had ached for her just as desperately as she had for him? Her cheeks were wet but she didn’t care, it didn’t matter, he had never stopped writing at all.

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed. “I’ve –”

His breath caught. “I’ve missed you, too. So much.”

She wanted to laugh. “Why do I always end up crying on you?”

“I’ve just got one of those faces.”  

She denied it, shook her head, but still the tears kept falling. He hummed and stroked her hair, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard even through the dampness she felt trickling onto her own shoulder. Her breath shuddered. Time stopped. They rocked together in the thin confines of the pavilion, settling into one another’s breathing and the play of idle, self-assuring touches, sagging like winter branches laden down with snow with the weight of what had so nearly been lost. At last, everything lay quiet, and by degrees her grip on him relaxed, soothed along with the fear that he was no more than a wisp of smoke, bound to disappear again. Guards clanked past outside, rain pattered down, and still they didn’t move.

“Rosslyn?” Alistair asked eventually. “Are you asleep?”

For a moment he thought she might have drifted off, but then a tiny headshake and a mumbled no brushed against his pulse, and he had to remind himself where they were.

“You probably should be, it’s so late,” he replied, and pulled away. His hands went to steady at her waist.

Pushing her hair out of her face, she sighed and tried for a smile, but it faltered as her eyes flitted to the patched side of the tent, where the blade of her would-be assassin had first cut through. “I’m not sure I could,” she confessed, and dropped her gaze to her hands twisting in her lap.

“Hey…”

“Will you stay?” she asked. “Please? I – I don’t want to be alone right now, and Cuno…”

He laid a hand against her cheek, torn between wanting to offer comfort and knowing that the entire camp would hear of it by morning if he stayed.

“Please,” she repeated.

He couldn’t stand the sight of the tears on her cheeks. “If you’re sure, I have one condition,” he told her, covering for his uncertainty with the most officious voice he could muster. “You have to promise to get a decent amount of rest.”

She smiled back, but her attention darted to the wall again. “I can promise to try.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Here –”

Carefully, he reached down and unlaced the boots he had borrowed for her, nudging his cheek against her knee when a warm hand landed on his shoulder, and when she was barefoot, he guided her up the bed and under the covers. Their fingers brushed as he retrieved the letters to place on the desk and he smiled at her as she thanked him. After that, there’s was nothing to do but draw the curtains that divided the main area of the pavilion from the sleeping quarters.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He ruffled a hand through his hair. “Uh, do you have any spare blankets?”

“Why do you…?” Her eyes widened. “No. You are not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” he argued.

“That’s a lie.” She sat up straighter, with the covers bunched in her lap. “You’ll catch your death this far up in the mountains. And besides, it’s undignified.”

“I’ve slept on the floor before.”

Her expression darkened. “Not when you were Prince of Ferelden and had a perfectly good bed available. If one of us is going to sleep on the floor, it should be me. You outrank me.”

“And you were nearly killed tonight!”

She flinched. Too far. The gap between them yawned again and he yearned to cross it, but the thought of what that might mean left his stomach tying itself in knots, doubting, giddy, terrified of stepping too far.

“It seems we’re at an impasse,” she said, reading the flustered colour blooming across his face.

“You and your damned protocol,” he huffed. “I don’t – I wouldn’t want to compromise…”

“People will talk no matter where you sleep,” she pointed out, with a blush of her own. She even shuffled sideways to make room for him under the covers. “You… might as well be comfortable. Unless – if you don’t want to do that, I’d understand, forget I said –”

“Hey.” He was by her side in an instant, the touch to her shoulder light but reassuring. “I don’t want to leave you alone. But… are you sure there’s room?”

“Cuno manages, and I swear he doubles in size when he sleeps…”

“He’s alright, you know,” Alistair said. “Just sleeping off the worst of it, I promise. The horsemaster said he’d make a full recovery.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, then unbuckled his belt and the quilted jacket that had seen him warm from Orzammar – any more would be excessive, but this way he wouldn’t overheat, and there wouldn’t be any stray edges of metal to dig into Rosslyn’s skin. When he finally turned, he found her looking demurely away, as if he were taking off more, and for the first time the desperation of seeing her again was subsumed by the possibility of all the things he had imagined in her absence, everything he wanted to say but did not dare. Still, she made room for him, sidling to the far edge of the pallet and waiting for him to lie back on the overstuffed pillow before closing the space once more.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

He smiled. “Come here.”

The bed really wasn’t made for two people. Designed for light storage and travel, it creaked as they settled themselves, Alistair on his back with Rosslyn tucking herself as best she could into the gap under his arm, her ear settled above the pulse of his heart and her fingers tangled in the loose folds of his shirt. When she finally stopped wriggling, he plucked up the courage to lay his own hand against her waist. She didn’t move away.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Mmmm…” She was looking at the hole in the wall again; he felt her held breath.

“You know I won’t let anything happen to you, right?” he murmured. “If something else is stupid enough to come after you tonight, they’re going to have to get through me.” He threaded their fingers together with his free hand, quietly enthralled by the way her body fitted against his. “And I promise they won’t get through me.”

Some of the tension unwound from her limbs, and quiet seeped into the space around them, the drum of the rain and the dull scent of mud soothing after the fraught hours of the day. Alistair tried to stay awake and be vigilant so Rosslyn might feel safe, but his eyes were scratchy and the weight of her at his side already succumbing to sleep lulled him towards the Fade, and somewhere between one slow blink and the next his last thoughts slid away into slumber.