#of course the answer is always yes. i’m fine and unbothered and this doesn’t effect me

[zooterscooter]

SIGHS LOUD. don’t read the tags too hard i cant sleep

[happyandticklish]

The Problems with Legilimency

Notes: For the anon request. This is so fucking late because writer’s block is a bitch, but I hope you enjoy it regardless! ^^ I sort of took my own spin on the request, but I think it’s fairly similiar to the original. 

Summary: Two times in which Queenie’s Legilimency became a problem, and once when it kind of helped. 

1.        

“Newt!”

The sound of his name strung along by that familiar voice sent a peculiar thrill through Newt’s person. He never grew tired of hearing it. He spun carefully around, an Occamy curled in his grasp; its tiny head poked curiously out from under his arm. “Yes?”

Tina stood puzzled back in his lab, hands placed upon her hips as she examined one of the shelves. “It’s not here. That herb you were looking for. I swear I saw it when we first came in here…”

That was odd. Newt was usually very meticulous about his placement system. He deposited the Occamy gently back into their nest, though the task provided some difficulty as the creature attempted to weave through his arms to reach him once more. Eventually though, hands free, he made his way over to where Tina stood.

In the space where a small bottle of rare herbs should have been, there was nothing but empty space. “You didn’t move it somewhere?” Newt asked, his tone inquisitive rather than angry. He began rearranging bottles around it, wondering if it had simply gotten misplaced.

Tina shook her head. “I turned my back and it was gone. It’s not…” she hesitated. “…supposed to do that, is it? I mean, it doesn’t have some kind of magical property to it, does it?”

Newt laughed, the quiet chuckle of an inside joke. “No, no need to worry about that. It does contain magical properties, though they are rendered quite harmless in its current form. Aha!” He grinned, his voice filled with soft triumph. “I believe we have found our culprit.”

Pickett stood frozen where Newt had revealed him, a bottle clutched tightly in his arms. His eyes widened, and quickly he tried to scramble away from them. Unfortunately, his efforts to get away from Newt only brought him into Tina’s awaiting hands, who held him up carefully as she lifted him into the air.

“Nice work, Tina,” Newt said, a hint of pride entering his tone. Seeing two of his favorite creatures in the world interact always brought him a strange joy. “Be careful when extracting the bottle from him; he can be difficult when he wants to be.”

“Oh, um, yes, of course.” Tina seemed more doubtful of her abilities, holding the creature out carefully as though one of two of them was going to accidentally hurt each other. She attempted to gently wrestle the bottle out of his hands, but, seeing her intentions, Pickett was quick to intervene. He wrapped his arms tightly around it, and when she attempted to nudge him off with her finger, he only transferred his hold to her as devious inspiration struck him.

Tina yelped, her heart catching a little in her throat. Though she admired Newt for his love for these creatures, she still found herself a bit wary when it came to actually interacting with them. Newt himself seemed unworried by this development, a smile tugging reluctantly at his lips, like a parent attempting to be disappointed with their child but ultimately unable to help their amusement.

“P-Pickett,” she started, her voice wavering a little at the uncertainty of talking to the tiny being. “I’m going to need you to let go now, if that’s alright; we need those ingredients for medicine—your medicine, I might add.”

Pickett was unbothered, clambering onto her finger fully now and beginning to scramble up her arm rapidly. Tina jerked back in surprise, the sensation of his little arms and feet crawling on her skin igniting a long forgotten sensation.

“Newt!” she called anxiously, tossing him a quick glance.

“Don’t worry about him,” he assured her. “He’s completely harmless—it’s only him who likes to think he’s tougher than he is.”

“B-But he’s—ah!” Tina felt a fluttery laugh escape her as Pickett reached her shoulder, poking around and exploring the area curiously, brushing up against her neck. “E-Ehe, w-wait!”

“What’s all the noise down here?”

The two startled at the sudden appearance of Queenie, her curls framing her face in its innocent curiosity as she stepped off the stairs. Evidently, neither of them had noticed her descent in the confusion of the misplaced bottle.

“Tina was just helping me create a new batch of medicine for the Bowtruckles,” Newt explained quickly, an odd nervousness entering his voice at the two of them being caught alone. He felt the unnecessary need to clarify their presence there. “When a bottle, it—well it went missing, but it was fine as Pickett here—”

“Of course it tickles,” Queenie interrupted, her voice directed affectionately in the direction of Tina. Newt started, those words being one of the last things he expected to leave her mouth. “There’s no need to get all worked up about it.”

“What?” 

Tina stiffened and flushed as Newt’s gaze swiveled to her, focusing on Pickett who continued his exploration of her neck and shoulders with an unapologetic joy. He narrowed his eyes at the pesky creature, who startled at the sudden attention he was receiving and hid quickly under Tina’s collar.

Newt lurched forward, ready to remove him, but his hands paused inches away from Tina, where they hovered uncertainly over her neck. “Can I—that is, do you mind if I—”

“Yes!” Tina agreed, her voice a little too eager in her embarrassment. Quickly but carefully, Newt managed to remove the critter, allowing him to cling moodily to his finger as he pulled away.

Queenie smiled fondly at them, shaking her head a little at their antics. “Honestly,” she said as Newt tucked the errant Bowtruckle into his pocket. “There’s no need to get so worked up about it; it’s just tickling.”

“How did you—”

“Legilimens,” Queenie replied, arching a brow with a sly grin. “Or have you forgotten?”

“Oh. Right.” Newt fussed needlessly over Pickett, adjusting and re-adjusting him as he continued to avoid their gazes. Pickett himself bucked against the attention, batting in annoyance at his fingers. “Um, if you don’t mind, we were in the middle of something if we could return to that.”

“Oh.” Queenie shook her head at herself. “Of course.” There was something in her eyes that said she knew Newt’s true reason for wanting her gone, but for reasons unknown to Newt but that he was nonetheless grateful for, she declined revealing. “I’ll leave you two alone them.”

She whirled gracefully up the stairs, her silk robe fluttering lightly behind her along with her steps. It was only once she was gone that Newt allowed himself to exhale, turning to face Tina. “Are you alright?”

But Tina had already turned away from him, and was wholly engaged in the process of chopping up the retrieved ingredients as Newt had shown her earlier. The tips of her ears were tinged a dark pink, and her hair fell forward in her face, easily hiding her expression from the other.

Newt would have pursued the issue further, had he not been just as grateful to drop the subject at hand. For some reason, this new piece of knowledge about Tina stuck in his brain, a strange concoction of nerves and excitement lighting up his chest. The sudden feelings were too difficult to parse then and there, however, and Newt turned to the counter as well, making sure to stand a couple feet away as he directed her on the next steps.

“Now you want to grind it, into a fine powder.”

2.        

“Oh.”

The word was a startled little gasp, and it drew both Tina and Newt out of the world they had previously been lost in. Newt jerked away from her instantly, releasing her skin as though it were suddenly made of hot iron. Tina’s face was flushed, the remnants of laughter dancing in her smile. Less than a minute before, Newt’s fingers had been engaged in the process of reducing her into a state of flushed laughter. Now, however, he kept his hands firmly shoved in his pockets, far removed from where they could have any kind of effect on anyone.  

After Queenie had accidentally revealed Tina’s secret a couple weeks ago, Newt had found himself unable to stop finding ways to accidentally tickle her in the hopes to see that unexpected smile light up her face once more. After a while, it became less accidental, though if Tina noticed, she chose not to say anything. There was hardly any excuse for that evening, however. It was only that Tina had chosen to stretch her arms above her head moments before and Newt could hardly be blamed for what happened afterwards.

Both appeared heavily embarrassed to have been caught in such a state, and it wasn’t just Newt this time who was having trouble making eye contact.

Queenie smiled, a gentle, reassuring gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to inform you both that dinner was ready. Although it seems you two are rather… preoccupied, at the moment.”

Newt cleared his throat, coughed awkwardly, and cleared his throat once more, clearly having difficulty coming up with words. “Sorry, we were just—that is to say—I was—”

“Tickling my sister,” Queenie answered for him, appearing unbothered by both the word and the subject. “It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize. I didn’t mean to intrude; it’s just that you were being quite loud.”

Tina’s brow furrowed as she readjusted herself on the bed; she was putting forth a failing attempt to make herself appear anymore dignified than the state in which she’d been interrupted. “How could you possibly have? We were—that is, we were trying to be quiet.”

“Thoughts speak louder than words,” Queenie quoted, though there was a truthful undertone to it that spoke of the embarrassing reality of having a Legilimens as a sister.

“Ah,” Tina said, visibly flustered. “Well.”

“Right,” Newt agreed eagerly, though it was unclear what either of them was agreeing on.

Queenie offered them a knowing look, before finally turning around to head back downstairs. “Alright then, I’ll leave you two alone. But be sure to come down soon; you wouldn’t want dinner to get cold.”

She paused at the doorknob, however, and turned suddenly back around. “Oh, and Newt?”

“Yes?”

“Her worst spot is her knees. Just in case you were wondering. Anyways.” With that, Queenie flounced from the room, her innocent air a betrayal of the words she’d just spoken.

The two of them sat frozen on the bed, both of them waiting for the other to make the first move. There wasn’t exactly protocol for this kind of thing.

After a while Tina groaned, dropping her head into her heads. “Sometimes I truly abhor my sister.”

“She can be quite… blunt,” Newt agreed. He found his gaze drawn now to her legs, swung carelessly over the bed. Queenie’s words played over and over in his mind, and before he knew what he was doing he had reached out and experimentally squeezed her knee.

Tina yelped, her hands flying from her face to shove at his arms quickly. “Don’t,” she warned, but there was a lightness to the warning that implied maybe she didn’t mean it as much as she said. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Newt, please, this isn’t—”

“Fair?” he finished softly, squeezing again to hear that adorable squeal. Her hands flailed uselessly for a moment before fisting in the sheets, keeping herself from fully shoving him off.

“Newt,” she gasped, the words filled with anticipation and a giddy nervousness that prompted Newt to quickly enact a repeat of earlier, his hands flying as he wrecked her once more. Her laughter rung in his ears, wild and carefree, and he found he would do anything to hear that sound, even for a moment longer.

Eventually he relented, as dinner really was getting cold. However, he found an odd disappointment setting in when she merely stood up afterwards and headed over to the door, albeit more out of breath than before. Before he had time to dissect that feeling, the two were called once more for dinner in slightly harsher tones, and they quickly rushed down the stairs in an effort not to induce the other’s wrath at having to wait for them.

3.      

“Nehehehewt!” Tina gasped, batting uselessly at his hands as they scribbled mercilessly over her stomach. “Plehehehease!”

The two were curled up on the couch, having retreated there for the night while Queenie and Jacob were out on an evening for two. In the beginning the two had simply watched movies, Tina propped up against the other so that her head rested on his shoulder. Movies had been Newt’s idea, a Muggle concept that he had found fascinating. Moving pictures on a screen without the use of magic…. Tina had scoffed at the idea, but even she had to admit that it was pretty amazing seeing it in person. The TV had been a purchase made by Queenie, who had decided to invest after seeing how drawn in the two had been after returning from the theaters.

After a while, however, Newt had once again found his interests caught by a different form of entertainment, that of Tina’s startled shriek when he accidentally squeezed her side whilst adjusting himself. Moments later, Tina had her back pressed against his chest as she attempted to curl in on herself and evade the ticklish hug Newt was administering.

It was truly a wonder how they kept arriving here.

“Please what?” Newt asked, his lips quirking up into that rare teasing smile that Tina both hated and loved dearly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Plehehehease stahahahap!” she giggled, her legs drawing up to her chest as she attempted to protect herself. “Ihihihi—ahahah, ihihit tihihickles! Nehehewt!”

“Alright, alright.” Newt relented, merely resting his hands on her stomach now and rubbing calming circles. “You know, you’re quite cute laughing like that; you should do it more often.”

“I already do it enough, thanks to you,” she replied with a wry grin, her words coming out in an exhausted huff as she fought to regain her breath back. “I don’t understand why you insist on doing it so often.”

“I believe he wants you to return the favor.”

The two startled, Tina letting out a startled yelp as a dark crimson flooded Newt’s cheeks, and they both turned to see Queenie standing at the doorway. Evidently, the two had just returned.

“Q-Queenie,” Newt stammered, with the intent of replying some kind of denial, but Jacob popped his head around her shoulder before he could, viewing the scene curiously.

“What favor? Oh hey, is that Felix the Cat?” Jacob quickly made his way over to them, taking a seat on the couch besides them.

“He what?” Tina repeated, ignoring Jacob and focusing her attention back on Queenie.

Queenie set her purse down, delicately taking a seat besides them. The couch was growing crowded by this point, but none of them appeared to care in the moment. “He wants you to tickle him back.” She paused after a moment, her eyes widening a little. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

Newt’s face was permanently burned a color as red as his hair. His mouth was open on a theoretical protest, though it was clear it was too late for that. Eventually, he merely averted his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s, ah, it’s okay. You didn’t mean to, I know.”

Tina glanced between the two, trying to gather what had just happened. Jacob was the first to speak, raising one eyebrow. “You like being tickled, Newt?”

“I—” Newt started, his voice stuttering and stopping in his throat. He coughed, gripping the back of his neck tightly. Three pairs of eyes were suddenly focused on him, and while Newt didn’t prefer eye contact at the best of times, the awkwardness of the situation certainly did not help anything. Against his better judgement, his flicked his gaze up to meet Tina’s, anxiety getting the better of him. Her eyes were wide with surprise, which he had anticipated. What he had not expected was the tiny smile slowly tugging at her lips, a gentleness to the expression that made Newt’s heart clench in his chest. Ultimately, it was what prompted him to finally find the words to speak again.

“I—uh, yes. That is, I do. Like. To be tickled.” He cleared his throat again, staring at his lap. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, rhythmically pulling at a loose string to distract himself from the panic roiling in his brain. In the background, the TV hummed, though it was clear none of them were paying attention to it anymore.

After what felt like an eternity to him, but was in actuality only around thirty seconds, Jacob piped up, “Well why didn’t you just say so?”

Newt’s head snapped up, his heart slamming against his chest. “What?”

“Yeah,” Queenie agreed, a grin rushing quickly across her features. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just another part of you.”

He felt someone grab his hand and he looked over to see Tina, her face filled with such overwhelming tenderness that he couldn’t help but smile slightly in return. “I love you, Newt. Which means I love making you happy. And if this is what makes you happy, than I’m happy to do so.”

Newt glanced around at the three of them, people who he had grown to love and care about more than he had allowed himself to with others in quite a long time. A tiny bubble of happiness rose in his chest, trapping his throat and making words impossible.

“Do you…” Tina started, before trying again, this time with more confidence. “Do you want us to tickle you? Now, that is.”

Newt flushed, the color spreading to the tips of his ears. He stammered, sentences tripping over themselves in his mouth, before he finally managed a quiet, “Yes. Only if you want to, of course.”

Jacob poked him lightly in the ribs and he jumped, a startled yelp escaping him. “Of course, buddy. After all, what kind of friends would we be if we didn’t help you smile every once in a while?”

Newt opened his mouth to respond, but his words were quickly lost to a flood of giggles as all three of them pounced at once, reducing him into a mess of squirming limbs.

Maybe Legilimency wasn’t so bad, after all. 

[happytroopers]

In Another Life // Jedi! Reader x Wolffe

Uhhh, hi again. As per usual inspiration struck as I was watching tik Tok so I wrote this in one go on my bathroom floor lmao 

basically: Reader is a Jedi trying to sort through some unjedi like thoughts about a certain Commander. Very dramatic, definitely needs to hold a damn hand. Jedi.exe stops working at the thought 

warnings: mentions of gun/ GSW’s, blood, unrequited(?), two idiots with the combined emotional maturity of grapefruit

__________

Close your eyes... deep breath... don’t think about what could have been... open your eyes... 

Upon reopening, your tired eyes examined the inky black void of space through the view port. There was a certain beauty in the simplicity of empty space that gave you some semblance of peace after such a hectic battle- the deep black velvet with pin pricks of pure starlight to interrupt the darkness, the idea of far off systems of planets teeming with mundane life as if other planets weren’t collapsing into war ravaged debris piles. 

Once again you closed your eyes again to recenter yourself, another deep breath was lost to the usual dull chatter of the bridge as your lightsaber seemed to weigh down you hip more than usual. 

You looked back to the stars, ignoring your own dim reflection in the transperisteel. This time you let your mind wander back to these unbothered planets, much like the one you were born on before being taken to the temple. You didn’t really remember your family- you often wondered if you had siblings, older or younger, were your parents kind, did you take after your mother or more after your father... what would you be doing if your were still with them? Perhaps you’d be in the workforce instead of a War General, maybe married to a someone who had grown up in the same town as you, would you have children? 

An unwelcome flash of a well known face caused your mind to run with it. Letting your mind manifest a kind of mental holovid showing you a life you didn’t and could never have. 

In this daydream you watched a version of yourself stumble through life, this version softer and more carefree without deadly weapons strapped to you or armor weighing down your light steps. Had this version of you ever even been wounded? Fought any battle? Surely this version of you hadn’t comforted dying soldiers and made tough battle calls, your eyes seemed too bright. Another figure appeared in your mind, even your physical form relaxed, Wolffe, the man you’d come to love despite your determination not to.... 

Even in this daydream where he was sans armor and unscarred, you’d always be able to pick him out of a crowd. He gave ‘softer-you’ a small smile before gingerly kissing their forehead. They/you relaxed into the gesture even with so many people bustling around- clearly you never had to worry about the consequences of your attachments. Normal people didn’t have to, being in love was a natural as the rivers of Naboo.

The image changed, their was a ring on your finger as your hands cupped Wolffe’s face for a sweet kiss. People who almost looked like you- family you supposed- clapped and cheered as Wolffe escorted you down the aisle. A wedding, normal people get married. 

Another image, this time of a large hand rested against a bulbous stomach- your round stomach. Wolffe was smiling proudly before he kissed the top of your head. Normal people have kids. 

You smiled softly at the cookie-cutter life you had come up with in a matter of minutes- an entire life planned out with a man you’d never dare tell your feelings to much less act on them. A true relationship, friends, marriage, houses, kids, jobs- no code or regulations, blaster fire or duels... Normalcy.

"What do you see out there, General?" A sudden voice shocked you out of your reverie. You jumped, startled, not used to people being able to sneak up on you. Suddenly your cheeks were red (a new phenomenon since you had met the commander of the 104th) as your eyes met one amber eye and one cybernetic eye- both trying to hide the amusement at your reaction.

"Wolffe, I thought I told you to call me (Y/N)." You tried to keep your tone even as your forced yourself to turn your gaze back to the view port. Allowing him to call you by your name was as far as your were willing to involve him in your forbidden delusions of romance. 

"Sorry, si- (Y/N), I...didn’t mean to startle you." He apologized, his tone almost questioning. He truly hadn’t meant to, usually he couldn’t even if he wanted to- typically you could feel his force signature from across the cruiser. "Are you alright?"

"Just too tangled up in my thoughts." You mused, already mentally shredding the daydream as if that would also purge the relentless fluttering in your stomach, "Besides, I should be asking you that. I thought you were in the medbay being treated for a blaster wound." 

That was another truth, you were under the impression that Wolffe was injured and probably arguing with whatever poor medic was ordering bedrest. And while the commander’s injury was probably the root source of your silent identity crisis, that was why you were so comfortable creating fantasies in the open space of the bridge- most of the other soldier’s actively avoided any Jedi when they had that vague, aloof face on (for fear of existential riddles and other ‘mystical drivel’ Jedi were known to hand out). Wolffe, however, never seemed to mind approaching you- even if all you had to offer was cheap wit and Jedi proverbs. If you had known he’d won the argument with the medic, you would have gone off to "mediate" in your quarters. 

You allowed yourself to give him a once over, noting the bandages peeking out from under his deck officer’s uniform (you knew how much he hated that uniform, so you figured the medic confiscated his armor until he was cleared for duty). Wolffe shrugged, stiffly rotating his left shoulder as if to show you he was fine, "I’ve had worse."

You couldn’t help the half scoff, half chuckle that escaped you before you steadied your gaze back on the stars. You had seen him with worse- in the middle of battle with shrapnel wounds but still clawing his way to victory, stealthily mowing threw droids with a concussion during a rescue mission, blood dripping out a half cauterized lightsaber wound to his eye after you and Plo Koon forced Asajj off of him and he still managed to push through it to yell orders into his comms unit. Yes, of course, you’d seen him with worse, but that didn’t erase the worry you felt when you were informed that he’d been shot in the middle of that day’s battle. It didn’t erase the pain you felt in the force through your connection with him, nor did it erase the feeling of rage and vengeance that you had to push out of your mind for the rest of the fight. 

Instead of voicing any of those thoughts, you simply hummed in acknowledgment, contenting yourself with being near him. Even unaware of your affection, his mere presence was calming. As usual, the Commander didn’t mind your silence, giving you the same once over your gave him before mirroring your position. He stood comfortably by your side, eyes searching for whatever you were staring at as he informed you, "I was told that General Plo Koon has been cleared for active duty again, effective as soon as we arrive back to Coruscant."

You nodded calmly, you had been told this too. Your time with the 104th as their interim general was coming to a close. Three months hadn’t seemed like that long until the report had put it in perspective for you- and yet three months was all it took for you to break a lifetime of teaching on the dangers of attachments. Probably for the best that you wouldn’t be around Wolffe on the daily, you could rededicate yourself to the Jedi lifestyle (even if now you realized you had never been quite adjusted to it anyway). 

"I’m sure the Wolffe pack will be happy to have him back." Was all you said on the matter. Wolffe nodded before sparing you another glance.

"They will, but they’ll miss you too." He told you. You met his gaze and almost flinched at the amount of sincerity you found there. When he said they, you could only wonder... hope that he also meant he would miss you. The two of you held the stare for longer than you should have allowed with all of the other deck officer’s mulling about- you were sure someone was probably watching and wondering what was going on between the two of you (the answer was nothing, for better or for worse, but the last thing you needed was rumors floating about). As if Wolffe was thinking along the same lines, he cleared his throat before adding on, "They like having you around; they say your not like other Jedi."

‘Other Jedi’ (and you had a few in mind) would have taken offense to that, probably reprimanded the Commander for addressing them so casually followed by a scolding about how it doesn’t matter if the men like or don’t like having them around. 

You just breathed a quiet laugh, thinking to yourself, "So they think so too."

Another silence fell over the pair of you, as you both pretended not to sneak peripheral glances at each other. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t keep those daydreams from filling your head as you stood there. Instead of the viewport, you lowered you gaze to the floor hoping to appear as if your were deep in thought. This kept you from looking at Wolffe’s face, which was probably for the best, but now in our peripheral your eyes landed on his hand. It was relaxed by his side, long fingers idly grazing the seam of his trousers- usually, in his armor, he’d be wearing gloves but in this uniform his copper skin stood out against the gray, dim metal landscape of the bridge. In another life, you’d easily take his hand, see how it felt in yours- was his skin soft or calloused, would your fingers interlock or would your hands press together, would his hands be warm, would he seek out your touch as well? But in this life, you tore your gaze away from his hand- grateful for the long sleeves of your cloak the his your hands as they clenched into fists to ground yourself to this reality. 

Before you could completely shove the idea out of your head, an invitation spilled out of your lips, "I’m going to the mess, if you’d like to join. That is, if you haven’t already eaten?"

Wolffe seemed pleasantly surprised at the offer- one you hadn’t made in a week or so after your effort to avoid him when possible (not that he knew that was the reason), "Lead the way, General."

Despite his words, Wolffe, as he always did, kept easy stride beside you. Whereas any other trooper or any Jedi that was younger than you would fall behind you, and any Jedi that outranked you would walk in front of you- he was always directly beside you. A simple gesture, though it was, seemed like a monument- and it was never something he or you asked or talked about. He just fell instep with you because it felt right for him to be there. It was nice to have someone to walk side by side through life with, even for a short time. Sometimes, you’d find yourself instinctively looking up for him even when he wasn’t around- and being sad when you didn’t find him. 

"Uh, General?" You vaguely heard as you continued to chew on your lip, not even considering someone was calling to you until it was followed up with a slightly more forceful, "(Y/N)!"

You snapped out of your thoughts immediately at the sound of your name, looking instinctively to your side for Wolffe, but he wasn’t there. Your head swiveled in confusion only to find him several paces back, staring after you. Absentmindedly, you wondered why he stopped as you halted yourself waiting for him to catch up. He didn’t move, instead gesturing to the door he stopped in front of, "... The mess? Isn’t that where we were going?"

Instantly, that pesky flush crept back to your cheeks. You were so caught up in your thoughts about Wolffe the you had not only left him behind, but also forgot what you were doing. Shuffling back to him, you tried to get your voice steady, "Right, right, yes, apologies."

Wolffe watched you carefully as you avoided his gaze, carding the doors open. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t have heard the concern in his voice when he asked, "Are you sure you’re alright, gen- (Y/N)?" 

You gave him a soft smile and a nod in an attempt to convince him, but he simply raised an eyebrow in return- clearly not swayed by the meager display. Any other day you would have argued with him, assuring him you were ok, but now you didn’t trust your voice not to raise several octaves. 

And besides, you most definitely were not alright. Your time with the 104th was coming to a close, and you were trying to convince you slowly breaking heart that it was a good thing. ____

perhaps a pt 2? 

[sope-and-shine]

You Drive Me Nuts

-> Pairings: Jeongguk x Reader -> Fluff // College!AU  -> Word Count: 2.1k -> Summary: With great powers comes great responsibility. And yes, an EpiPen is a responsibility, Jeon Jeongguk. -> Warnings: mild language // responsible use of an EpiPen for an irresponsible reason.

A/N: I have no clue what the process is through anaphylaxis once it gets to the doctors, so I tried my best. I hope you enjoy! 

*

*

You told him.

You’ve told him on more than one occasion.

You’ve reminded Jeongguk multiple times that it is in no way acceptable for him to eat a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup when he’s allergic to peanuts! He’s 20yrs old, for Christ sake, you shouldn’t have to remind him what he can and cannot eat! Any sane person would think, ‘Oh no, that’ll make my throat close up and I could die’ and turn the candy offer down.

But no.

Not this idiot.

He’s apparently a psychopath!

You were just studying in the cafe waiting for the other boys to join you before you get your food. No harm in that at all. They were always late cutting across campus, so getting some homework out of the way or a quick study session never hurt. Normal day.

Not a problem.

As soon as they all began to make their appearances, you had put away your working materials so you’d be ready to get something to eat. As soon as they all arrived, it was left to Jeongguk to watch your belongings since he was the last to arrive at the table. Nothing new, it was usually between him, Taehyung, and Namjoon to watch the table. Not only that, but he was more than happy to take a seat at the table. You figured he was tired from running across the campus and just wanted to sit. Nothing to worry about.

You should have worried.

You all left him alone for a total of maybe 15 minutes. 15 minutes to get your food so you could enjoy the rest of your day, 15 minutes so he could sit and watch your belongings, 15 minutes for him to be a regular adult, and apparently 15 minutes for him to contemplate asking the table next to yours for the Reese’s and have it open and in one hand with his EpiPen in the other by the time you got back.

“Jeon Jeongguk! You put that Reese’s cup down and wash your hands right now! Are you crazy?!” Your outburst not only catches his attention, but those around you as well. Multiple eyes are on you including his, but his eyes are staring into yours in fear, contemplation, and partial regret. 

Jimin comes up next to you with his own lunch, stopping when he sees the predicament. He sighs, “He cannot be serious.” 

It’s almost as if you can see the gears turning in Jeongguk’s head, contemplating if he should make his next move or not. You can see the longing in his eyes, and a part of you already knows what he’s about to do before he does it. He pops the treat into his mouth in one bite, and the look of pure joy and elation tells you this exact situation could - and will - happen again. He shouldn’t look as pleased as he does slamming a needle into his thigh, but his smile is all you need to see.

“Jimin, call an ambulance!” You order, rushing to your friend - soon to be dead friend - and dropping your lunch on the table next to him. A million thoughts are running through your head as you take the seat next to him, watching the stupid bunny smile appear on his face. Your first immediate reaction is to choke him, but he’s about to do that himself. So, instead, you settle for hitting the back of his head. “Are you insane?! What possessed you to do that, you psychopath?!”

“My mom never let me eat them, so I-” He coughs, beginning to feel the effects of his allergy trying to battle the epinephrine. “-I wanted to try one…”

“She didn’t let you eat them because YOU ARE ALLERGIC!” You rage. You’re almost completely dumbfounded by this man’s absolute stupidity. How he made it to college, you could never understand after this. You grab his face in your hands and squish his cheeks together to look into his mouth at the back of his throat. “Any good, sensible mother-! No. Scratch that. Any good, sensible PERSON wouldn’t let you eat one!”

He fights a smile, his face still trapped between your hands, “Worth it.”

As the other boys get back from getting their food, they all begin to close in on what happened with the youngest member of the squad. Namjoon, ever the responsible adult he is, sighs when he catches sight of the used EpiPen and the crumpled Reese’s wrapper next to it. “Jeongguk, what the fuck?”

“What did you do?!” Jin cries, setting his food on the table to take the other side of your ‘patient’. His mother’s intuition kicks in as he takes over your role of nurse, “Are you stupid or something?”

Yoongi takes a seat at the table next to the discarded trays and starts eating, completely unbothered. Shoving a french fry in his mouth, he turns to the rest of the group that is still unsure as to what they should do in the situation. “Make a note, everyone. As soon as he gets out of the hospital, I’m killing him.”

While the others begin to have a seat or discuss the current dilemma, Jeongguk turns to you with seemingly tired eyes full of mischief, “(Y/n)...I can see the light.” His voice has a slight croak to it, and every breath has a slight wheeze.

“Good. Walk into it.” Is your answer petty? Absolutely. But you can't help but glare at him for the stunt he just pulled, especially when he’s trying to hit you with puppy dog eyes. “Don’t pout at me. You deserve this.”

It only takes about 10 more minutes for the ambulance to arrive on campus to pick up the idiot next to you. Which is good, because his breathing was only getting harder and more erratic as you waited with him even after having him lay down to clear his airways a little more. He tried to be cool the entire time they were adjusting him onto the gurney, cracking jokes and flashing the occasional hand sign at Tae’s phone while he took pictures for his Snapchat, but you could tell he was feeling the consequences of his actions when they administered oxygen to him.

*

*

*

After a short ride to the hospital, an hour and a half of sitting in the waiting room of the ER doing homework, and half an hour waiting for Jeongguk to wake up and finish getting scolded by the doctor’s and nurses for his stupid actions, you’re finally left alone with him again on a small couch by the window of his room. His hair isn’t as nicely kept as it was this morning, his street clothes were replaced with a hospital gown at some point during his visit and placed in the bag next to his bed, and his overall appearance just looks completely exhausted. Even so, he looks a lot better than he did at lunch.  

“You know, I thought that would go a lot better.” He admits with a chuckle, breaking the silence that was left in your room. A shy smile adorns his face as he plays with the piece of equipment on his finger.

You, however, are not amused, “How did you expect it to go any better, Guk? You are severely allergic to peanuts.”

He sighs, “I meant as far as the embarrassment.”

“Oh, you mean a 20 year old man getting scolded by 40 year old doctors and nurses for eating a peanut butter cup because you were never allowed to have them? Did you think you would just magically not be allergic?” You ask, genuinely interested to hear what his excuse was. In your opinion, there was no excuse. What he did was stupid and wreckless, and you have half a mind to beat the crap out of him for the stunt he pulled. Who did he think he was to scare you like that?

“It can happen…” He shrugs. It was more than obvious that he really didn’t think much of his actions, and that annoyed you more than anything.

“Jeongguk.”

He doesn’t move. He just continues staring at the equipment attached to him as if you weren’t in the room. His childish ignorance was hitting your last nerve at this point. You couldn’t stop yourself from standing up and crossing to his bed.

“Look at me.” You demand. You wait for him to raise his head, giving you a clear view of the frown on his face. You ignore how he looks at you in favor of grabbing onto his face. He had to know you were serious, and he wasn’t going to back out of this. “Don’t you ever do something that could literally kill you in minutes ever again. Do you understand me? I’m not playing with you. You scared the shit out of me!”

“I won’t, I promise.” You hear him loud and clear, you watch him nod and smile in affirmation, but you can’t help but feel helpless. You could’ve stopped him if you’d moved faster, then you could’ve beaten the sense into him before he ended up in the hospital. But here he was, almost 3 hours later with an IV and a drip running into him. The anger that’s been festering all day has finally settled within you, and you feel the tears welling up before you can pull yourself back together.

This of course sets Jeongguk into panic when he sees the glistening of your eyes staring into his own. “Hey! Why are you crying?! Our friendship handbook didn’t mention crying!” He couldn’t handle himself crying, let alone another human being crying at him. In an attempt to soothe you, he places his hands over yours as they rest on his cheeks, rubbing small circles into your skin.

You look away from him, hiding your face before the tears can really start to fall, “It’s in the fine print asshole.” 

“Well, why are you crying if I’m okay?” He asks. You refuse to look at him, not wanting to look at him after all the pain he’s caused you thus far, but he wasn’t about to let you cry without knowing what’s really wrong with you. He releases your hands from his and lets them fall while he moves into a different position, getting close enough to you so he can take your face in between his hands like you’d done to him - granted, yours was a lot more harsh than his. He turns your head so he can look at you, waiting until your eyes finally meet his before he smiles, “Hey, you can tell me what’s wrong.”

You can’t help but let the tears fall with the way he looks at you, “You just looked so beaten up and pale, and your breathing just kept getting worse as we waited, and-” You choke back a sob, “-I don’t want to lose you, okay?”

“You’re not going to lose me.” He coos, stroking your cheeks softly with his thumbs. He’d never intended to hurt you this way. He honestly didn’t think that far ahead. He had an idea, he executed a plan he thought would work, and he got to taste a peanut butter cup while living to see another day. It’s only now that he really thinks about what he’s done today. Neither you or the boys have ever seen him like that before, and to someone who’s never experienced it before, it can be really scary. He sees it now that you’re in front of him crying instead of yelling at him. “I swear on my life that I will never do it again.”

‘He wouldn’t do it again?’ You think. Sure he won’t. You scoff, “Easy for you to say. One wrong move and you die before I get my hands on you.” You move to pull his hands off of your face, but he takes your hands in his instead, pulling you to sit on the bed next to him. You’re too surprised to say anything, letting out a small squeak from the sudden movement instead. The two of you just sit and stare at one another before he finally lifts his right hand from yours to hold his pinky towards you, “I promise.”

Staring at the hand with an IV poking out and a heart monitor attached to his pointer finger, you know in the very back of your mind that this will probably happen again whether he intends to or not. But you don’t think you’ve seen him this serious before. At least for now, you can take his pinky in your own and accept his promise to make both of you feel better. 

“You drive me crazy, you know?” You ask, wiping at some of your remaining tears with your free hand.

“Don’t you mean I drive you nuts?” 

[inkstaineddove]

Fleeting Serenity

Ships: PruHun

Characters: Prussia, Hungary; mentioned Germany, Austria, France, and Britain

Summary: Gilbert has doubts and Erzsébet has answers.

Potsdam, 1845.

It was a cool night with the wind gently blowing through the trees. Owls hooted their songs off in the distance, met with the crickets’ rival symphonies. The clouds completed nature’s scene by permitting the moon’s splendor to be on full display.

The peace would’ve been kept if not for the shuffling of feet over wood. Gilbert was pacing the length of his balcony, unable to stop had he wanted to. He was gripped with the kind of frenzy born of illogical anxiety. The icy tendrils of ceaseless worry constricted his heart, squeezing it to the point where he felt it shake within its casing. Instead of his normal rigid posture, he was collapsed inward with his arms wrapped around his bare chest.

The more he searched for what was wrong with him, the more lost he felt. He had never had such leisure and freedom. His responsibilities to his state were executed with ease, with what little resistance he faced feeling no more annoying than persistent gnats. His relationships with all he cared about were stable and, while Bavaria and Saxony didn’t appreciate the method he and Austria used to create Ludwig, they certainly weren’t outraged. Life had never so closely matched fantasy.

And, yet, here he was, working himself up over nothing like a lunatic. He forced himself to stop his marching and latched onto the guardrail to prevent himself from further pacing. A war could rage within his mind, but he wouldn’t let any unfortunate passersby observe it. He needed to maintain some baselevel of composure.

“God help me,” he muttered, his voice husky with exhaustion.

He ran his hands through his hair, sighing. How late was it now? He had gone to bed hours ago with all intention of sleep, but he knew that wouldn’t come tonight. A particularly hard gust of wind burst through, causing him to shiver. In his hurry to get outside, he’d completely forgotten to grab something to keep him warm. He looked at the bed in the window. Erzsébet was sound asleep, twisted up in all their blankets. He didn’t want to risk having his stirring disturb her and debated against going in.

Another harsh wind came through and decided for him. Gilbert shuffled in, moving the door painfully slow to prevent any squeak or slam. While he crept to get a shirt, he heard her mumble something like ‘Gilbert’ in her sleep. He remained frozen in place, hoping that he had misheard her.

“Gil?” She rolled over, blinking her eyes open. “Why you…there?”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be quieter.” He smiled, trying to look reassuring so she wouldn’t grow suspicious.

“Is something the matter?” Erzsébet pushed herself up on her elbows. Not quite awake, she wobbled as she moved. She patted the empty bed besides her. “Sit down.”

He accepted his fate and complied. He pushed himself back to lean against the bedrest. At the confusion coming to knit together her brows, he smiled. There was something cute in how she worried. “I’m just a bit on edge. It’s fine, I don’t want to keep you up.”

Gilbert should’ve known saying that would invite her complete interest. She was now fully conscious of the world and staring at him expectantly. “On edge how? What’s bothering you?”

How the hell could he phrase it? ‘Nothing’s bothering me and that’s why I’m so bothered’ or ‘I can’t sleep because my heart feels like it’s about to explode, but how are you?’ Gilbert stared in her eyes, searching for divine intervention on how to explain himself. Instead, inspiration struck. So what if he couldn’t state how he was feeling in emotional terms? A little creativity was all it would take.

“You know when you’re out in the forest and you swear you hear a bear or a wolf, but it never shows up? So you say, ‘fuck it’ and keep moving? And then the bear starts causing shit again, but it’s still nowhere to be found and you start thinking you’re losing it and-”

She yawned, nuzzling into the pillow beneath her. “Could you be more straightforward? I’m not awake enough for one of your long stories.”

“Well this one had a point,” he grumbled. “I don’t know why, but it feels like something’s chasing me. I know there’s nothing there – well, at least I think it’s nothing – but it’s like something’s going to appear out of thin air and ruin everything.”

That was strange for him. She couldn’t recall ever knowing of a time when he had felt like this before. She tried remembering all their recent conversations, searching for a clue as to what was causing this. She couldn’t find a single one. “Do you have any idea why?”

“No! That’s what’s killing me! There’s no reason for me to be feeling this way. Everything’s been perfect! I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life, which is what makes this so bizarre.” He paused, studying her. He was seeing her, seeing her so clearly, and it was like a revelation. “You! It’s you, that’s what’s wrong with me!”

Erzsébet crossed her arms, scowling at him. “You better rephrase that.”

He laughed, relieved to have finally achieved some personal enlightenment. “Not like that. Let me explain myself.” He knelt down and kissed the top of her head. “It’s been so long since I haven’t had to march myself off to war or prepare for the next one. This is the most time I’ve had to spend with you in so long without having some bullshit gnawing at the back of my mind.” He twirled a few strands of her hair around his fingers.

When he reached the area by her chin, she kissed his hand. “Hasn’t it been wonderful? Even if we can’t share all our days, giving you my weekends has been amazing.” She smirked against his skin. “I know there’s a ‘but’ somewhere in there, so spit it out.”

Gilbert snorted, unbothered at being so predictable. “But I know this kind of quiet doesn’t last long. Something will come and will shatter it all and that’ll be that. Isn’t all joy in life fleeting?” His voice became hushed the more serious he became. “And then what? I’ll be off again, trying not to get shot by France on battlefields that all look the same.”

There was something she’d never heard him talk about in such a negative light. “But that’s how your life has always been.” She smiled, wanting nothing more than to cut through some of his tension. “What happened? Did my fearsome knight lose his purpose?”

“Less lost one and more found another.” He let the strand of her hair drop from around his finger and, instead, slipped his hand in hers. “Erzsi, you deserve all the best in the world. And I can give it to you now, but for how much longer?”

She hid her mouth with her free hand. Laughing at him, after such a vulnerable confession, would do her no good. “You really think I’ll forget you over the course of one little war? Gil, how many have we gone through? And look where I wound up!”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not worried about you leaving me. Are you kidding? I haven’t had that worry in years.” He shifted so he was facing her completely, desperately needing her full attention. “My life is hell, it always has been. And I know yours has been too, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have better. How things are now, that’s the kind of life you deserve and that God! I’ve dreamt about giving you for years, but…” He trailed off, not wanting to speak where his mind was going in case it manifested into reality.

“All calm means a storm is bound to blow in soon?” He could hear Erzsébet’s smirk in her voice.

“Yes! And then-” he was silenced by the feel of her index finger against his lips.

“Along the way, did you ever stop to maybe ask yourself what I might want? Or have you just been listening to your paranoia this entire time?” Now was a good time to laugh at him, at his dumb expression as he tried to figure out what she meant. “Really, you must be in love with another woman. If you were in love with me, you wouldn’t be worrying about that nonsense.”

“You’re telling me my greatest fears are wrong?”

He really was a strange man. Anyone else and they would’ve been relieved to hear such a thing. But Gilbert always had to be different she supposed.

“Well, yes. They’re entirely wrong.” She moved so she was laying down with their chests against each other. Erzsébet held his gaze steady, making sure he understood every word of what she said. “If I wanted boring, I wouldn’t leave Vienna or, honestly, would’ve tried my chances with Arthur.” She cradled his cheek with one hand, smiling at him with familiar tenderness. “I don’t want boring; I want you.”

He didn’t quite smile, but it gave her hope that what she was saying was getting through to him. “Boring has stability. I know the life I’m partial to and, while it comes with such great highs, the lows are steep.” She watched the shift of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “I don’t want the consequences of my recklessness to come back at you.”

How could she forget? He was a fool. “You spend too much energy worrying about me. Gilbert, seriously. When haven’t I been fine? Why would I choose to be with you, for all this time, if I thought anything you did would hurt me? If I trust you, why can’t you trust yourself?”

He sighed. He didn’t have any sound argument against that. Gilbert looked down at her hand, doubt filling him with shame. “How ridiculous would it be if I said I sometimes think I’m not good enough for you?”

“Not ridiculous at all. You probably won’t believe it, but I do the same thing.”

Gilbert scoffed. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

Erzsébet gently smacked his chest with the back of her hand. “I would never do that! Sometimes, especially when I see you with Ludwig, I’m surprised at how good of a person you are. Or on days where you’ve been so sweet and attentive, I start thinking that maybe I’m not the worthy one. And you know what gets me out of that?” She paused for dramatic effect, wanting to hook him in. “I’ll catch you staring at me with such a lovestruck look on your face or, if I’m really lucky, I’ll overhear you say something about me to Ivan or Antonio and all the doubts go away. Because if you’re worthy of me than I’m worthy of you.”

“Am I an idiot?” He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. His smile came natural and easy now. He felt himself able to breathe again and was thankful for it.

“My God, the biggest! Denser than a mountain! But that’s okay,” she kissed him, a comforting little peck. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He kissed her again, this one much longer and slower. As soon as his arms were wrapped around her waist, she began wiggling free. He stuck out his bottom lip in a pout. “You could just say no like a normal person without all the dramatics.”

She was rolling onto her side, searching for the most comfortable position. At last, she found it and, with it, the certainty that sleep would be hers again. “I’m still tired. I don’t want to do anything that will keep me up.” She smiled at the wall, giggling. “Try your luck another night when you don’t wake me up insanely early.”

The wave of exhaustion he had been fighting off finally hit him. Erzsébet had made the right call. He laid down, snuggling up against the crook of her neck. With his anxieties quelled, at least for the moment, treasured rest became a natural fit.

[glenncoco4]

Love Is In The Air

And we continue with the Deeks’ in Chapter 5 of What Happens Next?

~~~~~~~~

“Come on, just meet the guy.” Kensi walks in step with her partner through the halls of HQ, trying to do a little more persuading. 

The brunette looks at her partner in annoyance. “You haven’t even met him.”

She really hates that she’s turned into one of those women that seems to think that she needs to set up her single friends with her husband’s single friends. Although it technically wasn’t even her idea. “I know, I know, but Marty has and he seems to think you and James would really hit it off.” They reach their desk and Kensi uses her last line of defense. Something she learned from her husband. “Come on. It’s just one dinner at our house.”

Talia sees the pleading in those big brown doe eyes that belong to her best friend and can’t help but give in. “Fine, but if this bombs then never again.”

The mother to be pumps her fist in the air enthusiastically. “Yes! I’ll let Marty know.”

XXXX

She looks across into the living room a smile playing at her face as she watches the two in an animated conversation. Her heart warms as Talia playfully swats at James’ arm. 

“Go ahead. You can say it.” He slides up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder. A smirk plays at his lips as he nuzzles her neck.

“Say what?”

“You were right, Marty. They did hit it off.”

The brunette rolls her eyes at his smugness and leans back into his chest as his arms wrap further around her. “I never said you were wrong.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

“So what if I was?”

“It still counts.”

“Fine.” She spins around in his arms, pressing herself against him as much as her semi protruding belly will allow. “You were right, baby.”

His brow pinches in confusion at her declaration. “Weird.”

“What?”

“I thought being right would feel different than this.”

“I can make you feel different alright.” The spark in her mismatched chocolate orbs does its intended job. She feels the shiver run through his body and sees his answering smile.

“What did you hav-“

She cuts him off with her lips. Pouring her love into their embrace, their guest in the other room long forgotten. 

The resounding laughter coming from the living room forces them to pull back. Marty feels her stomach press further into his and can’t help the goofy grin that crosses his face. “How’s pipsqueak treating you?”

At the feel of his callused hand rubbing against where their baby is taking shelter for 29 more weeks. “Pretty good today. I haven’t thrown up at all. No nausea.”

“I’m glad. You just entered your second trimester so it should be easing up a bit.”

“Thank god for that.”

He brings his forehead to rest against hers, his hands making their way under the hem of her blouse, rubbing the small of her back in hopes to rid any pain she may have. “I’m sorry.”

“What on earth do you have to be sorry for?”

“You having to deal with all this sickness and aching and all I can do is sit there and watch.”

“Hey, you take good care of me.”

“Yeah, but still.”

Of course she could do without the scattered hormones and constant aching but having this baby - their baby is most definitely worth it. Even though he can’t go through this part of the pregnancy, him just being there constantly by her side means so much to her. “How about you just continue to love me and take care of me?”

“Deal.” 

A blush rises to Talia’s cheeks as she catches the couple in an intimate moment. She shares a smile with the red head as he walks up behind her. “Hey, guys, we’re gonna head out.”

Kensi presses her forehead against his chest, the heat spreading from her neck to her face. He’s so good at diverting her attention that Marty Deeks. So much so that she almost forgot about their company still being here. “Okay, are you sure you don’t want any dessert?”

“We’re actually going to get our own dessert near the beach.”

She moves out of his embrace and over towards her partner, hugging her goodbye. “I bet you are.”

“Shut up.”

The men exchange handshakes as the women say their goodbyes. Being the good hosts that they are, the couple walks their friends and their new budding romance to the front door. “Have fun you two.”

XXXX

She turns around, biting her lip when the vehicles drive out of site. “I’m glad they’re not staying for dessert.”

Once the door’s shut he grabs her by the waist and pushes her against the wall. “Why is that?”

Kensi’s fingers find their way under his button up and dance across his abs, earning a shudder from him. “Because now we can finally get back to the conversation we were having this morning when I found that old home movie of yours.”

“No, I’m not gonna do it.”

“Please, baby….for me?”

He shakes his head profusely, hoping that as he does so her big brown doe eyes won’t have their usual effect on him. “Not gonna happen.”

“Oh, oh man.”

Marty’s eyes go wide in panic as he watches her bend over, her hand going straight to her abdomen. “What? Baby, what?”

“I don’t know I’m starting to feel a little sick.”

He takes hold of her arm and guides her to the couch, startled by the sudden paleness that’s gracing her features. “What do you need?”

“I’m not sure.” A look crosses over her face in realization. “Actually, I can think of one thing you can do that might help.”

“Anything.”

“I wanna hear you sing.”

Marty’s lips pinch when he realizes he’s just been had. “Damn you, Kensi Marie Deeks.”

Unbothered by using her pregnancy to get her way with her husband, she bites her lip as he pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. The deep steady gaze of his cerulean blues as the tone of his voice carries a soft melody to her ears would definitely impregnate her if she weren’t already.

I'm gonna love you like nobody will

Under the rainbow and over the hill

I'll show you a world where time can stand still

If you'll let me

Cause money can buy me a diamond that fades

But ours is a love story for every age

I'll be the writer, and you'll be my page

If you let me

He scooches over to the corner of the couch, pulling her into his lap. His eyes lock onto hers once again as she burrows into him, the feeling of contentment and safety that’s always there when they’re together ever so present. 

It doesn't matter where we are

Stuck in the rain in central park

Driving down sunset boulevard

If you're there in my arms

It doesn't matter where we go

East Tennessee or Tokyo

I'm not a foreigner, I'm home

When you're there in my arms

~~~~~~~~

Song is My Arms by Johnnyswim

[beesartandstuffs]

Shot in the Dark: Bittersweet- Chapter 4

Read the previous parts HERE!

(I’m very excited to share this with y’all, especially after watching Damien. Don’t worry, there aren’t any spoilers for that in this chapter! Don’t forget to LIKE, REBLOG, and COMMENT!!!)

~~~

It was past midnight, the night after the dinner with Abe and young Liam. The shadows of the house were deep and oppressive, and the owners of the house were feeling their effects.

Emma's eyes snapped open, her muscles stiff and her breath coming in strangled huffs. Shaking, she stared unseeing into the darkness, willing herself to stay awake.

At her back, her husband stirred. A gentle hand touched her arm. "Darling?" came Damien's hushed, sleep-roughened voice. "You alright?"

She rolled over to face him.

It had been a while, but it wasn't the first time she had seen her own nightmares reflected in his eyes.

They lay on their sides facing each other. Emma had one hand pillowed under her cheek and the other resting on the mattress in front of her. Damien reached out and placed his hand over hers.

"Tell me if you wish," he murmured.

She pressed her nose to their joined hands, steadying her breathing. She didn't often want to talk about her nightmares. They were too real, too fresh in her mind, and Damien had the same ones often enough for it not to be necessary. But this time she opened her mouth and spoke in a whisper.

"We were back in the manor. It was burning… all around us. We… you, Abe, the Colonel, and I… we were all dead, but we were walking around. Living corpses. And… and Celine…"

Celine. It always went back to Celine. Damien’s brow furrowed, but his eyes were sad, not angry.

Emma swallowed. "She wasn't there. Sometimes… I thought she was, but… " She shook her head. "She was gone. It was my fault, it's always my fault—"

Damien released her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to his chest. "Emma, listen to me," he murmured into her hair. "We've talked about this. What happened to Celine wasn't your fault."

"I pulled the trigger," she whispered against his nightshirt. "She's gone because of me, if I hadn't shot her—"

"If you hadn't shot her then something worse might have happened." He pulled away and held her shoulders, looking her in the eye. "Emma. Celine was gone long before she showed up at the manor."

He pulled her close again and for a moment, they held each other. Emma took shuddering breaths and Damien rubbed her back, rubbing his face on her head and catching her fine hair in his scruffy beard.

Eventually, her grip on his nightshirt loosened. Damien prepared to let her move away, but she stayed close, murmuring into his chest, too quietly for him to understand.

"What was that?" he asked gently.

Emma pulled back, just barely. "The dream was different this time."

Her husband frowned at the tone of her voice. "Different how?"

"It wasn't just us this time." Emma shuddered again, and Damien's hold on her tightened. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse with raw fear. "There was someone else."

"It wasn't real, darling," he soothed. "It was just a nightmare."

"I know. But when I saw him, standing there, surrounded by the flames, I couldn't… it felt so wrong. It was so wrong. He was just standing there, staring at me."

Damien's throat tightened, his wife's fear contagious. "Who was it, Emma?" he asked softly.

She swallowed hard. Her arms came up to wrap around his back and she pressed herself against him, as if his closeness would somehow protect her from the horror. She opened her mouth, and the words came out in a harsh, coarse whisper.

"It was Liam."

~

The morning came, and brought with it rationale, comfort, and to a degree, shame. Who would have a nightmare about an innocent little boy you've just met? Damien rationalized as they were getting dressed that it was Liam's connection to Celine, something that would traumatize anyone. He didn't mention it, but Emma noted the shadows under his eyes were deeper than usual. She didn't have to ask to know that he had slept poorly.

It was Sunday, and so the pair dressed for church and headed to the small chapel they had taken to attending. The congregation was small but warm, and had welcomed them with open arms.

Today, however, they didn't sit alone. Next to them on the pew were Abe, looking slightly uncomfortable, and Liam, whose eyes were shining with excitement. Evidently he had attended Sunday School before the service, and had been awarded a piece of chocolate for excellent behavior.

Damien had grinned at the news, and knelt to tousle the boy's hair and congratulate him. Over their heads, Emma and Abe exchanged looks. Abe's was characterized by a grin and lifted eyebrows, while Emma shrugged lightly. Damien was good with kids and this didn't surprise either of them.

Liam insisted, in his quiet way, on sitting between Emma and Abe. He was well-behaved, to a degree. He stood and sang the hymns with a lovely soprano, and while he had a hard time sitting still during the sermon, seemed to quiet down when Abe slipped him a pen and a pad of paper to scribble on.

The four went to picnic in the park afterward, giving Liam space to run around and play. Emma expected him to do so as soon as he finished his ham sandwich, but he didn't— instead opting to sit with the adults a while, listening to Abe recount one of his recent cases.

The detective didn't mince words around the kid. He spoke with his usual level of (often grotesque) detail and vulgarity, causing Emma and Damien to exchange concerned glances. But Liam didn't seem bothered or even surprised. He simply nodded along.

Halfway through the tale Liam stood and wandered away. On instinct Emma almost called him back, but Abe waved it off. "I don't mind," he said cheerfully. "I told him if he ever gets bored when I'm telling a story he has special permission to leave. Kid gets bored sometimes. So do I. I get it."

"Will was the same, his whole life," Damien said without thinking. "Couldn't sit still without a pipe in his—"

He stopped. Emma's hand brushed his, and Abe nodded, unbothered. "He's doing well," he offered quietly. "I called this morning to give him an update on Liam. He didn't… he didn't remember what I was talking about, but he sounded happy. Guess they gave him chocolate today, or something."

Strained smiles were exchanged.

Liam came back with a fistful of wildflowers. He offered one to each of them. "For you," he said with a shy, gap-toothed smile.

Emma noticed he still had flowers clutched in his fist. "Saving those for a special someone?" she said, attempting a teasing tone.

The boy didn't blink. "These are for my mom," he said matter-of-factly.

A pained, awkward chuckle, ripping through Damien's chest, broke the silence that followed. "That's real sweet of you, kid," Abe managed, reaching up to ruffle Liam's hair.

Emma said nothing. She couldn't.

~

"I'm next of kin," Damien said forcefully that night, throwing the dish towel onto the counter.

"That doesn't matter! Are we even capable of giving him what he needs?" Emma retorted. Her sponge landed with a pathetic squelch in the sink.

"We won't know until we try."

"If we try, it's already too late."

"I thought you wanted kids!"

"Eventually! And with you, not—"

From them.

From Celine.

Emma's voice cracked like a looking-glass. "How long are they going to haunt us, Damien? How long will we have to live… How long do I have to live with…"

"Emma."

He wasn't angry.

Damien was capable of having a temper, just like his sister. Emma had seen him angry, seen him with rage and terror and hurt in his eyes and voice and seen his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel after a fight. His knuckles had been white just like that at the drive home from the picnic. He had asked her if she wanted to take Liam in.

She knew what his answer was going to be.

He knew hers.

But now, he wasn't angry.

"Emma, if we don't do this, it may… they may haunt us forever."

His gentle hand took hers, tugging lightly. After half a second of resistance she conceded, allowing him to pull her into his arms.

For a moment they stood there in the kitchen, their arms around each other.

"This is our chance to stop running, my love. To do something right, to stop hiding from the world and bring… bring some good into it for once."

He was right. Of course he was right.

"He's a smart little boy," she mumbled into his chest.

She felt Damien smile into her hair. "Just like his uncle?"

"I'll give you that one, sir, but don't push your luck."

He laughed, and Emma felt herself relax.

Damien's hand fell to the back of her neck and she allowed him to pull back to lean down and give her a light kiss. "I'm not going to force you into it," he murmured. "God knows we both need to be all in for it to work. But, Emma…"

"I'll do it, Damien." She smiled at his mid-sentence slacked jaw. "You're right. About all of it. Liam needs us and… maybe we need him. Maybe a child's laughter is what this dreary old house needs."

"It's not that dreary…"

"I'm scared, Damien. Terrified."

He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows. "Well… yes, of course. Me too."

A pained but cautiously hopeful smile broadened his wife's face. "But we can do it. We can do it for our nephew. Can't we?"

He grinned, and leaned down to kiss her again.

"We can."

Together.

~~~

~~

~ Tag list: @mayor-damien-protection-squad@markired@blackaquokat@pleaseletthisjimbetaken@gravitykaz@jojored22@neverisadork@withjust-a-bite @gmcfyuffins @satansladydoor (If I’ve tagged you and you don’t want to be tagged, please tell me! Inversely, if you would like to be tagged in these, don’t be afraid to ask!) 

[cruelzy]

irresolute

ao3 cross

pairing: connor rk800/reader

It’s only when the fourth knock at the door is met with silence that he finally lowers his hand.

“Lieutenant?” He repeats once more, just in case. 

No response.

Connor narrows his eyes at the decaying wood, cocking his head. He considers going around the back of your home to look for any openings, but on a second thought vetoes the notion. That would be a significant waste of time. He should simply force be creative in figuring out a way to enter through the front. 

Already thinking ahead of ways to replace your soon to be broken property, he is vaguely reminded of how similar this situation is to one that has already happened recently to him. 

(Although hopefully this time, he wouldn’t find you unconscious and appearing almost dead. Like with Hank.) 

He suddenly finds himself twisting the doorknob with more force than was probably needed. 

It breaks off abruptly, falling with a dull thump into a patch of overgrown grass climbing over your porch. Connor doesn’t react, merely pushes through and steps across the welcome mat. 

Your home is not neat in any sense of the word. 

Clutter is accumulated all around, blocking his every step. It’s almost as though you are invisibly resisting against visitors. Immediately, he is assaulted with the sheer amount of information available to be sorted. 

MISSION UPDATED: SCAN_SURROUNDINGS

Connor’s eyes flicker before dilating in one smooth motion. He maneuvers around a fallen wooden chair, crouching to examine several scratch marks etched into the floor. Isolation paints a brighter picture. The chair didn’t just fall, no, it was shoved. Harshly. He glances behind him at the wall. More marks, subtle. Carpets of glass littering the kitchen, various furniture upturned. 

The house, it seems, was not always this. This destruction was premeditated. It served a purpose. But what pushed you to do so? 

Connor straightens. Would it be more beneficial to perform a more detailed analysis?

There were pros. He would get to know you better as a person, if only so he could predict your future actions and give better assistance on missions. Reconstructing your path would also prove an extremely high probability of success in letting him know your current location. 

However, on the other hand, the house was not big. It would be more sensible to simply just look into all of the rooms. This would cut the time spent significantly in half. 

His decision is made for him when a loud noise echoes from the hallway. 

“Hello?” He calls out tentatively. 

PROBABILITY_OF_INTRUDER: 34% 

PROBABILITY_OF_SUBJECT: 66%

“Lieutenant?” He peers into the darkness, trailing a hand by the wall as he rounds the corner.

“Connor?” is the weak response.

PROBABILITY_OF_SUBJECT: 99%

Connor pushes open your bedroom door with a low creak. And there you are, a bundle of oversized cloth and bent knees at the foot of the bed. He easily locates the light switch and reaches ou-

“No,” you say roughly. A second goes by and then you sigh, press a hand to your forehead. “I mean,” your voice is noticeably softer now, “please no light.”

Connor remains at the door. “Permission to come in?”

“…Sure.”

He enters.

“How did you get into the house?” 

A pause. “…CyberLife will account for all payments for any broken property.”

“Oh.” You laugh. It’s flat and without humour.

He stops at your feet.

“I was sent to inform you that you have missed work for three days unauthorized.” He sits infront of you, leaving the appropriate amount of space. “Though I am sure you are well aware.”

“Of course they sent you,” you say dryly. Your lips tug down. “Couldn’t even bother to check on me themselves. Why did I think you came here of your own volition?”

“Pardon?” 

“Nothing.” Your anger smooths over. “You can tell pretty boys back there that I’m fine. I’ll be back in tomorrow.”

Connor doesn’t move. “My apologies, Lieutenant, but I was also ordered to report on your condition.”

“And?” There’s a bitterness beginning to bleed into your tone. “I told you I’m fine.”

“I have reasons to believe that you are not.” 

“Well then that’s your own problem.”

Outside, a deep rumble rolls through the sky. You twitch.

“Lieutenant, please look at me.” Connor lowers his voice in an attempt to calm you. You only bury your head further into your knees. “Lieutenant.” 

He sighs.

“(Name.).”

Finally, you raise your head. The two of you make eye contact for the first time since the conversation began.

“Yes?”

He expects there to be frustration, maybe even malice in your voice, but you only sound…

..tired.

“I have come to the conclusion that though you’ve only been missing three, this in fact started four days ago, after we searched the most recent crime scene. Is it wrong for me to assume that something about the case bothered you?”

For a moment, you don’t answer. Then, “I really thought I had everyone fooled.”

You stare down at your hands. “I didn’t react at all. Not even the slightest bit. But I can’t ever fool you can I?”

Connor nods curtly. “I should hope not. I know you quite well.”

“Then tell me this,” you let go of your knees, attitude doing a complete 180 as you lean forward. Your eyes are hard. “Do you think you can figure out what the problem is?”

Connor frowns. Your blood pressure was increasing at an extremely dangerous rate.

“She was just a little girl.” You’re looking right at him, but you’re entirely somewhere else. “The android. She didn’t do anything and that man, he destroyed her. Killed her. Scratched her eyes out.” 

SOFTWARE_INSTABILITY

Rain is now pounding the rooftop, but you can barely hear it over the white noise in your mind.

You choke. “She was begging you know? For mercy.”

Connor’s senses go haywire in activity as your pulse skyrockets. Your chest heaves, breath short and rapid. 

“I’ve killed so many of them.” You grab at your head. “The deviants. Shot them. Because it’s my job. Because I thought they weren’t alive. Because I convinced myself they weren’t. Because I couldn’t handle the thought that if they were then that means that I– that I’m a-”

A scream tears it’s way through your throat.

Connor leaps forward.

“Let go of me!” You screech, fling a fist in his direction. Connor predicts it, alwaysalwaysalwaysdoes, dodges your punch almost before you’ve even done the action. He catches your arm in a firm grasp.

“You need to calm down,” He sounds unbothered, impossibly tranquil. Serene in his attempt to ground you.

It has the opposite effect.

Inhuman, your mind shrieks. Who is heWhatwhatwhat is he??

You kick at his stomach, wrench out of his grasp to tackle him to the carpet. Connor’s head hits the floor, and for a brief second his vision scrambles. He recovers instantly, snaps open his eyes. His hardcore demands that he fix the problem, fix you, but he’s frozen. You’re over him, eyes red-rimmed, tears streaking down your face. He can’t move. Hecan move he won’t move-

“Who are you?!” You’re holding him down but you’re the one trembling, and something about you just looks broken. “Who are you?!”

WARNING_ ¯ SOFTWARE_INSTABILITY ¤§_Ψ/ȋ  SOFTWARE_INSTABILITY らØFŤƜΛ尺Ɛ ɪЛらŤΛϦɪŁɪŤϤ 

Your world spins, and suddenly Connor is the one on top. 

“I-” His voice is strained, thick with something you cannot identify. It wrenches you from hysteria, focuses your attention down sharp until all you can see is him. His jaw trembles before it clicks still. The grip on your wrists tightens. “You know me. You know who I am.”

“Maybe.” Your voice is hoarse, quiet. “But do you?”

He shakes.

It’s minute, but it’s there, and you can’t help but swallow. His lips are slightly parted, eyes unfocused. You search them for what you don’t know. Your wrist shifts out of his hold and he lets you. Watches you place it gently on his. Watches you brush your fingers across his-

Connor moves. 

It’s so quick you have to wonder if he really was there in the first place, because now he’s by the door. Faster than you could even blink.

“Connor?” You breathe.

His fist clenches at his side.

“I-” He sounds so confused, so vulnerable, and you feel as though your heart is aching. 

But then he stops. His shoulders roll back. He relaxes. 

And that scares you more than anything else.

“Conno-”

“My mission…is complete.” He speaks. You open your mouth then close it wordlessly. 

Connor tips his head your way. “Is there something bothering you, Lieutenant?” 

Lieutenant. “We-”  You can’t continue.

“What about us?” He blinks at you. Something cold and empty grows in your chest.

When you don’t answer, he just smiles.

“I will report that you are slightly unstable, but doing well. Have a good night’s rest. I’ll see you in the morning, yes?” 

You stare. 

“It’s raining,” is all you can say.

“Yes.”

The cold spreads from your chest and goes straight through you. “There’s an umbrella somewhere in the living room.”

“I will not need it,” He assures you. 

“Yes, of course,” You mutter. You look at your hands. Hands you swear are still stained blue. Blue and dripping. 

You don’t watch him when he leaves.

It’s only when you hear the front door swing close that you laugh.

“Good night, Connor.” 

You sob and you laugh and laugh.

“Good night.”

[coffeeandyoongi]

Request #30. BTS reaction: You have a stutter, and don’t talk to new people because of it, so they think you don’t like them.

a/n: The title doesn’t completely match the request, since it would have been a long ass title, so I’m sorry about that. Also, I wanted to give a big shout out to the people with a stutter: guys, you’re amazing. You don’t have to feel scared to talk because of this. Speak your mind, say everything you want to. There will always be someone that’s willing to listen.

Have you read my new work yet? Go, go! ⇢ Vernalagnia

Meeting him was the most stressful and amazing thing you had ever done. Before meeting him you were so confident, you didn’t even care about your stutter, but as soon as he smiled at you, everything came back, hitting you like a ton of bricks.

“Hey, how are you?” He asked.

You would have answered that you were so happy and excited about meeting him, but you just couldn’t. Being nervous would just make your stutter worse. You nodded instead of talking, playing safe.

His smile didn’t leave his face for a good couple minutes, and you obviously smiled back, but when he noticed just how uncomfortable you were, he got a little concerned. All his questions were being answered with “yes” or “no”, sometimes not even verbally, and it just made him think that you would rather be anywhere but there with him.

All these questions started bubbling up; was it something he said or were you just acting like that because something that had happened to you? How could he make it better?

Apparently, there was nothing he could do. He didn’t know too well, that made things awkward enough, and you looked scared, even, and ready to run away from him at any given moment. That was when he realised, you didn’t like him, it had to be that!

Well, he was wrong...

Seokjin:

He tried to ignore the bitter taste it had been set in his mouth. He was feeling hurt, but he knew that it was better to just forget about the situation. If you didn’t like him, that was fine, you weren’t necessarily rude to him, so he was okay. But the thing was, he wasn’t okay whatsoever.

The members noticed how Seokjin wasn’t being himself since they came back to the dorms, he was spacing out, not answering, lost in his thoughts. When Jungkook threw at him a packet of gum and Seokjin didn’t react, Namjoon decided to get involved.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

“I don’t know. I met a lot of people today, but this particular one just didn’t seem to like me and-”

“The one with the stutter?” Namjoon interrupted.

Seokjin frowned. He didn’t know about anyone with a stutter, what was Namjoon talking about?

“The one with the what?”

“The stutter. You met someone with a stutter and you didn’t realise?” He almost laughed at his face of confusion.

Nobody needed to draw him a map, now he got it. You didn’t talk because of your stutter, not because you didn’t like him!

“Don’t laugh, we didn’t talk that much. Of course I didn’t realise!” Seokjin exclaimed. “We need to come back now, I have to talk with them.”

No questions were asked, the members knew that it was useless to try to talk Seokjin out of an idea once he had got it.

He was hectic, he felt the need to apologise for being so inconsiderate and having had wasted a lot of time instead of asking why weren’t you weren’t talking, and focusing on getting to know you, which was what he had wanted to do since the beginning.

“Can we please start over? You deserve to talk, and I want to listen.”

Yoongi:

He was a little pissed. He didn’t understand why would you bother to go all the way there to see him, just to stay silent. If he was you, he wouldn’t have made that long trip to not talk at all. It was ridiculous.

The wall in front seemed interesting enough for him to focus for like half an hour, it helped him forget your kind smile and silent voice. It annoyed him how you could get under his skin when you clearly didn’t care about him.

“Today was a good day, don’t you think, hyung?” Jimin talked smiling, but he received a grumble as a response. “Um, are you alright?”

“Just peachy,” Yoongi grinned, “I just don’t understand how people work. I mean, humans talk to each other, right?”

“Right. But sometimes, they don’t because they can’t, or because of some other reason. Like this person we met today, they choose not to because of their stutter, it makes them feel nervous.

The horror on his face was almost comical. His eyes wide and his mouth opened in awe. He looked stupid, he felt stupid. The signs were all there in full display and he was so selfish that he didn’t realise sooner.

“They said that?” Yoongi asked after minutes of silence.

“They did, why?”

The worst part was that you seemed nice and you, bravely enough, ignored your fear and went there to meet him.

A long sigh escaped his mouth and then Yoongi got up from his place with a perfect view of the white wall. He had to find a way to contact you. A phone number would be alright, anything would be alright.

“I know you don’t like to talk, but would you do it for me? I won’t interrupt, I swear.”

Hoseok:

Everybody asked him what was wrong, but everytime he heard that question, he would smile it off and say that it was nothing important. It shouldn’t be important. If someone didn’t like him, it shouldn’t matter. Nevertheless, it was discouraging

He felt guilty like he had said something wrong, and deep down he knew that wasn’t he was supposed to feel, but he couldn’t help it. He started doubting himself as soon as he felt that your smile was an uncomfortable one.

“Do you like me? Hoseok suddenly asked.

Yoongi frowned at him. “Where’s that question coming from?”

And Hoseok loves to talk, he loves to connect and bond with everyone, but the whole situation with you left him worn out and weak. What if Yoongi didn’t want to hear what he had to say?

“Come on, Hoseok, you’re acting weird since we came back to the dorms.”

“I met someone today, but they didn’t like me and-”

“Did they say that they don’t like you?” He raised his eyebrows.

“That’s the problem! They wouldn’t say anything, it was like the thought of talking to me just disgusted them.”

Yoongi sighed heavily and patted Hoseok’s thigh. “The person you’re talking about has a stutter. They don’t feel comfortable with new people.”

The realisation slowly sank in, if Hoseok felt bad earlier, this made him feel even worse. The need of apologising passed from being ridiculous to be, well, a necessity. Maybe that way you would have the conversation he had wanted from the start.

“Feeling insecure is something normal, but you know what helps? Talking. Please, talk to me.”

Namjoon:

He didn't get too caught up in how it made him feel your lack of communication. Namjoon knew that he hadn't done anything wrong, so he moved on pretty quickly. He labelled you as just someone who didn’t like him. As soon as he was in bed, though, it all came back to him: the image of you smiling emptily at him, a few nods of your head and you were gone. It was all so fast, and hollow, superficial, even. It was something that, for him, was night-up keeping worthy. 

The sound of the coffee machine woke Seokjin up, he found Namjoon on the sofa, going through his phone, looking unbothered.

“I can hear you thinking, you’re so loud sometimes,” he commented startling the younger.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to invest so much energy in this.”

Seokjin sat down next to him and took the cup of coffee from his hands. “In what?”

“I met someone today. They seemed nice at first, but as time passed, they didn’t talk.  I thought I was okay with that, I mean, if they don’t like me that's fine, I ca-”

He was interrupted by Seokjin’s hand on his mouth. “You are ranting,” he softly murmured, “and I think I know who you’re talking about.”

That caught Namjoon’s attention. “You do?”

“They like you, but they didn’t talk because of their stutter. You’re pretty quick to jump to conclusions, silly.”

An amazed laughed left his lips. It was relieving but worrying at the same time. He had never been a guy who would just jump to conclusions without any proof. You really had gotten under his skin, hadn’t you? Incredible.

“You walk around unaware of the effect you have on people, on me.”

Taehyung:

It hit him so hard. No matter how much he tried to make the feeling go away, by doing anything that would distract him, it just kept coming back like a bad memory. He wanted to make it different, the whole thing, but he couldn’t.

He eventually tried to talk about it, he just needed it. He didn’t feel guilty or angry, just confused, and his curiosity reached its peak a Sunday morning while watching TV with Jungkook.

“Have you ever disliked someone, Kook?”

Jungkook detached his eyes from the screen in front of him to look at his hyung. 

“Yeah...”

“And did you let them know verbally, that you don’t like them?” He asked feeling nervous for no reason.

“Is someone giving you a hard time?” Jungkook questioned not believing his ears.

Taehyung could have told him that everything was okay, even when something so insignificant was bothering him, but he just couldn’t. He had never liked to lie, and it his urge to talk was unmistakable.

“No,” he replied fast enough to make himself even more confused. “I don’t know. They didn’t talk at all, so I wouldn’t know...”

“You are talking about the person you met today?” He nodded. “Tae... They’ve a stutter, it’s not like they don't like you.”

The big rock that had been not letting him breathe suddenly lifted up from his chest, and it felt so good. He puffed a breath and smiled dumbly at the new information. You could still get to know each other, have a nice conversation. He wanted that, so much.

“I was so scared that you wouldn’t like me, I didn’t stop to think that you might be scared too.”

Jimin:

He was just sad when he returned to the dorms. The same scene kept repeating in his mind, over and over again. He didn’t know what to do with himself. It made him feel like he was some scary monster trying to attack you. That’s how you made him feel.

Soon enough, the members noticed that he was feeling a little down, so Taehyung went there to the rescue. Jimin would have loved not to worry the others, deal with it alone, like a grown-up, but who was he kidding? He needed that, Tae always knew how to cheer him up.

“Is this about them?” Taehyung spoke after a few minutes of silence.

“Them who?”

“The one with the stutter, Jimin,” he answered. “Look, I know it’s sad that they aren’t comfortable to speak with new people, but they said that it was okay. We should believe them.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’re a sensitive person, no wonder why it got you so upset,” he muttered.

Now he felt bad for a whole new reason. It was surprising how he hadn’t noticed the discomfort on your face, the lack of speak... Everything because of a stutter, and you couldn’t help it. He wanted to let you know that, that it shouldn’t ashamed you, that he would have been so grateful to chat with you.

“I don’t want to be someone scary. Not for you, or anyone, to be honest.”

Jungkook:

He had never been one to feel self-conscious easily, but what happened with you, left him vulnerable, a little weak, even. It caught him unguarded. It felt like he was a kid once again.

The over thinking was inevitable, he just couldn’t get it. He thought that he was someone that people considered lovely, was he rude? No. He had never faced a situation like this before.

“You have that face,” Yoongi talked from the other side of the room.

“What face?” 

“The “oh no, another crisis” face.”

“Is that even a face?” Jungkook asked scoffing. He didn’t want to talk, it was stressing him out, not that he would admit it.

“Kid...” He warned. “I can hear the freaking hamster wheel of your head going round and round. What’s the matter?”

“The person we met today. They didn’t like me,” he sighed, “and it’s bothering me?”

The older crossed the room and sat right next to Jungkook, putting his arm around the latest’s neck.

“Not everyone will like you, you gotta understand that and deal with it.” He chuckled, “can you imagine how stressful would it be to act a certain way so everybody would like you?” He finished his sentence and got up from the sofa.

Jungkook stayed silent, thinking about what Yoongi said. It made sense, he didn’t have to worry about you liking him.

“But,” Yoongi interrupted his thoughts, “they do like you, but they have a stutter and don’t talk too much because of it.”

“Couldn’t you tell me that sooner?!”

He received a shrug as a response, and he chuckled. He was happy that you did like him, and he was going to make sure you knew that he liked you too, no matter what.

“I know I shouldn’t worry about who likes me and who doesn’t, but you’re an exception.”

Have you read my new work yet? Go, go! ⇢ Vernalagnia

Request from anonymous: “I have no idea if I sent this request to you, if I did please ignore this. I would like to request a reaction with BTS where you’re meeting them for the first time but you don’t really talk to them because you have a stutter.... but the members sees it as you don’t like them because you didn’t really talk. But then they find out from another member that you have a stutter and it makes you nervous to talk to new people, but then hearing that you have a stutter makes them want to get to know you.”

[utsus]

Say Uncle: An Uchiha Madara Anthology

AO3

Uchiha Madara is many things—powerful, enigmatic, alluring.

He has a wide range of talents, and has never met a challenge he hasn’t overcome.

That is, until his little brother and his cute wife must leave town on short notice, leaving him the only available candidate to watch over their twin preteen daughters.

He is not in the habit of backing down.

This, however, makes him think about it.

✧✧✧

“It’ll only be one day, Madara.”

“You know what else happened in one day? The fall of an entire nation, Izuna.”

“That was decades ago. It’s time to move on.”

“People don’t forget,” Madara whispers forlornly, curling his fingers and surveying the smooth curves of his fingernails, each with its own dainty crescent indent.

“Regardless,” Izuna huffs, exasperated. “Please take good care of them.”

Madara rolls his eyes, knowing his brother knows he’s done so. “Of course. Have a safe trip. Tell Hinata hello for me. Don’t forget this time, Izuna. Your lack of follow-through is at times unspeakably rude.”

Izuna sighs over the phone, and the line cuts off.

“He hung up on me,” Madara says to himself, clucking his tongue. “His manners are atrocious.”

✧✧✧

Fifteen minutes since Uchiha Madara stepped through the chipped, dusty doorframe of his little brother’s home, he finds himself sitting in the living room with two eleven year old girls on either side of him. There are teen magazines spread around them, nail polishes in several striking colors lined up in front of him, and two dainty hands resting against his knees.

Surprisingly enough, none of these occurrences take the cake for the strangest, most startling development in Madara’s life.

The conversation at hand, however, does.

“Listen, Mayumi. There are approximately three hundred and seven different reasons why silk sheets are superior to,” and here, Madara pauses to swallow some bile down, “cotton.”

“But uncle, what are they?” Michiko asks, peering up at him with her wide-eyed gaze. So young, he thinks, with so much to learn about the world.

“All in due time, Michiko. For now, just know that the atrocities your father has inflicted upon you will be rectified swiftly.”

“What’s an atro—atrossy?”

“For starters, your hair,” Madara admits pitilessly. “Not to mention the décor in this place. You both have been starved of fine living. I’m surprised at your mother, though this is typical of your father.”

“I want black nails,” Mayumi says easily, gesturing to the black nail polish. This particular shade is one of Madara’s favorites, even amongst the armada of polishes he brought over to share with his nieces from his place. Madara gives her an approving look, and picks the polish up with deft fingers. He turns it in his hands and reads the label on the bottom, eyebrows raised.

“This might look black to you, but it is in fact much more. It’s obsidian.”

“Right,” Mayumi agrees smoothly. “I want it on all of my nails but the thumbs.”

“I want it on my thumbs,” Michiko states, “but a different color for the rest.”

Madara hums as he moves the tiny brush meticulously over his first niece’s nails, not getting a single smidge of paint on her skin. “And the other color, Michiko?”

He watches her from the corner of his eye, sees her lift a specific polish, seek its label, and read out, “Crimson Rain.”

“Extraordinary choice,” Madara praises, beaming at her. He finishes painting Mayumi’s nails, excluding her thumbs, and surveys his work with a critical eye. Pleased with his exactitude, he nods to himself and shifts to start on Michiko’s nails. He treats them with the same careful precision, and finishes with a wide flare of his brush over the center of her pointer nail.

“You’re so good at this,” Mayumi points out unnecessarily. Madara very nearly rolls his eyes. Of course he is.

“Of course I am,” he reiterates aloud, casting a speculative glance her way. “Experience is key. Practice is integral. Understand this, and you’ll nail it.”

His pun flies straight over their heads, and his stomach drops. Strike one, he thinks solemnly.

“Mom’s good at it too. Dad gets some paint on my skin sometimes, but he’s okay.”

Madara cringes. “He does?”

“Yup,” Michiko asserts, blowing on her nails and shimmying in her seat.

“Abominable.”

“Like the snowman!”

“Perhaps,” Madara allows, but truth be told, his mind is still clouded with his brother’s apparent failures. Getting nail polish on the skin—what is Izuna, a barbarian?

“There,” Madara announces, when he’s applied the appropriate amount of coats for their nails to really stick and shine. They coo over his work and his ego is properly bolstered, his chest swelling with pride. He flips his hair over his shoulder, careful to keep it out of their hands. Upon walking through the door, his hair had been the first thing they’d wanted to touch, as always.

And, as always, he had denied them.

That was before he realized that he finds their company bolstering, and even quite refreshing.

They have swift learning curves, and are incredibly receptive to his words and actions—this is certainly genetic, on their mother’s side. They retain the lessons he’s deemed acceptable to offer them, and they seem to share several of his key interests. They did immediately understand the difference between mahogany and pine, and that this difference is life-altering.

This is still not enough to change his mind.

“Uncle, have you heard of coconut oil? And how it can help with split ends?”

Madara turns to Mayumi slowly, suspecting a trap. She’s all wide-eyed innocence and open curiosity, wondering at his answer. He’s an impeccable judge of character, and she seems legitimate.

“Coconut oil, you say?”

Michiko nods, climbing over to kneel by her sister. “Yes! Mom uses it and it works really well.”

“What’s the brand?”

Michiko’s expression pinches. “I don’t know.”

Strike two, Madara thinks, as he reevaluates his initial high opinion of his nieces. The fact that they seem unbothered by this does not deter him, or make him think differently. He wonders if this is really the time for another lesson to be learned, along with some pointedly disdainful undertones so that his nieces understand their deficiency in this regard.

“Well,” he says, deciding to move forward without that disdainful remark. They are still rather young, after all. “So tell me. It’s effective?”

The twins have more to say about coconut oil than Uchiha Madara had ever expected to hear in his life, and he is better off because of it. Already he has brand names running behind his eyes, producers and makers in countries around the world that have the capacity and capability to do coconut oil right. He’s already planning communication channels and shipping delays when Mayumi drops another heavy, but welcoming, blow.

“Uncle, have you heard of restorative hand cream?”

Madara doesn’t know how long he sits in front of his nieces and listens to them share their self care secrets for his benefit, but by the time they finish, the moon is in the night sky and there is an owl softly hooting somewhere nearby. His lips have been pursed in concentration for who knows how long by now, and his brow is a knotted, furrowed line of tension.

Even still, he has never felt lighter.

Hinata has been holding out on him, it seems, though he doesn’t blame her. Much. She had probably been distracted trying to convince his travesty of a brother not to wear socks with sandals again, or, God forbid, two different shades and patterns of plaid at the same time.

“Interesting,” Madara says for the umpteenth time, equally sincere as the first.

“Uncle,” Mayumi pauses, expression just this side of expectant. “We know you have connections in other countries.”

Madara sits up a little straighter at this, eyeing his nieces blankly, giving them no sign of his true feelings in the matter. “Hm?”

“Well,” Michiko joins, dragging the word out. “Our shampoo is bought from the supermarket.”

Madara doesn’t breathe for a solid minute; when the air is finally forced into his lungs, it’s through his teeth.

His voice is a roar, deep and thunderous; he says, “No.”

So much betrayal from his own blood, he doesn’t even know where to begin. The least of it is obviously how the twins have just efficiently played him, though he’s already debating forgiving them, simply because they share his tastes. And he finds them interesting. Maybe they had played him, but truly, their intentions are sound; they merely desire the best, just as he does. They just so happen to need him as a middleman in order to receive the best.

He is only too happy to oblige.

The betrayal he cannot let slide, however, comes as it so often does, from his little brother.

The supermarket.

Madara had thought certainly that he had raised Izuna better than this. This deficiency is in no way related to him, but it pains him to wonder if it may in fact be due to Hinata. She is the person he finds most interesting in the world, an amalgamation of cool, calm introversion with the potential of a dangerously manipulative side if threatened. He’s never felt anything but avid respect for Hinata, but if she is to blame for this supermarket fiasco, he may have to reevaluate her, as well.

His brother, however.

Madara is without a doubt going to have words with Izuna.

“Well played,” Madara finally admits to the twins, noting the calculating gleams in their wide eyes. He gives them appraising looks, wondering for only a moment if he would be overstepping his bounds should he foster that manipulative nature into something worthwhile, something treacherous. Their mother would never approve, but he’s fairly certain that Izuna would quietly side with him on this.

Perhaps another time, then. He requires a plan for such fastidious, underhanded work.

“I’ll have the same shampoo and conditioner that I use, imported from Jordan, in your hands by this Wednesday. It’s only a few days away; as such, I suggest not washing your hair until then, not when your only other options are so horrific. The natural oils in your hair are good for it.”

“Understood,” the twins chirp simultaneously, and turn to flick through some of the magazines spread around them. Madara goes to work putting all of his Louboutin nail polishes away in his travel container, careful not to chip any of them with careless handling. Not long after he’s sealed the container, he finds the twins turning their attention back to him, visibly curious.

“Uncle,” Mayumi starts, before Michiko picks up where she left off. “Can you teach us more?”

“Rather vague, Michiko.”

Michiko, apparently already well-learned in the art of self-preservation, does not roll her eyes. However, it seems a close thing.

“Can you teach us,” she repeats, “about ‘fine living?’”

Madara unashamedly brightens like a sunrise, and stands to his full height. He gestures for them to follow him over to the couch, waits for them to sidle up to him, and points derisively at the cushions.

“First lesson,” he begins. “These cushions are an abomination.”

The couch is only the first victim of Madara’s sharp eye, with countless others to follow. Now that he’s been given free reign to do a few of his favorite things—criticize Izuna’s taste (or lack thereof), and display his expert knowledge on all things upper class—he rambles on endlessly, leaving no cheaply glued frame or dusty flower vase without criticism.

In the future, Madara will remember this day fondly—not only as the first true day that he saw the raw potential for elegantly-inclined scholars in his insightful nieces, nor the first day that said nieces pulled out what would ultimately become a tome of Madara’s finely-honed knowledge of the world, but as the first day of an indomitable alliance between he and his nieces.

An alliance that would lead to immeasurable future victories over Izuna, who at that point in time, twitched and began to feel as though something ominous was moving over him.

Mayumi’s pen pauses in her detailed writing, Michiko peering over her shoulder at the words, and when both of them look back up at him expectantly, Madara smiles.

He doesn’t stop talking for the remainder of the night, not even when they’re tucked into their beds and their eyelids droop.

He has a great deal of knowledge to share, after all.

✧✧✧

“Welcome back, Izuna. Hinata. I trust your trip went well.”

“It went,” Izuna huffs, letting his backpack drop to the tile beside the front door. Madara eyes the bag with repulsion, going so far as to cringe away from it.

“You took a backpack, Izuna?”

“Yes? I only needed to carry a few things.”

“Hi, Madara-san.” Hinata greets, moving around her husband to press a kiss to Madara’s cheek, before heading deeper into the house to greet the twins.

Madara remains staring incredulously at the bag on the ground in front of him—is that a hole?—as he addresses Izuna again.

“Izuna, what happened to the carry-on items I gave you for Christmas? They’re designer, and far more practical than that disaster you have there.”

Izuna scowls. “The bags you got me were too big for this trip.”

“Extra space, Izuna. What if you had required more?”

If possible, Izuna’s scowl deepens. His shoulders bow exhaustedly, and there are deep-set lines on the corners of his lips.

“It doesn’t matter anyways,” he says in response, his words coming out quicker than his mind can keep up. “We don’t have them anymore.”

Hinata, who had just appeared in the doorway behind them, gasps. Izuna looks up and sees the expression on her face—knowing, pitying—and looks to Madara and flinches.

“Pardon me,” Madara says slowly, tone utterly glacial. Chills race down Izuna’s spine; the last time he’d been the target of that particular glare, he’d almost lost an arm. He’s fairly certain his only offense, then, had been wearing glow in the dark flip flops. This, it seems, is far worse. “Did I just hear you say that you got rid of the Versace carry-on bags I got you three Christmases ago? The same ones that I had hand-made with real leather, velvet linings, and gold accents, and were imported from France?”

“Madara,” Izuna puts his hands up defensively, abruptly backtracking. He assumes his most placating tone, expression shifting into something downtrodden simply in an attempt to touch at any heartstrings Madara has left in him. It doesn’t really seem to work all that well; Madara appears a step away from murderous.

“You come into my house,” Madara cuts him off, smooth and derisive, even if he is in fact currently within Izuna’s house. “You insult my fine tastes.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Izuna appeases.

“Oh, and I suppose the Greeks never meant to insult the Trojans, Izuna.”

“Are you really equating this situation to the downfall of Troy?”

“Seeing that I feel thusly betrayed,” Madara snarls petulantly, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“They’re just bags.” Izuna tries again, tone this side of pleading.

“And hell is just a sauna, Izuna.”

“I never even used them!”

“Deception,” Madara begins to sing lowly, tone rumbling. “Disgrace. Evil as plain as the scar on your face!”

“What? I don’t have a scar on my face.”

“Uncle,” Mayumi suddenly says from his side, tugging lightly on the hem of his shirt. “He won’t know that one.”

Madara’s anger, suddenly girded, becomes a passionate display of disappointment. He turns away from Mayumi, back to Izuna, and says, “You’ve never seen The Lion King, Izuna?”

“No?”

“This is,” Madara states sincerely, not blinking once, “The worst day of my existence.”

“Oh, please,” Izuna rolls his eyes, and Hinata cringes over Madara’s shoulder. “Don’t be so dr—”

“Madara-san!” Hinata interjects swiftly, moving around his shoulder and smiling kindly as his eyes flick to her face. “We happened to see this fabric store on our trip, and one of the signs in the window implied the possession of imported silk. I thought you might be interested.”

Madara allows himself to be deterred, refuses to even think about the road Izuna had so clearly been heading down, and turns to Hinata with an appraising expression. He purses his lips, says, “Signs? In the window? A hideous promotional technique.”

But he considers it; there are not many places near his home that sell large quantities of silk, which are specific to his needs. He has hobbies, after all. And no matter how many strongly worded letters he writes to the local Silk Shack (the most detestable of names, certainly, but their silk stock is second to none in this country), they keep refusing to connect him with the general manager.

His last letter had been especially strongly worded, so much so that he had gotten his very first actual response. Their unremarkable deflection attempt was pitiful, he remembers, and their assumption that he would give in so easily to their laziness a far greater offense. He can still remember how heated he’d been while writing his rejoinder, the tip of his quill very nearly piercing through the parchment (imported from Venice) when he wrote,

“I am Konoha! The Morning and the Evening Star! If I say ‘day is night,’ it will be written! Let it be known, now, that your general manager has done your silk business a disservice, and that I will not allow the continued disregard for the elegant material of silk to ensue further. Need I remind you how I conquered the atrocity that was © 1998 Powerade? I think not.

Best, Uchiha Madara”

Madara doesn’t know how many letters he’s going to have to write before they understand that he doesn’t simply want to speak with the general manager, he wants to follow through with a crafty and stylish coup d’état, and assume his position at the helm of the company. That way, he can really do right by the silk industry in this nation, and spread the wonders of silk throughout the lands.

If he really puts his mind to it, he can probably obliterate the entirety of the cotton market.

Madara’s smile is a switchblade’s transition, all sharp edges and full of bite. “Hideous promotional techniques aside…Hinata, do tell me more about this place.”

As Hinata guides him away from the front room and, coincidentally, Izuna, she chatters on about the details she’d managed to catch from their trip past this mysterious silk shop. Madara raises a brow when she mentions its proximity to the post office, and finds himself opening up more and more to the idea of taking over not one, but two silk shops.

He notices Izuna move past him to head for the twins standing in the doorway, dropping to his knees to hug both of them. His little brother coos softly over their painted nails, and smiles patiently while they recount several of the lessons that Madara had ingrained in them in their short time together. Izuna’s shoulders hunch when they mention flip flops and the term “atrocity” in the same sentence, but Madara swells with pride. His lessons, it seems, were not taught in vain.

He thanks Hinata graciously for her information she offered on the new silk shop, which she tells him is called Fine Comforts. Simple, if a little tasteless.

“Well, as it seems, my duties here have come to an end.”

Instantly, the twins both groan and ask him to stay a little while longer. While he admires their passion, he clucks his tongue at their lack of self-control.

“I have a cell-phone,” he allows, after a considering pause. “Feel free to use it.”

“Please do,” Izuna nearly begs, and Madara turns to him with a deadpan expression.

“Do not pretend you don’t enjoy our chats, Izuna.”

Izuna looks pained, and Hinata laughs behind her hand.

“All you do is reference movies and books I’ve never seen and read, and complain about fashion and home décor.”

Madara scoffs. “What else is there to discuss in life?”

Izuna purses his lips, sounding hopeful. “Anything else?”

“Call me when you come up with something substantial,” Madara turns, opening the door and stepping over the threshold. “Oh, and Izuna? Expect a package on Wednesday.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“It’s nothing uncouth,” Madara promises with a haughty sniff, glancing over to Hinata with a nod. He turns his heavy-handed stare to the twins, considering. After a long moment of weighing their successes versus their failures, he decides that their alliance can only truly be sealed with an act of genuine, powerful trust.

As such, he kneels over the threshold of Hinata and Izuna’s front door and gestures for them to come over to him. Izuna watches with wide-eyed curiosity, lips parting in surprise.

“Mayumi, Michiko, I am going to offer the both of you an extremely rare gift. Cherish it properly, and understand it’s significance, and you’ll be more likely to receive exposure to it again in the future.”

“A present?” Mayumi asks, and Madara rolls the thought of it around in his mind for less than a moment before saying, “Yes.”

He re-situates himself until he’s kneeling, and wraps an arm around each of his nieces, pulling them in close. He hears twin gasps in his ears as their cheeks press against his, and their noses touch his hair. Izuna’s gasp, however, is the loudest of all. Madara hugs them close, though not too tightly, and whispers, “If you play your cards right, girls, our alliance will prosper. In all regards.”

The twins hug him tightly, careful not to touch his hair more than necessary, for which he is eternally grateful. He pulls back first, standing to his full height and patting their heads dotingly. When he glances up at Izuna, his little brother is openly gaping.

“You hugged them?”

Madara stares at him with his typical deadpan expression.

Izuna stutters, even when Hinata comes up to his side and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. She looks a comical blend of amused and pitying.

Izuna blurts, “You only hug me once a year!”

“That is true, yes,” Madara nods, tilting his head at his little brother. “You haven’t yet earned a higher quota.”

“How in the world did they earn a higher quota? What have you done, Madara?”

If Madara had not been so scornful of Izuna envying his own progeny, he would have smirked outright.

“Poor form, Izuna. They’re your daughters.”

“Yeah,” Izuna agrees coarsely, all rough edges and narrowed eyes. “And you did something dangerous, didn’t you?”

“Dangerous for whom, I wonder?”

“Madara.”

“Afraid not, Izuna. Afraid not.”

“Madara, don’t walk out that door without answering me.”

Madara turns, flipping his hair over his shoulder and basking in the way the breeze causes the ends of it to flutter. He’s certain that, in this moment, he looks just the same way that Pocahontas had when she was standing at the cliff’s edge, gesturing farewell to John Smith, hair blowing in the wind.

His gaze lands squarely on Izuna’s, and his lips curl at the edges with devious commitment. With one parting remark, spoken sharp and true as any declaration of battle, so does Madara initiate the Uchiha Brother War.

“All is fair in home décor and war, Izuna.”

[iswearonmarcuskane]

Kickin’ & Screamin’ // Chapter 14

Title: Kickin’ & Screamin’ Fandom: The 100 Pairing: Kabby Tag/Warnings: Modern AU Setting, Kicking and Screaming AU, Kid!Delinquents Chapter(s): 14/22 Read earlier chapters on: AO3

Chapter Summary: the tornado has entered the backyard and it's too late to take shelter

Chapter 14: You can’t argue with ignorance

Miller was late.

And when he showed up, it wasn’t pretty.

“Ten laps?”

“Did I misspeak? Get going,” Marcus demanded, “you have fifteen minutes to finish them.”

Miller got going, one could say.

Abby’s not sure what happened over the past two days before practice this Tuesday to make Marcus go back into his hardass coaching style, but what Abby was sure was happening was that she was annoyed with him.

Miller was ten minutes late to practice due to an accident on their usual route to the fields. Marcus didn’t care, he told him he should’ve left earlier or chosen another route. Abby couldn’t ever think of a time she saw David Miller as upset as he was.

And now the poor kid was running his heart out in ten laps.

Abby confronted him about it, telling him, “It was ten minutes, Marcus. We can shorten warm up a bit.”

Marcus wasn’t having it. He grabbed his cones and told her, “Ten minutes we had to wait for him. Ten minutes wasted for practice. Ten laps.”

He left her then, going to set up their warm up. Abby was left in shock if she was honest. What crawled up his ass and died?

He seemed closed off, like he had been back when they were on separate teams. Abby was trying to take the high road here, but Cage’s words still haunted her. Now, what Cage had told her, it was glaring.

Abby didn’t forget their small argument after the game this past Sunday either. She knew both of them knew if Clarke hadn’t stepped in, another argument would’ve erupted between them. But, that was because the Grounder kids weren’t there. They were here now, so, those flames should’ve been extinguished.

But, they weren’t. If anything, they were growing.

Oh, and how Abby just stated his problem with being controlling being glaring? Yeah, it was.

Abby caught wind of Marcus telling Octavia, Murphy, Clarke, Gaia, Raven, and Lincoln to grab pennies. That’s not how sharks and minnows was set up. Murphy was always a shark alone at the start.

Then she looked at the grid. It was too small for sharks and minnows. It was a small box, only a couple yards in length and width. Immediately, she recognized it as all the players entered the box.

Octavia was holding her penny and looked up to her dad. She asked, “No sharks and minnows?”

He shook his head and said, “Sorry, kiddo. We have to focus on winning the next game.”

Octavia frowned and nodded and walked away from him. Marcus told himself to ignore the jab in his heart. He told himself over and over that the win they would earn this weekend will make up for it.

He felt Abby’s anger before she reached him. He turned to look at her, the anger on her face apparent. She didn’t speak first, so he asked her, “Yes?”

“You know what,” she spat at him. He noticed the slight bit of venom in her words. She wasn’t wrong, he knew why she was angry. He just didn’t think it was sensible.

He looked back to the grid as he sent a ball in for the kids to begin possession. He told her, “No sharks and minnows today. We need to focus if we want to win our game Saturday.”

“A small game for warm up will get them focused. It will get them interested for practice,” she told him.

“If they need a silly game to make them interested in practice, then they shouldn’t be here in the first place,” he stated, turning his attention back to the grid.

Abby was left wordless, which was hard to say when she argued with him. She had heard the rumors before of Marcus acting like a professional coach around the kids. She had heard he was too hard sometimes and took it too serious.

She never guessed it was this bad. Sure, she had gotten a taste of it at their first practice together but today seemed like that attitude was amplified.

“Silly?” She repeated him, feeling the anger building up. By calling it a ‘silly game’, he was talking down to her. “You were fine with it as a warm up for last week’s practice and the weeks before that.”

“And I found out how detrimental it truly was to this team and made the decision to change it,” he replied, unbothered by her rage.

She felt herself flinch the slightest. Not only was that a dig at her coaching, it reaffirmed the words Cage had told her two weekends ago.

She retorted, “You said yourself you saw the potential it had to be a great drill.”

He looked to her, saying, “That was when we had room to lose a game. Now, we don’t.”

“You can’t honestly be blaming the game for those losses, can you?” She asked. “Maybe you forgot, but we won three games while that was our warm up.”

“With those three, yes,” he said, nodding towards where the Grounder kids were standing in the grid. He focused back on her, mocking her, “Maybe you forgot, but we lost terribly on Sunday.”

Rage erupted in her at that. Now he was mocking her. It was just like old times; but somehow, it hurt Abby this time. She felt like he had stabbed her in the heart. Why did it hurt more this time?

“You think I forgot?” She nearly hissed at him. “Of course I didn’t forget! I don’t see how that has anything to do with our warm up.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice replicated his face, annoyed and already done with the conversation. It was like he decided he was right and the conversation was pointless. “We spent time on a pointless game when we could have been spending time on a drill that would actually benefit our team.”

Abby was silent again. She could hear Cage laughing in her mind. It enraged her further as she asked, “And you don’t think I know what could benefit our team?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked as if he was struggling to say what he wanted. Abby had a gut feeling of what he was thinking. A little part of her prayed she was wrong.

Finally, he said, “I know what will benefit our team the most.”

It wasn’t the exact words she was thinking of but they were pretty damn close. They had the same effect on her nonetheless.

“Of course you do,” she threw back at him, “I mean, how would I, a coach who never won a game without you, ever know what’s best for her team?”

Marcus heard the hurt in her voice and it sent a knife with ‘guilt’ engraved on the handle into his heart. He never cared before about what he told her, why all the sudden did he feel guilty for it?

It was different when Cage told her. It was different when she told herself. Marcus telling her somehow hurt worse. Why?

When he didn’t answer, she went on, “But you know everything, right? Because you had one win. I forgot that got you one spot above last place in the standings.”

“At least I wasn’t in last,” he shot back, his own anger rising in response. “My tactics worked before we had those kids join our team. None of yours did.”

She stared up at him, anger burning in her eyes, just as much as his. She asked, “So, you’re blaming me for Sunday’s loss?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. It was a tricky question, which he was sure his answer and not answering would get him in trouble either way. He settled for telling her, “I blame your tactics. We got dependent on others, letting ourselves slack off, like with the warm up game for example. I’m making sure it’s not going to happen again.”

“So,” she asked, afraid of the answer, “you’ve decided how practice will run from now on?”

He watched her, seeing the fear of his answer in her body language. He found his eyes flickering over to where Indra was watching their exchange carefully. He finally looked back to Abby, telling her, “I do know how to run a winning practice.”

And that’s all Abby needed to hear. It confirmed exactly what Cage had said. He did think less of her. He did think he could run the team without her.

She did her best to keep the hurt out of her voice. When did she start caring what Marcus thought of her? “You haven’t changed,” she harshly told him.

He froze. He didn’t know how to respond to the accusation. It was a good thing Abby walked away after because he didn’t have a response.

He looked to the grid to see the kids not playing possession anymore. It seemed they had stopped long ago. His eyes fell on Octavia, who was sitting on the ground, chin her hand as she picked at the grass.

He snapped out of his daze when a set of cones hit him. Everyone’s head turned to see Abby standing there, arms crossed. She raised an eyebrow at him, telling him, “Well, let’s get going Coach. Don’t you have a practice to run?” She nodded towards the kids, adding, “Doesn’t seem to be very productive right now.”

Any sympathy he had felt before was now replaced with anger. He picked up the cones one by one as everyone watched. He looked to the kids, who were all standing together now. He snapped at them, “Did I tell you to stop?”

Almost immediately they got back into their game of possession. Marcus turned to face Abby then, telling her, “Make sure they keep playing,” not waiting for a response as he strode past her.

He heard her tell him from over his shoulder, “Whatever you say, Coach.” He sighed deeply as he drummed his fingers against the cones. Irritation was making its way through him.

He began to set up their formation with the cones, planning to go into an extensive session of their game plan. Any flaw in it would be pointed out and would be punished. They would learn to not make them, he would make sure of it.

He finished setting up the formation and came back over to the grid. He stood by Abby who didn’t turn to look at him. He crossed his own arms, copying her stance, and told the team, “Go get water. Then meet for your formation.”

The kids did as told, not wanting to end up like Miller, who was on his last lap. Marcus looked at his watch and yelled to the poor boy, “You have forty seconds left to make this lap. If you don’t, you have another five.”

Abby was almost sure she heard the boy cry out before trying to run faster. She thought Marcus was being ridiculous, she knew he was. She didn’t say anything, ya know, because he did know what was best for the team.

Soon the kids rejoined them alongside a Miller who looked like he wanted to curl into a ball and never play soccer again. In fact, none of the kids seemed to be enjoying practice so far. They seemed to be afraid of what their next drill would be and wondering if they’d end up like Miller.

Marcus looked at them all, unfazed by their faces, and told them, “We will be practicing our formation all practice. Any mistake made will be pointed out and there will be consequences. They are there to make sure you know what you’re doing is wrong and to help motivate you to not repeat those mistakes.”

Marcus listed off the usual line up. Raven, Murphy, and Miller lined the back line. Jasper, Gaia, and Monty took up the midfield with Bellamy up top. The other kids threw on pennies and acted as the opposing team.

Every little mistake that happened, Marcus pointed out whoever committed it and they were given a punishment. Usually, it was either running or pushups.

Raven dived in many times, earning many full field sprints. Eventually, she was too tired to dive in anymore. Murphy was over aggressive and caused many fouls. He did a lot of pushups. Every time Miller stood still, not from being tired from his ten laps, he would run another. The guy started to eventually not move due to being worn out.

Every time Jasper was out of positon, he was given a sprint to do, where he was watched by everyone to make sure he was running it correctly. When Monty didn’t communicate, Marcus made him do pushups. When Bellamy decided to abandon or ignore the game plan and charge forward, Marcus made him switch out with Clarke. It was pretty often.

After about twenty minutes of the torture, he let the kids get a drink. When the kids walked by Abby towards the bench, she heard Murphy complain to Bellamy, “Why is your dad being such a dick?”

Abby chuckled to herself as she looked over to Marcus. He was running a hand through his hair, frustration etched on his face. It made a flashback to their first practice enter her mind. She called out, “Everything okay, Coach?”

She was mocking him, and he knew it. She didn’t care though. That was until he smirked at her. That fucking smirk was back and it burst annoyance through her. What did he have planned?

“I will be soon,” he replied as he fixed some of the cones that got messed up during the drill.

Soon, the kids came back from their water break. He smiled down to them, telling them, “We’re going to be doing a new line up, one we haven’t done before.” His eyes flickered to Abby, adding, “But I know it’ll benefit this team well.”

Dread crept up on her. He wouldn’t dare…

He told them, “Raven you’re still left outside defense. Murphy, you’re getting a break. Clarke, you’ll be center defense.”

The rest of his line up went in one ear and out the other. She was focused on the position he had given her daughter. Apparently, he would dare.

If they weren’t already playing with fire, that decision would’ve rekindled any previous argument they had.

The kids went into their line up and Abby immediately made her way to where Marcus stood. He was smirking as he watched the drill begin.

She asked, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He shook his head and told her, “Watch your language, Abby. There are children around.”

“I’ll do that once you tell me what the fuck is going on,” she hissed at him, pointing to where her daughter stood on defense. “Why is she in the back?”

He crossed his arms and told her, “Because her being there is what will benefit this team the most.”

“Lincoln plays there! He has more experience there!”

“And? He can sub in her for when she needs one,” he told her. “Otherwise, Clarke can play defense.”

“No,” she immediately shot the idea down.

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to her, asking, “I thought we already established I knew what was best for this team?”

“That may be,” she bit out, ignoring the tug in her heart, “but I always know what is best for my daughter.”

He watched her for a moment. He asked, “And you think that’s up top?”

She watched him for a moment as well. She felt it was a trap she was going to walk in. She just nodded in response.

He was silent for a moment until he laughed. Rage spiked in her again, hands clenching into fists. He looked to her, shaking his head, telling her, “You haven’t change either.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he replied, the humor absent now. “You’ve heard how good Clarke is at defense. Hell, Abby, you’ve seen it, but you choose to stay ignorant. Why? Because you don’t want to be wrong.”

“I am not wrong about my daughter,” she spat back, venom dripping in her words.

He wasn’t fazed and went on as if she hadn’t talked, “Have you asked her yet? Where she would like to play? I’ve overheard her talking with Lincoln about defense.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“It doesn’t?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. “You’re afraid you’ll be wrong about what your daughter wants so you choose to ignore it. You don’t want to change your mindset that her being on top will make her happy.”

“That’s because it does!”

He shook his head, waiting until she made eye contact with him to speak. He told her, “You don’t truly know your daughter if you think that.”

Abby laughed this time, loud enough that the kids stopped their drill to examine their coaches. Marcus was confused at the sudden shift of emotions in her.

She shook her head this time, smiling at him, as if she knew something he didn’t. She asked him, “And you think you know your daughter?”

Marcus’ guard went up immediately. His eyes found Octavia where she was watching the exchange on the opposite side of the field. She was watching him with worried eyes. He looked back to Abby, replying, “Of course I do.”

“You do?” She asked, laughing immediately after again. Marcus was getting nervous. He did know his daughter, didn’t he?

“What makes her happy about soccer then, Marcus?” She asked him out of the blue.

He looked to her, confused by the question. He automatically told her, “Winning.”

That’s when Abby shook her head and he felt the nerves beating his heart faster. She asked him, “Are you sure?”

He looked over to Octavia again, mind racing. Looking back to Abby, he nodded, saying, “Yes.”

She laughed again as she crossed her arms. She smiled at Marcus, one full of knowledge he didn’t yet understand. She told him, “Then I guess you don’t know your daughter either.”

“Bullshit!” He yelled, earning the eyes of the parents now.

“Oh, Coach,” Abby put a hand over her heart, feigning hurt, mocking him, “watch your language. There are kids around.”

He gritted his together. He had his marker board in his hand and he pointed it at her, hissing, “This all because you know I’m the reason this team is winning.”

Fire erupted in her veins, ice cold fire. It swarmed in her eyes and radiated off her in waves. She took a step closer to him, telling him, “Really? Cause whose formation actually won games?”

“Your formation turned out to be shit once those kids weren’t there,” he retorted. “Your formation had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, as one coach used to say,” she mocked his voice, “a win is a win.”

He shook his head, ignoring her and repeated himself, “You’re only doing this because you know I’m right. You’re insecure about the fact that I’m still a better coach than you. You’re trying to make up for the fact that if I weren’t coaching with you, you’d still be in last place with no wins.”

“And you think you would’ve gotten this far alone?” She asked. “You couldn’t have beaten any of those teams without my help, Kane. You’re not Cage Wallace, stop acting like it.”

Fire burned through his veins, spreading like wildfire. He knew he wasn’t Cage, he never wanted to be. He shot back, “I could defeat the Reapers alone on Saturday, without you.”

“Oh, you could? How so?”

“Because I know how to win a game. I don’t need your formation or your stupid game or you to get it. I know what’s best for this team and you don’t,” he raged.

His adrenaline was high, coursing through his veins. His breathing was deep as he watched her, eyes focused solely on her. His state matched hers, anger amplifying at a fast rate. They were both volcanoes, rumbling, waiting to erupt.

“Well,” she replied, “too bad you’ll never get the chance to prove that. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.” If she was hurt by his comment, she didn’t show it.

He didn’t respond. He looked back to the kids instead, noticing them standing around again and snapped, “Who told you to stop?”

The kids immediately got back at it, terrified of the two coaches. Abby chuckled as he looked back to her. His eyes were still burning with fire as he watched her refocus on the practice.

He looked to the sideline where Indra was in her lawn chair. She made eye contact with him and shook her head. He felt her disappointment all the way across the field.

It didn’t affect him though. He knew what was best for the team and he knew what made Octavia happy. He wasn’t going to lose his job because Abby was insecure about her spot on the team. He wasn’t here to make sure she was happy, he was here to make the kids win.

His gaze soon found its way to a man in the parking lot, wearing none other than a purple suit. He was leaning up against a light pole as he watched their practice.

They made eye contact and he smiled at Marcus. He didn’t say anything or make any other gesture. All he did was smile and then disappear into the rows of cars.

Marcus found himself looking at Abby again who was watching the drill. His eyes flickered back to the empty spot by the light pole in the parking lot. Then, her words rang in his mind.

“Well, too bad you’ll never get the chance to prove that. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

His eyes found her again, his mind racing. There was a way to prove it.

Not only would it prove that she was wrong, but it would guarantee a spot in the playoffs for the Delinquents.

[dialogfetzen]

Min Yoonji hated school, hated the world, but today it was extremely bad.

Huddled together on a bed in the schools sickroom, a not-so-hot-water bottle pressed to her lower abdomen, Yoonji felt like dying.

Her painkillers refused to do their magic and her water bottle wasn't hot enough to simply burn the horrendous pain away, so all she could do was sit around and play on her phone, making a suffering sound every now and then when the cramps got especially hard to bear.

At least she was alone in the sickroom (ignoring the grumpy school nurse), so nobody could see her weak like this.

No need for pretending to be all tough when her abdomen is punishing her for her disinterest in reproduction.

Her cramps were especially horrible today, probably thanks to her mothers weird kharma, who just yesterday held one of her speeches why Yoonji at least should try to have some interest in boys since one of them could be a rich CEO in a few years and she better prepares for her future and her children now than later.

Yoonji shudders, remembering the useless talk they had and the endless talks that are going to come in the future...

„Excuse me.“

Yoonji looks up as she hears a familiar voice, taking a peek between the white curtains that separates each bed to see Kim Army standing there, telling the nurse that she's feeling unwell.

The school nurse looks at Army like she isn't buying it – and Yoonji has to admit that Army is doing a shitty job at acting here -, but the nurse agrees on letting Army rest anyway.

Army throws herself on one of the beds as if she owns the place, ignoring Yoonji like she doesn't know her and taking out her phone.

That kinda hurt?

Not that she and Army were particularly close now, it's been only that one incident were Yoonji had helped Army with her weird boyband pillow and a few shared lunches under the stairs, when they both found nobody to sit with during their breaks and it was too awkward to eat alone.

Maybe Yoonji was just overly sensible thanks to her mood swings that came with her period and that's why she kind of felt betrayed. She never had mood swings before, but that was the only reasonable explanation here. There's no way in hell she actually cared for someone at school, and even less while not being on the receiving end. No way.

With a tiny pout on her lips, Yoonji goes back to playing with her own phone, refusing to accept that she was sad.

A few minutes pass, as Army suddenly point her finger at Yoonji with a surprised “Ah! You!”, her face brightening up with a very dumb and absolutely not super adorable smile when she realizes that she's sharing the sickroom with Yoonji.

Yoonji was quick to cover up her heart making a jump in her chest with a lazy wave of her hand, trying to be as bored and unhappy about the company as possible.

Mood swings. It had to be mood swings.

“Why are you here?” Army asks, but as soon as she sees the hot-water bottle she nods with pity in her eyes.

“Strawberry weeks?”

“What?”

“You know.... that time of the month?”

Yoonji looks at Army with disbelieve in her eyes, baffled everytime Armys uses her weird alien language.

“Yes, strawberry week, but I would be okay by now already if I just could get a hot-water bottle with actually hot water!” Yoonji explains, raising her voice so that the school nurse could hear it.

“I am sorry to hear that it's this bad for you. I hope you feel better soon. Luckily I don't feel any pain at all during that time, so I actually have no idea what you're going through, but I imagine it's horrible!” Army explains, looking at Yoonji like she only has a few hours left to live.

“What, it's not that bad, I can take a bit of pain- wait, you don't have any cramps at all?”

Army shakes her head with a satisfied smile.

“Guess your weird hormone balance is good for something in the end.” Yoonji mutters under her breath, trying to look unbothered when a new wave of pain is trying to kill her from inside.

“What are you trying to say? If it's that I'm ugly, you should come up with something new.” Army says unimpressed, scrolling through something on her phone.

Great Min Yoonji, great. You did it once again.

“No, that's not what I meant,” Yoonji tries to save her thoughtless comment, sitting up straight to show that she's sincere about it. “I was talking about your height and – oh god I think I have to puke.”

She suddenly felt hot, started to sweat while her throat tightens in attempt to keep inside what tries to climb up.

The school nurse walks up to them, annoyance clearly visible in her face. “This is a sickroom and you're here for resting, not for babbling. If you feel better, you are free to go back to your classes.” she says, letting her eyes rest especially long on Army, who stares at Yoonji who constantly gets paler and paler, having a hard time to breath.

“I'm serious, I have to puke” she weakly says, trying to suppress the first gagging reflexes until the nurse quickly shoves a bucket into her hands.

From that moment on, everything went down.

Suddenly there were several voices that weren't there before, rushed movements around the whole room, a burning sour taste in her mouth she gladly threw up into the bucket, more voices, and suddenly- silence, just a shy, large hand carefully stroking her back.

“Are you done?” Army asks Yoonji after she finally sits up again, faintly nodding as an answer.

Her throat is on fire and tears are rolling down her cheeks. This was definitely not how she wanted to be seen by anyone, especially not Kim Army.

“Where is the nurse?” Yoonji asks as she tries to calm down, wiping away every sign of her weak moment with trembling hands. God, how she hated life right now.

“She had to head off to the sports hall because it seems like some students crashed together during PE. I hope it's Soohyun or someone else from my class!” Armys answers, her eyes beaming with excitement while getting rid of the bucket Yoonji just gagged into.

Yoonji can't hide a smile at that, amused by how much the hope of an injured classmate can light up Armys face.

“May I ask why you are here? You look fine to me” Yoonji asks after a while, now reminded that Army had a class to attend to instead of keeping her company in the sickroom.

“Our PE teacher is sick and our replacement teacher just let's us play some ballsports” Army answers matter of fact, like it's completely obvious that of course she would stay in the sickroom then.

“Ballsports? What, are you allergic to that or what?” Yoonji asks, not even trying to hide the mockery in her voice.

Army looks down onto her hands, her mind clearly somewhere else again.

(Ok wow, she really had long but slender, delicate hands. Yoonji feels like reaching out to them for no apparent reason, just holding them to compare the size difference or something.

Must be her mood swings, yes. They obviously got the better of her again.)

“Dodgeball.” Army answers suddenly, still trying her best to look like it's no big deal.

“We all always play dodgeball when our teacher is sick and, you know, I'm tall and clumsy and an easy target, so I try to avoid that classes as often as I can” she adds, smiling like it can't be helped.

Rage immediately flares up in Yoonjis chest, having no hard time to imagine how the other girls picked on Army with every given chance.

“And the teacher is doing nothing?!” she asks, the cramps and the acid feeling in her throat forgotten for the moment.

Army just shrugs her shoulders, offering a quick smile like she's sorry for the things others do to her.

With a heavy sigh Yoonji lays down on the bed, ready to die as the cramps start again. School is surely a toxic, rotten place and no environment to grow up in.

“Should I refill your bottle with hot water? I know an electric kettle close by.” Army offers and Yoonji suddenly feels like the world maybe wasn't that bad as long as it contained weird but lovely Kim Army – and an actually hot-water bottle.

With a relieved, begging nod Yoonji gives her the bottle - as three of Armys classmates enter the sickroom in their sports wear, two of them crying, one of them with blood all over her face.

Yoonji grins with satisfaction as her eyes meet Armys, who's just as happy as her to see the misery on the other girls.

“I can't believe they are such retards, can't they look where they're going?” the girl who's crying asks while she's helping the bleeding girl to not ruin her clothes.

Taking a closer look, it probably wasn't as bad as Yoonji had hoped, just some nose bleeding.

“It's all her fault” the bleeding one hisses and takes a bitter look at Army, like she indeed had punched her in the face. Army though didn't reply, just sat down on Yoonjis bed and ignored them, clearly satisfied enough with one of them being hurt.

But Yoonji wasn't taking shit.

“What's your fucking problem? She was here the whole time.” Yoonji shouts, sitting up and staring at the three on the other bed.

“If she would've been in class like everyone else instead of skipping PE, we would have played in our usual teams and this wouldn't have happened.”

“Yes, sure” Yoonji deadpans, but unfortunately it hadn't the offending effect that she had hoped for, though the one with the nosebleed started to cry again, demanding to know what the school nurse is taking so long.

“What do you know? You're not even in our class, you have no idea how it is to suddenly join a team with a bunch of idiots.” one of the girls replies matter of fact while stroking through the hair of the girl who's crying, trying to calm her down.

“Yeah, playing against them is one thing, but being in the same team with those morons is something completely different.” the other one adds, obviously up for a fight.

Yoonji frowns as Army takes out her phone to distract herself, clearly not missing the subtile insults. “This is the dumbest excuse for being shitty at sports that I ever heard in my entire life” she replies while moving closer to Army, not surprised to see her scrolling through some photos of boys with way too much make up on.

“Why are you siding with that ugly beanpole anyway?”

Something in Yoonji snapped, Without any second thought she grabs the waterbottle from Armys grip, gets up and slaps it into the girls face.

“What the-? You can't hit me with a water bottle?!” the girl claims with a shrill voice, staring at Yoonji with wide eyes, unable to believe what just had happened.

“You prefer my fists then?” Yoonji offers, holding them up to prove that she gladly would use them if that was what the other girl wanted, but was unfortunately interrupted.

“Min Yoonji! Leave immediately!” the school nurse shouts with a warning tone in her voice as she enters the sickroom, leaving no space for discussion while guiding another girl in, who clearly had seen better days as well.

Yoonji grabs Armys hand at that, hot-water bottle tucked under her arm, leaving the sickroom with satisfied steps.

“You're so cool!” Army says in awe the second they're on the hallway and Yoonji can't help but smile, quickly looking away. “You think so?”

“Of course! I should have filmed how you slapped her with that water bottle, that was awesome!!” Army answers with excitement in her voice, slowly interlacing their fingers. “Where are we going now?”

Yoonji takes a quick glance at their hands, trying to block out all the answers she wants to say now but better shouldn't.

“You said you know where to find and electric kettle, right?”

Whatever consequences may await her for her behaviour, all she had done was clearly because of her mood swings. Or at least that was going to be her excuse.

[nocteverbascio]

Love takes time (we have it) (36/100)

Pairing: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell Summary: Margaery has always been in love with Sansa and somewhere along the line Sansa fell in love with Margaery. Neither of them know how to say it. But actions speak louder than words. A/N: UNAPOLOGETICALLY GAY CHAPTER

ao3 link

Chapter 36: Try some

They’ve relocated to the living room where they’ve left a movie on in the background to fill the silence after the exhausting day. Ned and Catelyn are snuggled up on the smaller couch while Sansa is squished between Margaery and Jeyne. Arya sits on the ground by Margaery’s feet, not paying attention to the movie and showing Margaery clips of fencing matches on her iPad. Even if Sansa pouts at Arya dominating Margaery’s attention, Jeyne is at her side making fun of the movie and making suggestive comments and faces whenever Margaery looks over at Sansa.

When dinner comes around, Margaery is ready to take leave for the Starks to enjoy some quality time, but to her surprise it’s Arya and Jeyne that invite her to stay.

Arya more demands it with, “Margaery, please stay! I want to ask you about your match with Missandei of Essos!”

And Jeyne on the other hand lazily says, “She should stay since she helped out.” But Sansa knows the look on Jeyne’s face clearly means more.

Margaery doesn’t readily say yes because the real reason she is there is to see Sansa. So she waits for Sansa to chime in.

Eventually Sansa does with a shy look to her mother and father and a quiet, “If it’s not too much trouble and if she’d like to stay.”

Catelyn nods and, of course, Ned agrees.

By the time they get to that point, food is already on its way courtesy of Petyr.

“It’s been awhile since you’ve had Dornish food, right?” he seems to say more to Catelyn than Ned, sipping wine from his chair.

Catelyn smiles as she sips her wine, “I suppose that’s one of the few things I miss from the south from time to time, right dear?”

Ned nods in agreement. “We should learn to make some Dornish food to keep us warm in the winters.” He kisses her forehead gently as she snuggles close to him on the couch. There’s an impassive look on Petyr’s face before he goes to the kitchen to grab another bottle of wine.

Beside Margaery, Sansa sits with a grimace. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“She’s not very fond of Dornish food,” Catelyn answers diplomatically with a smile on her face.

Jeyne on the other hand frankly says, “She hates it.”

“It’s mainly because she can’t stand the spices,” Arya adds on top of it.

Sansa blushes because Margaery is staring at her in amusement. “It’s not for everyone,” she tries to save herself. “I just prefer other foods over others.”

“Have you ever tried it?” Margaery asks curiously, just to make sure.

Sansa tries to answer when there’s a chorus of “No” that makes her blush even harder.

“When Sansa dislikes something, there’s no convincing her,” Ned informs as neutrally as he can. He still has a smile on his face that has Catelyn batting him playfully.

“Macarons,” Arya reminds with disappointment.

“Chocolate ice cream,” Jeyne chimes.

“Anything beef,” Catelyn notes.

“Gran’s green bean casserole,” Ned adds as well.

Catelyn tuts him and adds, “Love, I agree with her on that.”

“Oh you would,” Ned argues. “You think the green beans get too soft.”

“How else are you supposed to eat them, mum?” Arya comes to his defense.

“Firm,” both Sansa and Catelyn answer in unison that has everyone chuckling. Catelyn makes a face at Ned that has Arya gagging.

Margaery chuckles too before leaning in a bit. Sansa can’t help but feel her face get hotter and hotter, actually her whole body warms at the embarrassment (and proximity).

“Don’t laugh at me,” Sansa whines softly, “if you tasted Gran’s casserole you’d say the same thing.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Margaery says as she tips her head to her parents sharing a kiss. Sansa feels her heart melt, hoping one day she’ll have that. “I’m laughing at how you and your mum are so similar.”

Sansa huffs. She’s always gotten that.

Before Petyr can return with the bottle of wine, the food arrives and they set up in the living room. The Stark clan is obviously unbothered by Sansa’s unwillingness to partake in their meal as she opts for heating up some leftover pasta Uncle Petyr had made. Even he knows how picky she is and never ceases to be accommodating.

“You’re pouting into your pasta,” Margaery quips bumping shoulders with Sansa.

“Let her pout,” Jeyne says, “it’s her fault for not liking Dornish food.”

“I’m not sure it’s not her fault,” Margaery defends with a smile on her face. Jeyne narrows her eyes about to make a quip, but Margaery looks at Sansa with determination. “She just needs a little convincing, doesn’t she?”

“Good luck with that,” Arya says with her mouth full. Her mother has something to say about that and she apologizes immediately.

Sansa rolls her eyes at her sister. “She’s right,” she admits to Margaery. “I really don’t understand what’s so good about Dornish food.”

Margaery gives Sansa a look that asks, Really? It’s not one of disbelief because Margaery’s face lights up as if she’s rising to a challenge. Sansa’s seen that face plenty of times and suddenly, Margaery goes off as she usually does when she becomes passionate about something.

“I’ll admit, Dornish food is an acquired taste but it’s a beautiful representation of the lavish and rich lifestyle of the south. The spices that are grown in Dorne are unlike any other because of the near year round warm weather. They’ve learned to enrich their foods with heat without ruining the integrity of the flavors in the meats and vegetables. And there is a balance between the dishes and sauces that marry both the hotness and the mildness. All you have to do is try some.”

Sansa blinks, realizing that Margaery has her spoon before her lips. She hadn’t realized that Margaery had basically scooped up a perfectly small bite for Sansa as she was talking for her to taste. And Sansa swallows thickly because she knows half of what Margaery said hasn’t set in her mind. She was preoccupied with staring at Margaery’s lips and hearing her voice like it was a siren’s song.

There’s a confident look on Margaery’s face as if she’s known her effect on Sansa.

Sansa glowers instead. “That’s not going to work, not matter how pretty your words are.”

“One bite and I’ll stop using pretty words,” Margaery offers.

There’s very little room to argue with Margaery and Sansa hates it. This is generally how Margaery convinces her (because she is weak to say no).

“Fine,” Sansa huffs before taking a bite from Margaery’s spoon.

There’s a clear gasp from Jeyne and a slap at her side that nearly makes Sansa choke on her food. Arya barks out a laugh at the fact Sansa was convinced to try something new and subsequently choking on her food, while Ned compliments Margaery on a job well done.

“How was it?” Margaery asks with bright eyes.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “It was fine,” she begrudgingly says. It was good, of course it was, Margaery never steers Sansa wrong. She just never wants to admit when Margaery’s right.

“I feel betrayed as your best friend,” Jeyne says dramatically. “But I know you’re weak for pre---”

Sansa takes the pillow behind her and slaps Jeyne in the face quickly. “You’re just not convincing,” she deadpans, earning a laugh from everyone.