#one doesn’t even dry using the lamp it’s horrible

[permanentreverie]

the joys of having my nails painted vs. the horror of painting my nails

[therexasher]

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CONTAIN CONTAINS EXPLICITLY AND STRONG LANGUAGE, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!

Price of Fame

“Yeah? That the same reason why you tried to get with that girl?”

“Oh come on dude, that was a one time thing.”

“Yup, that’s what they all say.” The table erupts into laughter, it’s always like this at dinner with my friends, we rarely eat together due to the horrible seating arrangements. But, that’s life as an assassin. Some sacrifices must be made,

“Okay, so what about that red head girl in high school?”

“Strawberry?” Says AJ

“Strawberry?” Ryan says in confusion

“You called her strawberry dude?” Evan remarks,

“Yeah, she was sweet like one, and looked like one too.”

“Interesting nickname AJ.” I say

“Aye nah, she was sweet and cute, like a strawberry, plus it’s my favorite fruit.”

I sigh, looking around the room, the atmosphere is filled with bowls and plates, forks and spoons clanging to them, laughter and chatter all around. For once, this doesn’t feel like a place where we kill or get killed. It feels like when I was a kid, in high school, trying so hard to figure out what I wanted to be,

“How long has it been since you’ve had strawberries?” I ask,

“Oh, uh… definitely been a while since. You know this trash food they feed us here is so ass.” I laugh at his comment. The food isn’t really that good, but my personal favorite is the spicy rice and egg rolls. So delicious.

“Yeah well, we do need to stay in shape. I mean, given the fact we are assassins.” I say,

“True. But I mean, they can at least give us better bread. It’s so dry.” Says DJ, I have to admit, the bread is pretty dry.

After dinner, I talk amongst my friends, until they leave. I leave myself, walking towards my room, my assistant stops me dead in my tracks,

“Hello sire. How are you?”

“I’m good Arthur, what’s up with you?”

“Oh, just being your humble assistant is all.” Arthur has always been there for me. Even when I needed a shoulder to cry on. I definitely nominate him as best assistant.

“What’s up?”

“Boss… needs you… urgently.” Arthur’s face softens at his own words, and I just knew boss would call me in today.

“S or A rank?”

“It’s not about missions. You should go and see for yourself.” I huff, placing my hands on my hips. I bite the inside of my cheek as I try and think of what could he possibly want. If it’s not about missions, then what? I huff again, the guy is more confusing than a jigsaw puzzle.

“I wish you good luck for whatever he has to discuss with you.” Says Arthur, patting my shoulder,

“Thanks, I will.” Arthur turns on his heel and walks away. Now I have to face my boss, I make my way to his offices, among the twist and turns in the building. I stumble upon his office, stopping in front of the door, I hover over the door knob, just wondering of what he’s going to say. I shut my eyes, trying any attempt to shut out any inner thoughts. I open them again, but slowly, I sigh, finally bringing my hand to the door and knocking.

“Enter.” I hear a voice call out, definitely my boss, I’m fucked. His voice is more gruff and serious than usual. Yeah, definitely fucked. I clamp down hard on the door knob, twisting it open, my boss sits with his hands intertwined over his mouth, his head slightly down, his usual furry coat draped over his shoulders, and fine red and black suit, I step in further, closing the door behind me, the room being lit by a dim but bright lamp, my blue hair radiating through the room, even shining a little. My brown eyes more glowing in this light, but I notice something, to my left, a person, one leg on the wall, the other on the ground, a distinct scar on his eyebrow, who the hell is this guy?

Boss finally picks his head up and says, “Sit.” He seems to be in a bitchy mood, and I don’t want to make it worse. I quickly sit down in the chair, fidgeting with my hands, what could he possibly tell me? Or maybe fire me? No, no, not that. Something else..

“I don’t have much time to talk, so I’ll make this short. You and Michael are partners from here on out.”

“What?”

“Don’t, fight with me. Not today. Either you do as I say, or you can kindly leave and never come back, do you want that?” I shake my head no,

“Good.”

“So you brought me in here to discuss a partnership? With him?” The man points to me, geez dude, give me a chance before you point fingers,

“He looks like he wouldn’t kill a fly!”

“For your information, I’ve probably killed more people than you ever did.”

“Oh yeah? You think you’re some hot shot, don’t you?”

“Correction, I am a hot shot!” I cross my arms, looking deeply into his eyes, yeah, I sure told him. Look at him tremble. Only, he’s not trembling, he looks like he’s about to kill me.

“Enough! Both of you! Gosh, you two give me a headache with your arguing.”

“Well one things for certain, I won’t be working with him.” The man walks out, what a way to walk, thinking he’s cool. Walk normal dude,

“You’re going to have to make this work, and no, I’m not switching, I can’t switch partners, my hands are full. The other Mafia forces are closing in, they’re starting to take our cargo. Jade can’t tend to the wounded without his supplies, Zane can’t help with gun replacements due to incompatibility of equipment,” he stands up, walking around his desk,

“so now I have to pair everyone up, so we can get the cargo faster. Not like I have to explain everything to you numskulls, but it seems I have to play babysitter,” he steps really close to me, “you’re an adult now Ash. Not some kid in high school anymore. Figure it out, work through it.” He steps past me and leaves, the furry coat on his shoulders swaying with his movements.

I leave the office, feeling ashamed and almost.. guilt? But why? Why would I be feeling guilty? Gosh, I need some air. I make my way to elevator, the doors open and I step inside, pressing the rooftop button, the doors shut, and send me up. The doors ding as they open, I step out onto the roof, taking a nice deep breath in, overlooking the city lights. I stretch my limbs with a pleasing groan, then, I notice something, a person, standing right by the edge, not quite close to it, but close enough, I mean, if he takes a step he won’t die but, he looks familiar, his hands in his pockets, his frame, his posture, I realize, it’s him. It’s that man.

Well this isn’t good. I think to myself, it’s alright Ash, just, play it cool. Maybe, you’ll win him over with your awesome jokes. I laugh at my own thoughts, so loudly, he turns his head and sees me, his nose scrunches and I instantly stop my laughter, I clear my throat as I walk over to him, the wind whips my hair with a gentle breeze. I stand right by him, giving him enough room, mirroring his posture,

“Nice night out, right?” I say, no response, okay now he’s just trying to be emo.

Minutes go by, an eerie silence upon us, it weren’t for cars and trains, and other transportation to make sound, I wouldn’t have anything to distract my mind with,

“How many?” He finally says,

“What?” I reply,

“You said you killed more than me. So, how many?”

“I’ve lost count.” I say through a nervous breath, I didn’t expect him to remember that, even if it wasn’t that long ago. I try and read his face, but I can’t, his face is so mysterious, so many secrets behind his facade. I wonder if I can make him crack,

“Well, I guess you’ve done your homework.” I say,

“What?”

“You know, the whole mysterious thing, because if that’s what you’re trying to display, you’re doing a stellar job man.” He chuckles, oh my gosh, I made him chuckle! This is definitely going to work out.

“This doesn’t make us friends.”

“Fair, but can I get your name?”

“My name is not important to you, the same as your name to me. It’s not important.”

“Well then, what do you want me to call you?”

“Nothing. Because you won’t be my partner. I don’t need one.” He steps closer to me, I can see his face now, his skin is smooth and a nice chocolate color, dry blood on his bottom lip, his curls dangling from the sides of his face, his eyes so radiant and bright, that same distinct scar on his eyebrow, I wonder how he got it,

“Yeah but, boss said we can’t switch.” I stumble on my words, this wonder of a man in front of me, just took my breath away, literally. He looks away, as if in disappointment, gosh this man is gorgeous, I mean, I knew I was gay, but damn, I think I just got gayer.

“We can’t switch?” He says, still looking away from me,

“Ye-yeah…” I mumble, he finally turns toward me,

“You’re shivering. What’s the matter? Scared?”

“No.”

“Well you should be. You shouldn’t be around me.”

“Why?”

“Things about me, that you don’t know…” he steps away, crossing his arms,

“Then tell me.”

He scoffs, “not a chance in hell.” He starts towards the elevator, seems he’s had enough of my commentary, he stops in front of the elevator, his back faces me,

“One thing you learn from me, is I don’t have friends for a reason. I plan to keep it that way. So don’t try and get close to me, because it won’t work.” He presses the button, the elevator dings as the doors open. I see him step inside, he faces me, I can see his face, I can see that expression, that expression of a man who cares, but has the world on his back, worry.

The doors come to a close, that’s the last I see of him.

“Well, what a great introduction to my new partner.” I say out loud to myself, how the hell am I going to make this work?

I need a drink.

[3rdgymbros]

— title; in this world of horrible misfortune, i just want you to smile again.

— pairing; kaeya alberich x younger sibling! reader (platonic)

— summary; in which kaeya has a zombie for a younger sibling, but he loves them anyway.  

— notes; special thanks to @valberryy​ for proof-reading !!

❋ your return to life consists of you waking up from what you assume is a long nap, only to find yourself in a small, enclosed space, with a darkness so black and thick that you feel like suffocating.

you hadn’t known it yet, but that had been your coffin. you also hadn’t known how your brothers had held onto your broken body for two days, laying it at the foot of barbatos’ statue at starfell lake, hoping, praying, that you would be saved. you hadn’t. or so they’d thought. two bodies to bury, two graves with fresh dirt, two glistening silver headstones.

❋ kaeya’s the first one to find you, wandering the streets of mond, confused and disoriented after you’ve literally clawed your way out from your coffin. he thinks it’s a trick of the fatui at first, but you soon convince him otherwise. the lack of memory, the pyro vision clutched in your bloodied hands, the clothes you’d been buried in – there’s no other possibility, really, except that his prayers have been heard by barbatos after all.

❋ for the entire time diluc is away, kaeya is basically your main caregiver. he doesn’t like the idea of you remaining cooped up in the mansion, with nothing to do, and no one to talk to. he props you up upon his shoulders and takes you for walks so that you can reacquaint yourself with the city and the people in it. he might also spoil you a little bit, buying you toys and sweets and whatever your eyes linger upon for a tad too long. part of it is due to guilt for his part in your death, and part of it is simply because he just wants you to smile again.

❋ the light finally floods back into your eyes one night as kaeya is telling you some wildly exaggerated story about his pirate family to soothe you into slumber before he leaves to ply himself with alcohol. why are you being so nice to me, you ask before he can leave, one of the rare times you’ve ever opened your mouth to speak. kaeya looks at you and settles for honesty. we’re family. and it’s as if those two words breathe new life back into you; your eyes widen and for the first time in weeks, months, you seem a little bit more like your old self.

❋ kaeya’s the one who discovers your new quirks, and makes a mental note of them. how your memory is now unreliable (albedo is asked if he has any solutions, vitamins or potions you can take to improve your memory), how you flinch away from dark, cramped spaces (your room is now filled with lamps so that you don’t have to spend the nights alone in the dark, and kaeya is not above spending the night with you if you clutch wordlessly at the hem of his jacket), how you seem to wilt whenever the temperature is too hot (and how you inch closer to him on particularly hot days), how your limbs grow stiff and swollen if you don’t move about (he reminds you every day to do your exercises).

❋ although he knows of your intolerance to heat, kaeya doesn’t realise how bad it actually is until he hears you screaming, and he feels pure, unadulterated panic sear through his veins as he rushes over to you. maybe you got caught up in one of klee’s bombs, or maybe you tried to use your vision, but whatever the reason, your wounds are charring, the skin turning grey and dry, you’re screaming, and the air is filled with the smell of broiling flesh and rot.

you’re twitching on the ground, curling into yourself like the child that you are. when you raise your head to look at kaeya, trusting, looking for all the world as though he’ll be able to stop the pain from consuming you, kaeya feels something ache in the pit of his stomach as he scoops you up and brings you to barbara.

❋ kaeya doesn’t sugarcoat things when he finds out that diluc has returned. the staff at the mansion have probably already told him how his younger sibling has been resurrected, if rumors haven’t been spreading across all of tevyat already. in fact, he has no doubt that diluc will deem him unfit for caring for you, and will demand that you come and live with him. 

kaeya tells you quite simply that your other older brother has returned, and that you’ll be living together with him from now on. he answers your questions as best as he can, but makes sure to emphasize that though the three of you can’t live together, he’ll always be there for you if you need him. he doesn’t cry. not even when you throw yourself into his arms and tell him that you love him, with a quiver in your voice and tears pricking at your eyes. and so, he takes your hand and brings you back to the dawn winery, inwardly dreading when he will have to let it go.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Turns of Phrase

Prompt: I'd like you to consider: all the sides in the mindscape have the "way too literal" problem, like for example, Virgil actually grows taller when his anxiety is heightened, Patton actually grows wings when Thomas has a 'heart aflutter', e.c.t. But Roman just has a huge stack of negative ones. Creative block, bruised ego, shackled creativity, e.c.t. And then there's h/c when somebody (Logan) sees 👀👀

Thanks for the prompt babe!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues, Roman whump

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count:  5722

 This is Roman’s fault. Really. It is. He’s the one who works the closest with the Imagination, which means he’s got control over how Thomas interacts with his own imagination, which means that he’s got control over how Thomas sees the Sides.

 So yeah. This is his fault.

‘Heart all aflutter.’ ‘Heightened anxiety.’ ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’ All the little innocuous phrases that are just turns of phrase, not supposed to be literal, well…they got into Thomas’s head when he was younger, and since, the Imagination has never quite gotten rid of them. Shouldn’t be too bad, right, this should be something they can deal with.

 And for the most part, they do.

Patton wears the hoodie tied around his shoulders to block the chill from the slits sewn in the back of all of his shirts in case the wings decide to pop out again. When they do, everyone crowds around to make sure he doesn’t fly off into the sky or accidentally twist one. The feathers are the softest things you can imagine and work great for stuffing pillows or plushies.

 Virgil’s clothes are made of stretchy, baggy material and the doorways are much, much higher than they need to be. There’s a special cupboard tucked high up in the pantry that just has Virgil’s comfort foods in them so he can reach comfortably when he’s tall.

 And, well…there’s a reason Janus wears such a long cloak.

 For the most part, these are just minor inconveniences. Listen, when you live in a completely imaginary world where you can summon anything you need and change anything you don’t like with a snap of your fingers, things like new clothes or snacks are easy.

 Then there’s Roman.

 Roman, who is tied most closely to the Imagination.

 Roman, who represents not just Creativity, but romance, motivation, desire.

 Roman. The Ego.

 The problem with throwing around these types of phrases is how easy it becomes to dismiss them. And for Thomas, who has a creative profession, that’s good. For Thomas.

 Not so good for Roman.

 “Hey, you’ve been having some trouble getting ideas out lately, you doing okay?”

 “Yeah, I’m just going through a bit of a creative block at the moment.”

 Roman’s fists ache as he pounds on the door, heaving sobs trailing off into hitched gasps as he slumps against the unyielding wood. As a desperate last resort, he throws himself at the door, barely making it shudder in its frame. It’s as if he weighs nothing, not an ounce, unable to make so much as a goddamn dent in the world around him.

 “Let me—let me out, please, let me out, I gotta—I want out,” he sobs, over and over, as his room grows smaller and smaller, the walls pressing in around him, blank, sterile, cold, “I wanna—out, let me out, let me out, let me out please—“

 He’s not even in his room anymore. He’s in a pure white cage, on the wrong side of a door that will not open.

 “Dude, like…reign it in a little bit.”

 “You sure?”

 “Yeah. That’s…like, way too much.”

 “I dunno, I think it feels weird if we weren’t doing this.”

 “C’mon, it won’t kill you to shackle your creativity a little.”

 Roman wakes up to the quiet clinking of metal against metal. He goes to wipe his face and a bolt of pain shoots through his arm. The shackles spread him so far his chest aches, wincing as he tries to turn just a little to avoid the rush of agony that would come from having his arm trapped in the wrong position. At least he was lying down this time, and he’s on his bed. He isn’t being forced to stand the whole time, strung up on the ceiling.

 They’re so cold.

 The shackles sap the warmth from his body bit by bit, draining it until the weight of the cold pressing down onto his chest is enough to make him gasp. On instinct, he pulls, trying to get a little more of himself wrapped up, warm, safe, but the chains barely make a groan as they wrench him back apart. He grits his teeth and holds still.

 He learned not to try and break these. He used to rage and slam against them like a brute, trying to pull their fastenings out of some mystical holder, embodied in his wall, only to come away with bleeding and scraped wrists from his pains, rubbed raw and chafed horribly by the cruel shackles.

 For the most part, he’s able to keep the others from noticing. They can’t hear a thing when he’s trapped in the creative block. He’s careful to always wear long sleeves to hide the scrapes and burns from the shackles. They don’t know the true extent of what happens to him when Thomas decides he doesn’t want his creativity.

 But he can’t hide all of them.

 ‘Bruised ego.’

 Patton knows. Patton somehow always figures things out and doesn’t tell anyone, least of all Roman. But sure enough, after the audition, Patton showed up outside of Roman’s door and knocked, quietly asking to be let in.

 Roman had let him, splattered as he was with blues and purples and greens and yellows, all the colors that didn’t belong to him, and yet here they were, painted on him. He’d kept his undershirt on, letting Patton feed him the soup that was sure to end with Roman lying on his back in the bathroom, panting, until the bowl had run dry and Roman’s smile had come back.

 After Patton had gone, the smile had slid off, the paint cracked and chipped. Roman had stood, leaning against the bed for stability, and made his way slowly, oh, so, slowly, to the bathroom.

 Getting his shirt off had been agony. Every time he moved skin had stretched, bruises had protested, even his muscles cried out. The undershirt was soaked in sweat and a light sheen had clung to Roman’s body as he stood there, panting, wincing in the mirror. He couldn’t look.

 That had been the last time it had gotten very bad. Very bad.

 They only ever seemed to notice when it was very bad.

 His prince costume hides the shackle marks. His undershirt hid the bruises. No one cared to look for him when he was trapped in the creative block. No one could see. No one wanted to see.

 No one knew.

 Roman’s been lucky lately.

 They’ve all been happening one at a time. The block never has shackles strapped to the wall. The shackles are never clasped around bruises spilling beneath his skin. The bruises are never from both beating on a door and from the outside world. He can deal with them if they’re like this. One at a time.

 He’s had a few close calls, though. He almost missed a meeting with Logan because the block had him trapped. It squeezed him so tight it felt as if he hadn’t any room to breathe, not until the door and opened a crack and he’d hurled himself out, panting harshly, rushing to Logan’s. He was caught at his desk recently too. The shackles had formed and dragged him over to the corner where he’d bitten his lip to try and stay quiet as he desperately tried to draw himself away. He’d accidentally made too grand a gesture and his sleeve had ridden up, exposing the edge of a mark or bruise and he’d have to pull it back down quick enough so that no one would notice. And so far, it’s worked.

 No one has noticed.

 And what would he say? That this is just some dumb stupid thing he has to deal with? The others know about this whole ‘taking things too literally problem,’ look at Patton, look at Virgil, look at Janus. They all understand and they receive the same amount of attention Roman does. Honestly, they’ve been receiving what they’re entitled to. Their stuff actually runs the risk of harming Thomas. Fire, wings, banging your head, sure, that’s fine, but they—look.

 Having your heart flutter signifies great emotions, the potential for love, you should pay attention to your emotions!

 Heightened anxiety? It’s not great! It means we should be listening to Virgil and what’s going on, what’s upsetting Thomas, how to help.

 And everyone should always be worried about spontaneously combusting pants.

And even if they did find out, what is Roman supposed to say? That it’s his fault they all have these issues? That Thomas’s psyche takes certain liberties with the hard-and-fast rules of what happens to metaphysical people? It’s his fault, after all, he’s the conduit. It’s fine. He can handle this stuff. It’s all fine.

 He should’ve known his luck would run out.

 Roman blinks awake to feel the walls pressing in on him, tighter, tighter, tighter. His breath catches in his throat.

 No.

 No, no, no, he’d been doing so well, so well, they’d just had a conversation about how he’d been so good, the ideas had been good, he’d had—he’d had so many he was ready to work on, he just needed to—

 Roman squeezes his eyes shut, racking his brain. He knows he has ideas. He had them a little while ago. It wasn’t that long. They can’t have vanished so quickly. Wait, what time is it? How did they—how long has he been here? What is—how long has it been? Have the others realized he’s here yet?

 What if they look for him and they think he won’t come out? What if they start to hate him because they can’t find him? What if he can never get out again? What if they realized they never needed him in the first place?

 He—he’s not wrong, he can’t be wrong, he has to be right, he has to—he has to find a way out of here.

 Quickly, Roman squeezes his eyes even tighter, mouth making random shapes as he tries to think. If he can just think of a really good idea, he’ll get out. If he just thinks, if he just does his job, if he’s really good he’ll get out. He can do this, he can do this, he can do this. He can—

  Clink, clink, clink.

 No.

 No!

 Roman snarls as the shackles encase his wrists, forcing to his knees, still crouched in this room that is too small, too pale, too awful. He lunges for the door as he hears the chains slowly start to tighten, their long lengths slipping over and over each other in coils.

 The chains pull taut and he’s suspended there, in the dank air, snarling like a mad dog at a door that is just out of his reach.

 For the first time in a long time, he slams against the chains, raging and bloody as he thrashes back and forth trying to just get to the door—

  Roman, you’re on thin fucking ice.

  Look I don’t wanna just hate a side but roman you royally fucked up bud

  Yeah I’m definitely mad at Roman

 Roman barely suppresses a whine when he realizes where the comments are coming from.

 His nose breaks open and blood pours down his face. His eyes swell and darken until he can only squint through it. One of his fingers breaks and the shackle pinches.

  Roman I have revoked your rights.

  Roman shut the FUCK UP challenge please

  After one line making fun of janus is enough to be cancelled, Roman

 Even without looking down, he knows red and purple are blooming across his ribs. Roman winces pain as he howls again, trying frantically to get to the door, he’ll wrench his arms out of their sockets if he needs to—

  I just hate roman!!! i don’t need a deep reason to hate roman, or anyone else

  oh boi did Princey drop to least favorite side REAL FUCKING QUICK

  It’s not that I don’t despise Roman he’s just never been my favourite. He’s too prideful, rude and while he does have his insecurities the way he hides them makes me uncomfortable since it’s at the expense of other characters. His treatment of the other sides is so awful.

 …is he really that awful? Is…does he…is this…

 Is this how it’s supposed to be?

  I'm gonna spread my anti-roman doctrine. Fuck Roman. Hate that man

  I genuinely hate Roman so. Fucking. Much. Like, can't stand him. Fuck him, I hate him

  It’s always roman-hating hours.

 A dry sob chokes its way out of Roman’s throat as he curls in on himself, another bruise leaving him gasping on the floor like a gutted fish. The chains let him fall to his knees, chest bared to the merciless door. He coughs. Blood flies out of his mouth and spittle drips down his chin. He coughs again. And again. And again. It hurts. Everything hurts.

 He coughs.

 The room presses in on him.

 The shackles trap him.

 Bruises bloom over his body.

 He coughs.

 This is all his fault, isn’t it? He’s the one in charge of the Imagination. He’s the one who makes sure the sides exist and can interact with Thomas. He’s the one who controls how they respond to turns of phrase.

 He’s the one who’s awful to the others. He’s the one who didn’t tell them the truth. He’s the one stuck in this room, in these chains, taking a beating from words and thoughts that he can’t see.

 This is his fault.

 And he doesn’t know if he can fix it.

 Roman gives up.

———————————————————

“Has anyone seen Roman?”

 Patton looks up from the floor as Virgil rolls over. “No, I haven’t. Virgil?”

 Virgil sniffs and shakes his head. “You asked Remus?”

 Logan frowns. “I can’t find them anywhere. Do you know if—“

 “Where the fuck is my brother?”

 “Nevermind, I found him,” Logan mumbles as he turns just fast enough to avoid Remus barreling into him. “I was just coming to ask you.”

 “He was supposed to meet me by the Imagination,” Remus says, bouncing up and down, “we were gonna go exploring. He hasn’t been by all day. Where are you hiding him?”

 “I’m not hiding him,” Virgil yawns, “and neither’s Pat.”

 “Nope! No princes here!”

 “Pocket Protector?”

 “No, I need to ask him about tomorrow.”

 “Ugh.” Remus throws himself down on the couch. “Where’s Snakey? Maybe he knows.”

 “What do I know?”

 “Ah.” Logan turns to see Janus striding out from the shadows near the staircase. “We seem to be unable to locate Roman.”

 Janus raises an eyebrow and flicks a speck of dust from his gloves. “What an unfortunate situation. My deepest apologies.”

 “So you don’t know where he is.”

 “Of course I don’t, why would I?” Janus rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you’ve checked everywhere for him.”

 Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Janus…please.”

 “Have any of you even tried his room?”

 “Of course we have, that’s where I looked first.”

 Janus shrugs. “Then I guess our little prince has wandered away. What a shame.”

 Virgil rolls his eyes. “Maybe he just stepped out for a minute. Why don’t you go look again, L, we’ll check down here.”

 “Oh, will we?”

 “J, I swear—“

 Logan quickly heads back up the stairs as Virgil and Janus start bickering. He turns the corner and is soon faced with Roman’s big red door. He reaches out to knock.

 “Roman? Are you in here?”

 Silence. Logan sighs and goes to turn away when he hears it.

 He stops.

 Goes back.

 “Roman?”

 He puts his ear to the door.

 A soft gasp.

“Roman, can you open the door please?”

 “L-L—Lo—“

 Logan swallows heavily. “Roman, I’m coming inside.”

 “L-Logan…”

 Logan pushes open the door.

 He can feel his face go sickly pale.

 Roman is lying on the ground, collapsed in a pool of what looks like blood. His face is swollen, his nose broken, his mouth barely forming the shapes to say Logan’s name. His prince costume is mangled. His wrists are rubbed raw. Even from this far away Logan can see the bruises forming all over his body.

 “Roman!”

 There are shouts from downstairs. The others are worried. Good. Logan’s going to need all the help he can get. He just has to move first.

 Oh, Roman…

 “L? L, what’s going on up there?”

 “First aid,” Logan gasps, then clears his throat, “we need the first aid kit! Roman’s hurt!”

 “What? How’d he—he hasn’t even been in the Imagination yet today!”

 “We can figure that out when we’re up there, Remus, go go go!”

 By the time the others are already rushing up the stairs, Logan has already crouched down next to Roman’s head, trying to figure out the best way to get him up, off the floor, or at the very least figure out what happened.

 “Stay with me, Roman,” he murmurs, petting Roman’s head as his other hand starts to carefully test where it might be hurting, “stay with me, come on…”

 “Lo? Lo, are you in here?”

 “No, wait, don’t—“

 Patton’s cry of dismay quickly followed by Virgil’s curse means he’s too late to warn them. Logan looks up to see their faces drop in absolute shock.

 “Where are the others?”

 “Uh…” Virgil tears his gaze away from Roman’s crumpled figure. “Remus said he…he has some stuff that would help.”

 “And I am of course more than eager to see what our favorite little prince has gotten himself into this time,” Janus drawls, still out of sight, “I’m positively brimming with anticipation.”

 Patton still hasn’t recovered. Virgil carefully takes the first aid kit from his hands and rushes it to Logan. An instant later, Janus appears in the doorway.

 “My, my, Patton, you look so startled, what could possibly…”

 Janus trails off as he finally spots Roman. His eyes widen as he takes in the bruises, the blood, the marks of what look like prison cuffs?

 “Oh, god…” Logan blinks and Janus is crouched beside them, his hands hovering over Roman’s broken form as he starts crooning to the prince.

 “Oh, honey, what happened to you,” he murmurs, his hands starting to pull away the fabric cutting into Roman’s throat, “you poor, poor thing…”

 “Got it.”

 Remus appears in a flash, crouching down as well as Janus and Logan start to help Roman unwind from the bloody mess he’s in. Logan glances over; it’s a kit that has more medical supplies than the first aid kit. Bandages, he can see antiseptic, surgical towels…

 He catches Remus’s eye and they exchange a nod.

 “Where does he need to go,” Janus asks as they start to get Roman upright, “you want him downstairs?”

 “Let’s get him to our bathroom, J,” Virgil suggests, carefully getting his arms around the prince’s shoulders.

 “Do you think it’s safe to sink with him?”

 “Presumably he had to sink out to get back to his room, but I’m not sure it would be wise.”

 “So we’ll carry him,” Virgil says firmly, “all of us.”

 As it turns out, Remus and Janus can help Virgil just fine. Logan snatches up Remus’s kit as Patton grabs the first aid kit, hustling down the corridor to keep up with the others.

 “Lo, what happened?”

 “I don’t know,” Logan mutters back, “but I…I don’t think it was…the Imagination’s been closed all day, hasn’t it?”

 “That’s what I thought too. You don’t think—“

 “I don’t know, Patton, I…”

 Patton’s firm grip on his arm speaks volumes as they finally get to the bathroom.

 The tile is already warm as the others carefully lay Roman down in the big place near the edge of the shower. Logan takes a moment to check what they might need.

 The bathroom is one big open space with a tub in one corner, a large walk-in shower area at the other, and two sinks with a wide counter. Patton and Remus have already started setting up the first aid kit as Janus pulls on a different pair of gloves. Virgil still has Roman’s head in his hands, murmuring softly to him.

 “Is he awake?”

 Virgil shakes his head as Logan sits down. “I can’t tell. He’s looking around but I—he’s not saying anything.”

 “That is not completely unexpected,” Logan murmurs, “we have to get him out of his clothes. They’re making it harder for him to breathe.”

 “Someone needs to stay by his head,” Remus calls, “in case he wakes up and starts freaking out.”

 “I’ve got him.” Sure enough, Janus slips two of his hands gently under Roman’s head as he unclips the back of his collar. “Shh, shh, easy, sweetie, you’re safe now.”

 Virgil scoots back and starts tugging on his hoodie strings. Patton, still hovering by the medical supplies, catches it.

 “Hey, Virge,” he says, shooting a quick nod at Logan, “why don’t we go make something to eat? Something small, and something to drink.”

 “Yeah…yeah that’s a good idea.”

 As the two of them leave, Remus kneels by Roman’s feet and curses. “We’re gonna have to cut them off.”

 “You mean cut the rest of them off,” Janus mutters, “what happened?”

 “You think I’m not beating myself up asking that same thing?”

 “We have to get Roman stable,” Logan says quickly, “and that means we have to see what—“

 “The damage is,” Remus growls.

 “Quite.”

 “Alright. Be careful by his wrists.”

 “We will.”

 “Jan if you drop his head I swear to—“

 “I won’t, I promise.”

 “…I know.”

 “You’re worried about your brother,” Logan whispers as they start peeling the clothes away, “we understand.”

 Janus keeps his promise, cradling Roman’s head as the work to get the rest of his prince costume off. Under any other circumstance, Logan admits this might actually be read as amusing. Peeling Roman out of his clothes, however, has never been less devastating.

 Every inch they pull back reveals more bruises. Roman’s torso is warm, throbbing, carpeted with horrible wounds. Every so often a piece will stick and Roman winces, prompting Janus to stroke his face carefully, murmuring reassurances that they’re here, everything’s okay, Roman’s safe now.

 Remus chucks bruise cream at Logan and they start, methodically applying the cream and bandages. Janus gives them an extra hand where they need it, while keeping up the constant litany of reassurances. Logan comes away confident that nothing is broken, just very badly bruised.

 “So what now?”

 “He has to rest.” Logan pulls off the gloves, running his hand over the ground to make sure they haven’t spilled anything. “I…I don’t know how long that will be.”

 “I don’t want to leave him.”

 They look around, eyes wide at the strangled whisper coming out of Remus. Remus stares down at Roman’s bruised form, thankfully clear of blood now, his hands trembling as they rest on his knees. Remus looks up at them, his eyes glistening.

 “The last time I left him like this it was bad.” He swallows and looks back down. “I’m not leaving my brother.”

 Logan looks at Roman. Brave, strong, sweet, kind Roman. Bruised, scared, exhausted, broken Roman. His hand tightens and without thinking he tucks a stray hair behind Roman’s ear.

 “He hates it when his hair is out of place,” he murmurs as Janus raises an eyebrow at him.

 “We’re not leaving our prince,” Janus says firmly, glancing back at Remus. “Would you like to come sit up here with us?”

 Remus shakes his head. “If something comes through that door trying to get him,” he says in a low voice that Logan has never heard before, “it’s going to have to get through me first.”

 Logan nods. They take up their watch. Remus’s hands twitch every so often, and Logan sees him lay his hand on an unbruised part of Roman’s ankle when they do with a tenderness that takes him a little aback. Janus can’t seem to stop running his hands through Roman’s hair, making comforting noises every time Roman winces as he breathes.

 Logan, well…Logan is trying desperately to figure out what happened.

  Roman hasn’t been in the Imagination today. Remus was waiting and he hadn’t seen him.

Roman hasn’t been seen by anyone else all day.

The last place Roman was seen was in his room.

No one else has been in Roman’s room today.

 “Logan,” Janus calls softly, “Logan, you’re shaking.”

 Logan looks down. Oh. So he is. He takes a deep breath and takes Janus’s offered hand. “I’m…thinking.”

 “About…?” Janus indicates Roman.

 He nods sharply. “I’m having trouble coming to anything but a most troubling conclusion.”

 “What?”

 Logan explains. Janus goes pale.

 “You don’t think…”

 “I don’t want to think that, no.”

 “R-ro-Bro,” Remus whispers, “oh, Ro-Bro, you gotta tell us something when you wake up.”

 He sniffles.

 “Please wake up, Ro-Bro. I gotta…I gotta kick your ass for blowing me off and getting into a fight without me, I gotta—you gotta tell me what kicked your ass so I can go put it in the fucking ground…” He sniffs again, his whole body tense, even as his hand remains gently on Roman. “You just gotta wake up, Ro.”

 After a little while longer, Virgil and Patton return carrying snacks and drinks. Remus doesn’t even look as Virgil sets his octopus water bottle at his elbow. Janus murmurs a thanks and eats a little. Logan eats and drains about half of his bottle. Virgil sits at Remus’s side, Patton at his other.

 “Has he woken up yet?”

 Remus shakes his head.

 “He’s probably just sleeping, Remus, he needs to rest.”

 “I know.”

 “Do we know what happened,” Virgil asks quietly, “at all?”

 Logan winces. “Well…”

 “…don’t like the way you said that.” Judging by Virgil’s expression, he likes it even less after Logan’s finished explaining.

 “Oh, shit.”

 Everyone’s gaze instantly snaps to Patton. Listen. Patton doesn’t curse. It’s a thing. When Patton curses it’s bad.

 “Patton?”

 “Roman…Roman has a thing,” Patton explains, “you know like…like my wings? Or how Virgil gets taller?”

 Virgil nods. “Yeah, okay, but those don’t…hurt us, why would Roman’s…”

 Janus is the next one to curse. “Of course…the bruised ego.”

 Patton nods sadly. “Roman takes, well, it’s not really his choice, Roman is forced to take the brunt of the negative reactions Thomas has. That’s part of his thing.”

 Logan’s eyes widen. “Wait, but if this has been happening since…well, since Thomas has had an ego, and we didn’t know about this, then…”

  How many times has this happened?

 Remus growls. “New rule: no one is allowed to fuck with Roman.”

 No one dares disagree. Logan scans over the injuries again. He frowns.

 “Hold on…some of these seem…consistent with that judgment, but then why…”

 A faint groaning sound snaps him out of his musings. A tense silence falls in the bathroom as Roman starts to stir in Janus’s hands.

 “Roman,” Logan calls softly, “Roman, can you hear me?”

 “L’gan?”

 “Yes, Roman, I’m right here. Don’t try and move too much right now, you’re very hurt.”

 Roman blinks up at them, his eyes focusing glassily on Janus, who smiles. He tucks another piece of hair away from Roman’s face.

 “Shh, shh, my prince, hold still,” he coos, “you’re awfully banged up, sweetie, just hold still…shh…”

 “J’nus? What’s…where is…” Roman’s face swivels back to Logan. “Where am I?”

 “You’re on the bathroom floor, Roman, we had to see to your injuries.”

 Roman’s eyes go wide and immediately all of them reach out to hold him still as he tries to move.

 “Shh, shh,” Janus shushes, “none of that now, sweetie, you’re hurt, calm down…”

 “I’m—I have to—“

 “You’re not going anywhere,” comes Remus’s voice from behind them.

 “Remus!”

 “What? He’s not!”

 “Yeah, but there’s no reason to scare the shit out of him.”

 “I can’t see,” Logan hears Roman’s frantic whisper as he turns to glance at the others, “I can’t—let me—“

 “Logan, is it safe for him to sit up?”

 Logan nods. “Just take it slow, nothing too fast. It will probably be the best if he can lean against someone.”

 “Jan—“

 “I’ve got you, sweetie, I’m not going anywhere.”

 When Roman is upright, his back against Janus’s chest, only then do Virgil and Patton relax the slightest bit. Remus doesn’t. Logan’s gaze switches anxiously between the two.

 “Remus—“ Roman swallows— “Re, are you—are you mad at me?”

 “A little.”

 Roman shrinks under Remus’s glare. “I’m sorry.”

 “Jeez, Ro, it’s not—I’m not mad at you like that,” Remus mumbles, “it’s mainly just—well, our thing is…you know, cat pile.”

 “You’re—you’re mad because you can’t lie on top of me right now?”

 “Yeah! It always makes you feel better! And now I can’t help you feel better!”

 “R-Re—“

 Remus lets out a wounded noise and surges forward, careful to avoid barreling into any of the others as he wraps his brother in a protective hug. Janus huffs lightly but stays upright. Roman’s eyes close and his head drops to rest against Remus’s.

 “I’m the only one allowed to fuck with you,” comes Remus’s muffled voice, “no one else.”

 “I know,” Roman whispers, “I know.”

 Logan swallows heavily. “Roman,” he prompts softly, “we aren’t mad at you. We won’t get angry with you.”

 “...promise?”

 “I promise.”

 “I promise.”

 “I promise.”

 “Promise.

Janus just squeezes Roman’s shoulder gently. “I promise too, sweetie. Now, will you tell us what happened?”

 “I, um…” Roman’s gaze flickers over to Patton. “Have you—um…”

 “I’ve told them a little, sweetheart,” Patton says when Roman can’t finish his sentence, “we’ve figured out the ‘bruised ego,’ is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

 Roman nods. He turns his head back towards Remus, his face contorted. Logan carefully reaches out to ruffle his hair.

 “Take your time,” he whispers, “we’re not going anywhere.”

 “I have three,” Roman blurts out after a moment.

 “…three, honey?”

 “Patton has…the wings, Virgil has the height, Janus…Janus…”

 “Has the pants.”

 Janus lightly flicks Remus’s head, shaking his head fondly.

 “Are you saying you’ve got three turns of phrase, Princey?” Roman nods. “Okay. Is one of them ‘bruised ego?’”

 “Mhmm.”

 “Okay. Are you comfortable telling us the other two?”

 Goosebumps rise on Roman’s arms and Janus carefully positions them so Logan can help rub them away. Remus growls protectively and huddles closer.

 “…creative block,” Roman murmurs, only for Remus to tense. Remus raises his head slowly.

 “Ro-Bro?”

 “I, um, my room—my room shrinks and I—I can’t get out the door, I can’t move anything, I can’t breathe, I—“

 “Shh-shh-shh,” Janus soothes instantly, “you’re safe, my prince, you’re in the bathroom with us, you’re not there, you’re not there.”

 There are a few tense seconds of deep breaths.

 “…what’s the third one, Roman?”

 Roman looks at his wrists, turning them over as if he doesn’t recognize them. “…shackled creativity.”

 Patton clenches his fists as Virgil muffles another curse. Remus follows Roman’s gaze, the line of his shoulders growing tenser by the second. Janus carefully laces his fingers through one of Roman’s hands, Logan lacing his through the other.

 “Thank you for telling us, Roman,” he murmurs, “and…I do not know how much this is worth to you, but…we are so sorry this happens and that we could not do anything about it.”

 “It’s okay,” Roman murmurs, “it’s my own fault.”

 The bathroom falls silent.

 “…Roman, it’s not your fault.” Virgil scoots closer. “How—this isn’t your fault.”

 “Isn’t it? I’m the one that’s the closest to the Imagination,” Roman says softly, completely convinced of what he’s saying, “I’m the one that makes it possible for Thomas to see us…the Sides, the Imagination…isn’t that my job?”

 “Not like that,” Logan says firmly, “never like this.”

 “Logan’s right,” Virgil says when it looks like Roman’s about to argue, “you’re the conduit for the Imagination, but you’re not responsible for everything that this place does, let alone how Thomas interprets and internalizes stuff.”

 “None of this is you, Roman.” Janus rests his cheek against the top of Roman’s head. “None of it. It’s not Patton’s fault he grows wings, it’s not Virgil’s fault he grows taller, and it’s not your fault that this happens to you.”

 “You’re missing someone off the list there, Jan-Jan.”

 “Remus, I swear to god—“

 Remus cackles, throwing his head back as Janus swats at him. Of course, the problem is that they all try and look mildly annoyed at Remus, and yet the instant it makes Roman giggle, even a little, they all have to break character because Roman’s smiling again.

 “Seriously, Ro-Bro,” Remus says after a moment, “this isn’t on you. You don’t deserve this or some other fucked-up shit. This is fucked up all on its own. You’re not responsible for this.”

 “We’ll talk to Thomas,” Logan says, “about…negative feedback and internalizing things, alright? This isn’t healthy, Roman, it’s not—it’s not supposed to be like this, and it’s definitely not your fault.”

 “…okay.”

 “Can you say that for me, sweetie,” Janus coaxes, reaching around to cup Roman’s face, “that it’s not your fault?”

 “I-it’s not—“

 Roman stops. Swallows heavily.

 “Go on, my prince, you can do it.”

 “…I-it’s not my fault.”

 “Good.”

 “It isn’t my fault.” Roman’s eyes go wide and something hitches in his throat. “It is—isn’t—I—oh, god—“

 They catch Roman as he starts to cry.

 “You did so well, sweetheart, so well, I’m so proud of you.”

 “It’s okay, Princey, it’s gonna be okay.”

 “I’ve got you, my prince, I have you.”

 “You’re gonna be fine, Ro-Bro, I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

 “You don’t have to do this alone, Roman.”

 Roman rests there, in the arms of his family, bruised and exhausted, but not broken.

 Not anymore.

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[supercorpkid]

The sun can fuck right off

Supercorp, Kara Danvers x Daughter!Reader, Lena Luthor x Daughter!Reader, Alex Danvers x Niece!Reader

Word count: 2795.

You are bored. Extremely, painfully bored. Kara and Lena are at work, Jamie is busy with Rao knows what, and Maya can’t come to your house, because her mom is the worst. So, you are bored with no idea what to do.

You also have been feeling like you need some adventures. It’s not like you got the taste for it, but every time you look at your picture with Wanda in another dimension, you just think about how great you felt protecting the world, and you just want that feeling again.

You’re not praying for trouble to come around, but when you hear a yell somewhere in the city, you also don’t complain about it. In fact, you suit up in a flash and you’re out of the house before any person can blink.

In retrospect, going out to fight bad guys without not even a heads up to your momma, or aunt Alex was a bad idea. You weren’t expecting a real villain, to be honest. Maybe some punks messing up with the city, or maybe even a fire, but definitely not a full grown-up man in a high-tech suit of armor, hitting the town with shockwaves.

You try flying closed-fist towards him at full speed, but are met with a strong shockwave before you get to him. You fall on the floor feeling a little dizzy, but you’re strong enough to get up. At least you called his attention, and he stopped terrorizing the city for a moment, to focus on you. You try flying again. You fall again. You try using your super speed, no use. Can’t get close to him without feeling an electric wave running through your veins.

Shit. Ok. Time to get serious. You shoot him with your heat vision. He is taken aback, but it doesn’t cause much damage to him, because he stomps his foot causing a mini earthquake. Not enough to destroy anything, but enough to be felt. You fly around cleaning the area for anyone who just might happen to be passing by. It wasn’t a big earthquake, but it was enough to get the DEO’s attention, and you hear when aunt Alex yells directions at the tactic team. You just have to hold him back, there is a team coming your way to help now.

Apparently, the only thing that can hold him back is your heat vision, so you try that again. Stronger. Totally focused on this one thing. You can feel heat running through your veins, like you’ve never felt before. You’ve never held your heat vision for so long and so strongly. But you know his armor is taking a big damage, so you power through. You can’t stop, not now, not when you’re so close to defeating him.

But you feel weak. You feel your legs giving in. And your body feels dry-up from energy. You hope his armor breaks before this breaks you.

When you hear DEO cars arriving at the scene, you give one final push, and hear a crack on his armor. That’s enough to make him fall on the ground and the tactic team runs to cuff him.

He isn’t the only one on the ground, though. You also feel weak, like you overused your powers. You can hear Alex’s voice somewhere close, so you know you’re safe and she’s got you. But you made the mistake of not calling Supergirl once and you’re not doing it again. Before you pass out, you press the emergency button on your watch. Just then you can let go.

You wake up, well-aware of where you are. How many times have you been in the DEO infirmary bed, under yellow sun lamps? It’s starting to look like a real thing in your life now.

“National City’ savior, everybody!” You hear your aunt's voice when you open your eyes. She comes closer with a smile on her face. “Why and how, and most importantly, Wow, kiddo.”

“Super hearing.” It’s your only response, and you look around, looking for your moms. “How badly hurt am I?”

“Not at all.” She holds your arm, and you sit on the bed, with her help. “What happened is that you got solar flared.”

“Huh?”

“You are aware your cells accumulate solar energy.” Alex says and you agree with a nod. “Well, let’s say they can soak up an absurd amount of energy, and every time you use your powers you use a little of that. It’s very hard to use ALL of that in one fight, but you just did.”

“Ok. Makes sense. So I have to soak up as much sunlight as I can?” You ask, aware that you probably need to stay out in the sun making ‘photosynthesis’ like you do, every time you get hurt.

“Yeah. That should work.” She pats your shoulder lightly, but you still feel the weight of her hands on your body. “Until then, you’re pretty much a human being. So be careful.”

“I pressed the watch.” You’re trying not to be too obvious about how upset you are that Kara didn’t show up, but Alex seems to read you easily.

“Oh, she brought you in, and went to pick Lena up, they should be arriving at any time now.” Alex says and you breathe in relief. What a superhero you are. Save the city, but still want your moms to pick you up from a fight.

“Is she ok?” Lena rushes in, talking to Alex, but then she turns to you and sees you sitting on the bed. “You’re ok.” She hugs you, and her hand goes to your hair. “You’re ok, baby. You’re ok.”

It feels so good to feel the weight of her arms around you, so you hug her back, hiding your face on her collarbone, and Lena’s hands just pull you in closer to her.

“Does anything hurt?” She asks, putting her chin on the top of your head, and you smile at the scene, at the feeling, and at the amazingness of the moment. You let go of her, and deny with your head. Kara comes to you, putting her hand on your shoulder.

“You called.” She says that with the biggest smile on her face, like you just did the most awesome thing in your life. “You stopped Shockwave all by yourself, and then you called me to go get you.”

“I did.” You smile back. “And I got solar flared, and I’m human now.”

“Oh, I once got solar flared too!” Kara raises her hand at you, and you guys high-five. “Being without your powers is not fun, but I’m so proud of you, little one! You have no idea!” It’s her time to hug you, and she does it a little too strong. You don’t complain though, is amazing that you can even feel it.

“Well, she is free to go.” Aunt Alex says, and you jump from the bed. It feels so weird. You’re feeling heavy, like Earth gravity finally caught up to you, and you feel like you weigh 200 pounds.

Sure you were once without your powers, but you couldn’t really enjoy this feeling of being human. Back then, you couldn’t really walk, because your leg was hurt, and when you did, you had a cast on. So this now, feels like being human for the first time since you were a little kid without powers.

You look at Kara with a smile on your face. “Race ya to the way out.”

And running you go, at a normal speed, and when you get there, you’re sweating and out of breath and feeling light-headed from the effort. You bend down, putting your hands on your thighs for support. Kara holds your arm, looking very worried.

“That was awesome!” You manage to say, while still trying to breathe and she laughs at you.

“You are aware that everyone in the DEO just saw you running like a freak on the corridors, right?” Kara asks, with a playful smile on her lips, and you open a big one to her.

“I know. But they all know I can take them down if I want to, so I don’t think they’ll say anything about it.” You finally stand up again, and open your arms to her. “I would like a ride home, please.”

“Sure thing, my little human.” Kara holds you, and fly home with you holding her tight. Feeling a little scared that you could fall and not be able to protect yourself. You feel a light rain starting to fall, and you look up with a smile. How great is this day?

Kara lands in the backyard, and you open your arms feeling the rain on your skin. She smiles, looking at you like you’re an alien who just now landed on Earth, and it’s experiencing things for the first time.

“Ok, go inside and get dry, and I’m going to pick up your mom before it starts raining harder.”

Kara leaves, but you don’t go inside. You’re so static that you were actually able to stop that villain -without help this time, may you add-, that the rain feels like a payment for it.

“Get inside, come on. Come on.” You hear Lena’s voice and you look behind you to see her with her suit jacket over her head. She comes to you, shielding you from the rain -like you’re not already completely soaked-, and walks with you inside from the backyard door. “Go take a shower and get out of those wet clothes before you come up with a cold.”

“A cold!” You say, like it’s the most exciting thing in the world. “Have I ever had a cold before? What is it like?”

“It’s no fun.” Lena looks at your excited face, and Rao, how well this woman can read you. It’s impressive. “Absolutely not! You are not getting a cold to feel how it is. Go take a hot shower now, and get yourself into warm clothes.” You pout at her. “I will throw you under the shower if I have to.”

“Fine.” The pouting is over at the sound of that. “I’m not getting a cold!”

But it seems that the universe has other plans for you.

“Come on, babygirl. School. Let’s go.” Lena opens the door in the morning. You try to open your eyes, but it feels incredibly hard to do so. You didn’t even wake up yet, and you can feel the most horrible headache.

“Mom. Don’t freak out.” Your voice comes out small and hoarse, and that’s all it takes for Lena to understand what’s going on.

“Please don’t tell me-” She comes closer, and you feel her hand on your forehead. “My God, you’re burning up.”

“I am?” You ask, pushing the blankets up your body. “Then why am I so cold?”

“Because you have a fever, babygirl.” Lena lets out a sigh, and you just wait until she says ‘I told you so’. But that never comes. “KARAAAA! GET THE TERMOMETER!”

It’s five seconds later when you see Kara showing up at your bedroom door. She gives it to Lena, who quickly takes your temperature and sighs at the number on the screen.

“You’ve got a high fever. What else are you feeling?” Lena asks, and you feel the mattress dipping next to you, and Kara coming closer.

“Headache. And for some reason my legs and arms hurt. Like-” You look at Kara, with wide eyes. “They actually hurt, you know?”

“Well, my love, that’s one of the symptoms.” Kara smiles fondly at you. She looks amazed at the fact that her daughter came up with a cold in the first place. “So, she’s not going to school today.”

“Absolutely not.” Lena says, picking up her cell phone from her pocket. “I’ll call the principal and let her know.” She looks back at you with a flat smile. “At least now we’ll prove to them that you’re an actual human being.”

“Yay!” You cough after such effort. “Silver lining.”

“I’ll go get something for you to eat.” She leaves the room and you look at Kara.

“I’m not hungry.” You think about it for a second and your eyes widen. “Momma! I’m not hungry! Am I dying?”

“Don’t even joke about it.” Kara throws her arms around you and gets comfortable next to you.

“Don’t you have work to attend to?” You ask, trying to do an eyebrow raise, but it hurts so badly you give up midway.

“Work?” She laughs like it’s the most absurd question you’ve ever asked her. You know it can’t be, because you once asked her how fast you had to run for your skin to warm up, like a spacecraft heats up when reentering the atmosphere and catches on fire -to which she replied a solid ‘huh?’-. “I can’t possibly go to work with you sick like this.”

“I’m not that sick. I have a common cold.”

“Shhh. They don’t need to know that.” Kara smiles, and takes her phone out of her pocket. She is typing and saying her message out loud, you know, like old peps do. “Can’t go in today. My daughter has come up with something and I have to stay in and watch her.”

You want to call her a liar, but you also want to thank her for staying with you. So instead, you settle for a smile, and for holding her hand. Lena walks in a while later with food in a tray for you.

“Ok, so I called your school and explained your absence, and I also called my assistant to let her know I’m not coming in today and-” She looks at Kara, already under the covers with you, and furrows her brows. “Don’t you have to go to work?”

Kara gives her a sheepish smile. “Guess we had the same idea.”

“Guess we did. Come on baby, let's get something inside you.” She helps you up, and you sit on your bed. You eat what she brought, and when you’re done, they help you lay back in bed. “Make space for me?”

Kara pulls you closer, and Lena lays on the other side of the bed, dropping her shoes on the floor with loud thuds.

“Rao, that hurts so much.” You wince at the sound, closing your eyes. “Can we all be very, very quiet?” You ask, and add a little later. “Oh, and in the dark?”

“Oh, my love, do you have a migraine too?” Lena whispers, kissing your forehead. “Kara, go get her a cloth, please.”

You barely feel the bed moving and Kara’s already laying down again. She blows a little of her freeze breath in it, and places it on your forehead. You also notice they had turned off the lights, and you doze back to sleep sandwiched between your moms.

You wake up much later. Kara is snoring next to you, arm over your body, making it impossible for you to move, and Lena is sitting on your desk, silently working in the dark. You smile at the scene.

“Mom.” You call her, and she stops what she is doing to go to you.

“Hey, babygirl. Listen, you have to drink lots of fluids to keep yourself hydrated.” Lena hands you a bottle of water. “How’s the migraine?”

“A little better?” You say, truthfully. She nods, putting her hand on your head to check for your fever.

“You’re sweaty. I think your fever is down. You should go take a shower.” Lena says and you just point at Kara’s arms and she knows exactly what you mean. “I always get trapped under her arms too. Let me just-” She scratches the back of Kara’s neck, and instantly her arms move and you’re free to go. “Here.” Lena gives you a hand and you sit on the bed with her help.

“I have to tell you something.” You whisper, still holding her hand. “I don’t really like the cold. You can say I told you so.”

Lena kisses your head, and lets out a chuckle. “I didn’t think you would, but I guess you had to see it for yourself. I’m glad you didn’t like it though; you’ll probably never catch it again.”

“I hope not.”

Despite absolutely hating the feeling of being sick, you look around and things are still pretty good in your life. When Kara wakes up, she wraps you up in blankets like a ‘sick burrito’, and moves you to the couch to watch your favorite movie with them. Sure, you’re surrounded with tissue papers, water bottles, and cold medicine. But you’re also surrounded with love. And that is the best thing you can wish for on a Wednesday afternoon.

Notes:

So it seems a lot of you wanted a sick fic. For this one I have to thank @beepbop122 for the solar flared idea for Superkid to get sick. Then @asiangmrchk13 asked for Supercorp taking care of her and a little bit of Alex in the middle. Also @youngjusticeimaginesus asked me for Superkid get a migraine and I think the basic idea was being cared by Kara and Lena, so I hope this works. And I threw in a fight scene for myself. I hope you all enjoy it, thank you so much!

[beggingwolf]

sidgeno: soulmate AU + erotic dreams

Sid's standing at a river.

He thinks it's a river. It feels half-formed. He can feel the rumble of the water under his feet. If he doesn't move, the flash flood is going to swell to his soles, ankles, knees, and sweep him away.

"Beautiful," he hears. It doesn't sound right. The word twists in his ears, and a large hand wraps around his elbow, pulling him a step back up onto the bank. "Careful."

Sid wakes up with a gasp. Across the room, the little blue S on his wall has fallen to the floor with a crack. It's his last night at home before he ships out to Minnesota. He'd heard his mom crying after Taylor had gone to bed.

Sid reaches up to touch his elbow. He can still feel the ghostly touch, heavy and strong.

Sid stays up for another hour, thinking it over. Replaying the sound of beautiful over and over again, even though that's not how it sounded in the dream.

He closes his eyes. He tries to say goodbye to home. He tries to push off the dream; he doesn't have the time to think about it, not now, not when—

-

"Beautiful," Sid hears. He lets out a shuddering breath. The hands are everywhere. There's a heavy weight between his legs. There's pressure on his stomach, on his chest. A mouth pressing to his neck. He needs to move. He needs to be touched, he—

The pillow hits his face hard.

"Take it to the showers, Croz!" Duncs groans, his bedsprings creaking as he rolls to turn his back on Sid from across the room.

Sid's face grows hot as he fumbles at his blankets. He slips out of bed, feet hitting the linoleum floor with a loud smack, and he grabs the first article of clothing on the ground—a hoodie, fine, that's fine—before making a break for the hall.

The light of the hallway is blinding, and Sid stumbles to the bathrooms to lock himself in a shower stall and breathe.

His boxers are wet.

Sid shudders on his next inhale. It's been... it's been so long since this has happened, but not like this, never with that voice in his ears or the feeling of a body that's bigger than his covering him so completely.

Sid's been looking at his teammates too much lately. He's been thinking about how tall Matty is, how he's got a wicked smile and a stupid laugh that rivals Sid's own.

"Fuck," Sid whispers to himself. It echoes off the yellowing tile.

-

Soulmates, Sid learned early, don't account for everything.

His mother told him that she'd had dreams of the Eastern Shore back at the height of the whaling trade. She'd remembered the scent of blubber burning, how his father's clothes would stink of blood and salt after he'd return from a voyage.

She had older ones, too. Ones of living in a cramped house in an old country with too many mouths to feed, spending her days working in a horrible factory and sneaking away to find a sweetheart in a back alley.

Older than that, even: one of his aunts liked to claim she could remember as far back to before electricity was discovered. His mom fondly told her sister she was full of shit, but Sid always wondered.

Then there was his grandmother, who never talked about soulmates at all. She was happy with Kenny, but Sidney knew Kenny was not his grandfather by blood. His grandmother was tight-lipped about it, even when the family was swapping dream-memories with each other like cards over the dinner table.

"Soulmates can mean a lot of things," Sid's uncle had told him out on the patio later. "Sometimes they're just the person that leaves the most scars on you."

Years later, as Sid tries to keep his eyes to himself in the locker room, he finally understands how his love could leave him with more scars than he could count.

-

It's a gentle touch to his hair. Long fingers playing in the curls. They're too long. They're always too long, it's not presentable, it's not to code, but war is cruel and bloody and Sid's fucking hair is the least of his concerns.

"Morning, beautiful," a low voice rasps to him. The words are tilted like they always are, but Sid understands. He always understands.

He turns, eyes still closed, and reaches out.

Lips connect with his. There's a dusting of pathetic stubble on both of their faces. The dry, cracked lips he's kissing are still the best thing he's ever felt.

"My watch shift's almost over," Sid whispers. His throat is hoarse, because last night he'd—god, he'd taken the whole length down, and it had felt good and powerful and if he died today he'd be okay with it, he thinks. The war has taken so much. At least he had this. "I need to go back."

"Stay," is murmured up against his mouth. The lips move up to press against his forehead, and the hand in his hair tangles in it, pulls him closer, drags him against a strong body, long legs tangling with his own.

He can feel a hardness pressing into his thigh, and he cracks open his eyes.

His head smacks against glass.

"Shit!" Sid snaps, jerking upright as the bus rolls over another curb.

"Sorry, fellas!" the driver calls, and there's an ugly chorus of groans from the Rimouski Oceanic.

"Jesus," Sid grunts, shifting back upright in his seat, yanking his backpack onto his lap. His skull is still rattling from the rude awakening, and he's achingly hard.

It's a small mercy he has the row to himself. He leans back and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his head, and his hip where that stupid fucking Moosehead had laid into him, and his tweaked wrist from two weeks ago in Chicoutimi. The street lamps they drive under flare his eyelids pink and then black, again and again.

As he slows his breaths, the urgency fades out of his bloodstream. He's not hard up for it anymore. He's just sore.

More than the feeling of a heavy cock pressed against his leg, Sid misses the gangly arms that had been wrapped around him. He'd had to make out with a girl at a house party before they'd left for Halifax. The team had gotten too nosy, their teasing of Sid's prudishness tipping from "hilarious novelty" to "prying questions," and Sid had swallowed his anxiety and used it as fuel to find a girl and pull her into a corner in full view of half of the blue line and press his lips to hers.

It had felt deeply wrong.

He tries to keep his breaths even as he thinks about how right his dream had felt, and how that deep, sleep-weary voice sits in his skull like it belongs there.

-

Sid pulls his goalie pads off. His eye is swollen shut from the puck he took to the face in the second period; it happens once every few months, and it's incentive to be faster. He laughs as the team around him starts cracking open beers. Their captain lights a cigarette and leans back in his stall with a grin. They're on fucking fire, and they're going out on the town tonight.

Sid comes back home drunk. Drunk and happy and dumped unceremoniously on the steps of his Montreal townhome by his teammates, who cheerfully wave at Sid's roommate.

Sid's roommate.

Sid's roommate picks Sid up. Sid's roommate peels off his clothes slowly. Sid's roommate leads him to bed, where he tucks himself into the cave he makes out of Sid's chest.

Sid's roommate, who grinds back against Sid. Sid groans. He can't get it up, not like this, and his roommate laughs, a low noise, and tells him in the morning—in the morning they'll have some fun, he'll reward Sid exactly how he deserves.

Sid wakes up alone.

They've lost the Memorial Cup. He's still in London. He's not playing for the Habs in their glory days. He's not playing for anyone right now. The season is over. Tomorrow he gets to go home. He gets to hope the draft goes on.

He feels very small and lonely in his hotel bed.

-

The night before the draft, Sid dreams about getting fucked.

He's goddamn lucky Jack sleeps harder than the dead. He's goddamn lucky in so many ways, because he feels those big hands push his legs up, his thighs pressing into his stomach. He feels those chapped lips drag against his neck, his chest, his cock. He feels those long hands stretching him open.

He takes every inch. He gets fucked within an inch of his life. He's held down by that powerful body and he's never wanted something this bad, because it's good and right and he wants it more than anything. He's had it before, in another time, and Sid tells himself he'll find it again someday, he has to.

He comes so hard he cries.

Jack's still asleep when Sid wakes up and ducks into the bathroom. He lets the shower rain scalding water down onto him as he wipes the cum off of his hips.

-

Sid plays hockey in Pittsburgh.

He kisses a man for the first time. It's not his soulmate. He can tell; the man's fingers are too stubby, but he has wide shoulders and a smart smile and it feels good.

It leads to him getting his dick sucked. That's good too.

The dreams don't stop. He's in rural Canada. He's in some ancient country that looks foreign. He's in a busy city center that looks nothing like anywhere Sid has ever been.

He's always wrapped in those long arms, holding those delicate-looking, strong hands.

It's his second season, the morning after another dream—a bad one, where Sid had been old and arthritic and holding a cold hand in his—when Mario looks up from the morning newspaper and tells Sid Malkin will finally be getting in from Los Angeles that evening.

"It's been long enough, he should be out of his contract by the time camp starts," Mario says. "We'll have him over for dinner tonight, I think."

Sid doesn't dress up, but he does put on jeans and combs his hair in the bathroom before Malkin and his translator arrive. He should look presentable, he figures. They want to make him captain. He should make a good impression, especially after all that Malkin's been through.

The doorbell rings, and Sid hustles down the three flights of stairs to get to the foyer.

Malkin's big. Lanky, really, and golden from the California sun. He looks tired but happy, and he's staring at Mario with big eyes and a bigger grin, his chapped lips stretched wide. Sid knows the feeling well.

Malkin turns his gaze to Sid, and something wobbles in Sid's chest.

"Evgeni Malkin," he says, offering a handshake to Sid.

His palm is huge. His fingers are long and handsome.

Sid swallows and takes his hand.

[babbushka]

I love Beyond Reasonable Doubt! Lawyer Kylo is just the best Kylo! Could you please use this prompt with him for Sinday? Flip or another Kylo would be fine too if you like.

“I don’t get how kissing in the rain could be romantic. It sounds horrible to me.“ "Well it’s raining right now - I bet I could prove you wrong.”

Thank you so much for requesting! Please enjoy this bantery bickery fluffy ficlet! :)

1.2k, no warnings just fluff

“Alright, what the fuck is your problem.” Kylo huffs in a snappish sort of tone. It’s not so much a question as it is permission for you to start complaining in that way that you always sort of wait for him to give you.

You’re both curled up on the couch in your living room, a rare day off. You both should be getting ready for your next cases, court wasn’t too far away now, but the weather outside made it so difficult to be in the mood to get anything done.

You had invited Kylo over for some Netflix & Chill – much to Kylo’s annoyance when you actually had a movie queued up.

“What are you talking about?” You pause said movie, and give him a hard glare.

“This is the third time you’ve sighed – are you crying?” Kylo suddenly notices the sheen to your eyes, the way you keep subtly wiping the sleeve of your sweater against your cheeks, sniffling up your nose.

“Fuck you no I’m not.” Immediately on the defensive, you snap at him, and Kylo can only throw his hands up in exasperation.

“How can you be crying nothing sad has happened?” He demands to know, and you roll your eyes and wipe at your face again.

“I’m not crying because it’s sad you moron, I’m crying because it’s sweet.” You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, gesturing to the screen that is frozen right as a man and woman lock themselves in an embrace out in a field somewhere, “Have you not been paying attention this entire time? It’s the most romantic part of the movie.”

Maybe he hadn’t been fucking paying attention to the movie, maybe he had wanted to blow your back out instead. He doesn’t say that, but he doesn’t anticipate what he does say to have such a dramatic reaction.

“I don’t get how kissing in the rain could be romantic.” He shoves some popcorn into his mouth, talks around it as he chews, “It sounds horrible to me. You’ll catch a fuckin’ cold. Do you know how freezing it must be out there? I don’t fucking think so, if you want a kiss you ask for one inside where it’s warm and fuckin’ dry.”

“Well, it’s raining right now – I bet I could prove you wrong.” You suddenly challenge, and Kylo can only blink.

“What do you mean?” He swallows around the popcorn, scowling as thunder cracks outside.

“Go walk down to the end of the block.” You instruct, and he’s not so sure you’re serious.

Kylo gives you a look, but you only look back at him, and does as he’s told. Getting off the couch, he spares a withering glance out at the torrential downpour that has cleared the streets outside your apartment, puts on his raincoat, and out the door he goes.

When the elevator doors open on the ground floor, and the doorman of the building offers him an umbrella, he politely rejects it, much to the doorman’s confusion. No one in these movies had umbrellas after all. He puts his hands in his pockets to keep them from shivering. He wishes he could light up a cigarette, but the rain would just put it right back out, he knows that. So instead, he stands near a lamp-post to provide him with some light, turns his collar up against the rain, and waits.

He isn’t so sure what he’s even waiting for, and is about to storm back inside and snap at you for playing a cruel trick on him – when he sees you all the way down the block.

The streets are empty, no one out in this kind of weather, so he knows that it’s you. In the time that Kylo had made it to the corner, you changed your clothes out of sweatpants and into something much more…theatrical. You’re drenched to your very bones, hair whipping out behind you as you run and run and run, your feet splashing in puddles so deep that it soaks through your already soaked billowing dress.

“Kylo!” You call his name with a desperate sort of urgency, your voice cutting through the thick downpour of the rain like lightning, and he doesn’t know how or why, but suddenly his feet are carrying him away from that lamp-post and he’s running too.

Drawn to you in that moment, Kylo forgot all about the rain, he forgot about the world around him as your bodies collide right there on the sidewalk, as he wraps his arms around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You’ve practically jumped up against him, his arms supporting your hips, meaning you have to lean down for once in your life to kiss him.

And kiss him you do -- your lips crashing down onto his, lips parting for his tongue, hot and wet, everything is so wet. Kylo clutches to you, holds your body so tightly as the rain beats down on the both of you, streams of water down your cheeks like tears, and for a moment, when Kylo kisses you back, he thinks you may be crying, that maybe the weight of your emotion is so heavy that it has caused the sky itself to open up.

Your hands cradle the base of his skull, and you gasp against his tongue, eyes pinched shut, looking for all the world like you’ve been wanting to do that your entire life. Looking like one of those women in those movies, reunited at long last with her lover. Maybe Kylo is dreaming, but the way your fingers curl and cover against his cheeks, the way your thumbs rub soothing circles just beneath his eyes, he feels more tenderness in these touches than he has ever known.

But then, as soon as it had started, seemingly the kiss was over, and Kylo has to put you down. Except…except he doesn’t want to. He wants to hold onto you forever and ever, and he gets it now, he understands now, why they’re all like this. He would never admit to it, but he understands.

“Were you acting?” You ask, panting ever so slightly as your feet touch the ground once again, head dizzy and heart racing.

“No.” Kylo whispers, because he never is when he’s with you. In fact, he thinks you might be the only fucking person on the planet that he doesn’t have to act around. Anxiety spikes through him then, and he feels the need to ask in return, “Were you?”

The fear is fleeting, for you’re shaking your head ever so slightly, gently, and Kylo lets out a breath he hadn’t realized that he was holding.

“Do you want to finish the movie?” You whisper back, voice hushed, barely audible over the rush of the rain around your bodies.

“I have a better idea.” Kylo grins, before he’s leaning back down with his eyes closing, his nose rubbing against yours, to kiss you once again, and then again, and then again.

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

Tagging some Kylo lovin' friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @rennasiance-mama @steeevienicks @mousemakingjam @the-unmanaged-mischief @materialisthicc @slut-for-harri @littleevilme13 @erys-targaryen @leillaa @lovinghufflepuffgirl @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @schopenhauerdeathsquad @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @cowgirl1234 @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen

[cherryblossomtease]

Chapter 8

18+ only

Warnings and summary - Masterlist

You can’t stand it. The anticipation is a part of the foreplay and god knows he’s magnificent at it, but you’re just propped up with a pillow under your hips and the air of the room cool on your skin —every entrance exposed for him— and he hasn’t touched you since walking into the bedroom.

You imagine ahead to the sex that will follow whatever he has in store and you know he’s watching the way you flex and pulse with wanting him.

Your hands are still bound at the wrist and currently over your head so your weight is on your elbows as you lift your chin trying to see him behind you.

“Head down,” He says and you comply. He says your name as if disappointed in you “Am I not clear with my rules?” He asks and you’re scared to answer. “You remember the last time you broke them right?”

You do, of course you do. The pain and denial followed by such a release. “Yes Baron.”

“And yet you’ve done it again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

You smile just a little and refuse to give him the answer that will save your hide. For better or worse, he is not patient with you tonight.

The resulting smack of his belt to your ass makes you shriek and you bite the duvet. Your hands are folded and you press your fingers into the flesh to get through the pain.

“Will you offer yourself like that again?” He asks.

You shake your head but raise up to speak. “I was just helping.” You roll your eyes and he can’t see your face but you’re very good at amplifying that snarky tone.

You feel the sting of not one but two slaps of the belt this time and the pain translates as anger, the emotion bubbling in your chest. “That’s not fair, I did what you wanted!” You yell.

God…why did you go and do that? Maybe because you know what will happen. He does not accept you talking back to him when you’re fully in your roles and tonight you’re having a hard time keeping the worlds separate.

Now there is an awful rhythm to his punishment. The horrible sting of the belt and you count to three in your head between strikes and try to flex your muscles to brace against the next but there is no relief.

When your shoulders shake and you’re on the verge of tears, Zemo stops.

“What is rule one?” He asks.

“No flirting.” You whisper your breath shaking your chin quivering.

“And did you break the rule?”

“But I thought… you told me to…”

He sighs. “I said to distract him, not to give yourself to him, not to let him touch you, and he did, didn’t he?”

You open your eyes looking out at the dark city skyline through the windows. “Yes.”

“Where? Where was his hand while you blew on his dice?” He says disgusted.

You look away and groan. “My ass…”

“Whose?” He asks, his voice high with the question he already knows the answer to.

You’re confused at first and don’t answer. The sharp crack across your skin snaps you out of it and you cry out but answer. “Yours”

“Say it again.” He snarls.

“Yours, Baron yours.” You insist. “I’m sorry” You gasp when you feel his hand make contact instead of the belt. One smack and then he lays his palm flat on your hot, stinging skin. “I am yours”

“I know,” His voice is in your ear and you feel a finger slide down along your glistening divide. He is breathing hard, you feel each exhale down your back as he strokes. “You’re very wet.”

You press your lips tight as you moan. “I—I just…”

“You liked it didn’t you?” He says slipping his finger in just a little

You open your eyes and look back at him over your shoulder. “What?”

“We’ll have to find someone more suitable for you to play the whore with later. Polisky is not worthy of you. Not even close. Until then, you’ll have to be satisfied with one man.” He’s been slowly adjusting his hand as he speaks and now he’s got his thumb at your asshole and his middle finger teasing your cunt.

You swallow feeling your mouth go dry.

He wants you to fuck another man?

Zemo is toying with you and the little sparks of surprise that come from being touched at both entrances make you whimper and moan. You want more…

Who would it be? This other man. He knows a lot of people, but you’re fairly certain he doesn’t have friends he’d trust with you. Maybe one of the boys from Low Town…. Just as you start to get lost in that fantasy, he pulls the pillow out from under your hips and turns you over helping bring your arms down so your hands can rest.

“Open your legs” He says and gets up.

You pull your knees up and out to make the diamond shape that he likes and watch as he strips down to nothing but his underwear. He goes and stands at the foot of the bed to look at you and you wonder for a moment if there will be pleasure or pain or both.

Even he seems unsure. You catch a glimpse of something else that has nothing to do with either of your tastes in sex and you want to pull him close, but you need to ask first.“Baron?”

He looks down at you and raises his chin in defiance to the feelings he’s keeping secret.

“May I ask you something?”

“You may.” He says.

“Are you sure you want this tonight?”

His eyes narrow. Instead of answering, he gets on the bed and lowers down, pushing your leg closed as he settles beside you.

“Want what?”

“Me…”

He smiles but it’s sad. He calls you lovely Sokovian pet names and traces your profile with his finger. “There is truly nothing I want more.”

You turn to look at him very much aware of being bound and unable to touch him. “What happened in there. What happened in Polinsky’s room. You saw something and you haven’t been the same since.”

He sighs slowly, so reluctant to say, but he does finally. “Before I came back to Madripoor, I was in prison, you know this already” He says unbinding your hands. It's unexpected but you lay there letting him. “I was—freed— by someone I have something of a past with.”

“A friend?” You feel a twinge of jealously. “Who is she?”

Zemo pauses, looks at you and chuckles. “She, is named James Buchanan Barnes, you might have heard him referred to as, the winter soldier.”

You gasp rubbing your wrists. “You know him? He’s, well he’s got a reputation to rival yours.

Zemo shrugs a little and lets the silky rope that he uses to tie you up fall to the bed beside you. “Apparently he’s a changed man.” He says and you’re very curious as to what that means.

“What does that have to do with Polinsky’s phone?”

“I saw a notification. He’s here, in New York with Sam Wilson. Captain America himself. My hunt for the serum has led them to me.”

You understand now. The Avengers or what’s left of them can’t go anywhere without people taking pictures. It’s probably on some TMZ knock off website and Zemo saw it. “They’re here for you?”

“I’m a very wanted man.”

“Don’t I know it” You tease softly and he actually laughs. “Are you afraid they’d take you back?’

“No. It’s not them I’m worried about. But if James and Sam know, then the real threat is near.”

“Who?” You ask ready to defend him in any way that you can.

Zemo runs his thumb over your lips and gently turns your head to face him. “Don’t think about it. Tonight may be all we have for a while.”

The threat of being apart makes you sit up and you go to your knees looking down at him. “No! Are you kidding? You can’t let that happen!” He seems surprised. “No! Zemo please! You have to do something!”

Why is he looking at you like that? Like you’re cute or sweet or any of the stupid things he says. You can’t stand it. “What’s that matter with you? Don’t you want to get away? Why would you give up like that!”

His eyes are fire but he doesn’t move and the way he just watches you makes you want to scream. “Seriously, why are we just sitting here? Get up, Get dressed! lets go back to Madripoor and hide”

He reaches for you but you swat his hand away which shocks him. The way he looks at you, you know that was a mistake. He grabs your wrist so hard you’re instantly missing the rope.

Zemo sits up and flips you onto your back, his hands holding your arms down. “I don’t run, I don’t hide. I make plans. And right now— this is my plan.”

“You’re a coward,” You toss out and look away, your heart racing as you try to accept that this may be the end of it.

He eases his hold on you and you dare to look up at him again. “Oh… I see.” He says very calmly, as though he’s only just realized something and sits up. “Yellow.”

“What?”

“Yellow.”

You are stunned. He’s never once used a color or a word. When he moves to the edge of the bed hanging his head you feel frantic with worry. “I’m so sorry! What did I do?” You try to make sense of it.

He glances over when you come to sit, legs curled under you at his side. “Nothing. I just need to slow this down.”

Your eyes are brimming with tears. This is not how you thought this night would end. “This? You mean me? Are you afraid of what’s happening? Not with them, the people looking for you. I mean with us? What can you see?”

He sighs and lays his hand on your thigh. “I think, maybe I’m not ready or worthy of the feelings you have. I have no business pretending to be a free man. My life is tied to my mission.”

“That’s not fair, you’ve kept me coming back to you for weeks!”

He looks up. “Yes, and it was wrong of me”

“No it wasn’t! It was wonderful. Zemo please. Don’t do this. Not now. Not here in a place I don’t know in a city that’s not mine or yours.”

He moves like he might get up, but you grab his arm. “How dare you!” He looks at you and you shrink back, but he doesn’t say a word. “How dare you make me feel this way and then tell me it was a mistake!”

He’s still just staring.

“What? Is it because you know? How I feel… You’re scared of me aren’t you” Your voice shakes with anger. “You’re scared to have someone love you again!”

He does get up then and walks to the windows.

There, you've said it.

He’s standing with his back to you and your eyes wander down the tense muscle of his back and arms lit by the lamp next to the bed. He crosses them and you want nothing more than to go and put your own arms around his broad shoulders but he’s being selfish. You can not reward that with love no matter how strongly you feel it.

“You’re still a coward if you can’t even face me. Look me in the eye and tell me again, Tell me you don’t want this."

You’re on your knees at the edge of the bed breathing hard, angry, hurt, scared… you can’t imagine having him only to loose him like this.

It feels like hours pass before he turns to you and the sight of him in the dark makes you groan softly from the absolute ache in your heart. The shadows that fall across his face only make him look more beautiful. You love him so much you could shove him out the window.

“Say it, say it and I’ll go” You whisper ignoring the tears that sparkle in your eyes.

His dark gaze is laser focused on you until finally he drops his arms and walks over to the bed.

His hand is around your throat and you grab his wrist, your eyes pleading as his go soft and he hangs his head for just a second. His brows angle down with the threat of sadness, but he squares his jaw and raises his head looking at you again.

“I want you to leave.” He says but you see his eye twitch and he almost breaks down. You know in that moment nothing has ever been further from the truth.

“I love you Helmut.” You whisper closing your two hands around his one, and he does crack then. That tough exterior didn’t stand a chance against the sledgehammer of your confession and he slides his hand away from your throat and up to your face, grabbing you by the chin jerking your forward.

“Go.” He insists.

“I’ve loved you for so long…”

“Leave.”

“And you love me too. I know you do.”

He seems furious but not with you. He’s at a loss for what to do, so he does the only thing he can and kisses you to stop himself from saying it back.

It’s a deep, slow kiss, that transfuses every ounce of pain he feels into you, and you inhale it, you suck it down wanting to free him of it. If this is your last night together then let it be a good one. “Show me.” You say, your lips still against his. He is kissing you down into the bed. “If you can’t say it, then show me you love me. Please Baron, show me like I know you want to.”

He has you on your back again and pauses, looking you in the eye as though you’ve just given him the green light. You feel a flash of fear, worried you’ve gone to far but you trust him, you know him, you love him.

Quickly Zemo grabs the black silk ribbon. “Put your hands over your head.”

You do instantly and bite your lip when he binds your wrists again, tighter this time. Once you’re secure, he sits up and opens the side table pulling out a blind fold. Its’ over your head and tossing you into darkness immediately.

He is silent again, you don’t feel him get back onto the bed and now you’re breathing quickly wondering where he’s gone. The anticipation is heightened with the truth of your love hanging low in the room.

And then his hands close around your ankles and you gasp loudly as he yanks you down over the bedding until your legs dangle over the edge. With your arms still above your head, you pull the fabric into your fingers to give yourself something to hold onto, but you won’t be needing it.

Zemo is surprisingly strong when you least expect it.

He grabs the rope and brings your arms down gently until your hands rest in a prayer like position between your breast and he pulls you up to sitting and onto your feet.

You stand there parting your lips after licking them, soothed by his light touch—his fingers trailing down your shoulders and along the low dip of your back— his hands rest on your ass lifting and squeezing the soft flesh just a bit.

When he puts an arm around your waist, you hinge forward a bit letting him hold you, the press of his thick cock at your entrance making you sway your hips a little like you want to swallow him.

The way he pushes inside is enough to make you melt in his arms. He is so slow about it. He wants you to feel every inch, he wants you to understand.

He loves you?

When he’s deep enough that your hips ache, he grabs your elbows and pulls your arms back, the rope rubbing into your skin.

Now he begins. It’s slow —long dragging pull, deep powerful push— back and forth at this speed that consumes you.

You still can’t see but of course this only makes the sensation better.

When his hold on your arms tighten, you suck your lip in bracing for it. The way he moves has your ass bouncing against his hips, and he moans deeply grabbing your own hip and thigh so hard you twist away and then he stops, pulling away.

You feel empty and confused, flexing like you’re trying to find the cock that isn’t there anymore.

Zemo grabs you and pushes you down onto the bed which makes your head spin. He pushes your knees apart and you feel too raw, too open after being fucked to lay here so exposed.

Your eyes are darting back and forth in the dark, your hands moving but unable to do much as you wait, until you feel the smack of something very small right down the center of your sensitive fold.

You cry out and realize that it's the tip of his belt. You moan and squirm fearing the pain, eager for more. You can picture it, him standing there with the strap wrapped around his hand watching you quiver and moan. Now you know why he started to fuck you. He wanted you alert, sensitive and soft to the pain.

Another strike and you close your knees only to feel the consequences as he strikes the tops of your thighs. “Legs open” He says softly.

With a whimper you do and he responds immediately letting that thick leather tap your clitoris until you’re panting, wanting to close your thighs as much as you open wider.

He lands a few more sharp flicks over your wet skin but when your moans change to true pain he stops and the room is silent except for you and the sounds that follow his attention.

When his mouth unexpectedly finds your pussy, you smile and sigh. He’s good with the transition from pain to pleasure and back again.

He licks your silky skin until the sting is soothed. He sucks your clit until you’ve all but forgotten about the spanking. He buries his face in the wet fold until you’re rocking your hips against his beautiful face and on the verge of climax, but he stops again.

That was just to prepare you. He unbinds your hands once more and you relax your arms.

“Move back on the bed.”

“I can’t see” You try.

“Move”

Obediently you turn and crawl back up towards the head of the bed a little hesitant, but you feel the pillows welcome you in and relax as you turn onto your back.

As you start to settle, Zemo is there, not giving you a second to get your bearings. Your legs are shoved apart and he spears you with an urgent momentum. The size and length of him taking your breath away for a second before you cry out, but it’s the good sort of scream. The kind that sends him over the edge and he proceeds to drive into you so hard, the bed moves away from the wall.

You thought he’d always fucked you hard, now you know better. This is the sort of deep penetration that will mark you as his.

He suddenly rips the blindfold off and your eyes open wide to find his bright with that fire you’ve only seen glimpses of before.

His hand slides along your thigh and under your knee which he lifts, bringing your leg up. He glances down to watch and you moan, knowing what he sees —you, tight and pink and stretched around him as he grinds into you so hard you can’t even moan— you can hardly breathe.

When you feel it start to build, you look up at him distracted by the muscle of his shoulders and chest as he moves. “Baron—please—may I come” You beg knowing you must always ask first.

“Yes” He growls and draws back to buck into you until your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Come” He says your name gazing down at you, his eyes steady as his body moves.

You press your head back into the pillow feeling the swell. Zemo lets go of your leg but you keep your knee bent and close. He cradles your face lowering to hover close with his open mouth grazing your own and you feel him getting harder. “Come for me,” He commands and slides his hand under your head lifting just enough to hold you so close that when the first wave hits and the contractions make your walls tighten and your clitoris throb, you feel any barriers between you fall away.

You realize he’s watching you, waiting as he feels it happen around him and then as your strongest pulse hits, he turns his head just enough so that his whisper is loud in your ear.

“I love you.” He breathes and watches you come.

You inhale as he exhales, shut your eyes and let your world implode. You don’t release —you devour. You chase the sound of his voice that has just said what he swore he couldn’t just as desperately as you try to prolong the orgasm that accompanied it and then he lets his head fall to the curve of your neck on the pillow and moans against you as every muscle in his body flexes. Another soft moan escapes him and you smile as warm ropes of come are shot into your belly with each pulse of his rigid cock and he clings to you like you are the one person who might save him from himself.

Your arms slowly close around him, you never want to let him go. You would do anything for this man, and you already have.

When he pulls back and you look at one another, he is the one to speak first.

“This was not a part of my plan.” He says sounded happily defeated and exhausted.

You grin and smooth his fallen hair from his eyes, your heart beating so hard your breast shake as you gaze up at him. Your Baron, the man you let claim you from the moment he first said hello. You feel him still hard inside of you and you’ve been in this position before —so many times— but never like this.

“Yes it was.” You say closing your eyes and his lips meet yours and your arms close around one another, content to stay this way a while longer.

_____________________________________________________________

Captain America and the fucking Winter Soldier. Scratch that. Apparently it’s just Bucky, or James if you’re Zemo.

But you’re you, and you’re in over your head yet again.

Sitting in your seat on the plane you go over everything in your head one last time —driving here, finding them waiting, Zemo inviting them on the plane in exchange for his continued freedom— you thought he’d lost his mind but the way he looked at you as Sam and Bucky boarded, you realized he knows exactly what he's doing.

Now it’s late, You’ve been flying for hours and soon you’ll touch down safely in Madripoor which is exactly where all three of these men need to be.

Apparently the card Zemo found on Polinsky had the Power Brokers logo on it. Zemo is angry that he’d missed the clues before this, but is happy that he and in turn Sam and James are on the right track to finding the serum and stopping the Flag Smashers. While they are not friends, currently you're all on the same team.

Still, you think it all sounds dangerous, but no more so than life normally does.

As far as your new traveling companions, well, Sam is actually funny. You like the way he doesn’t tolerate Zemo’s shit. He’ll make a fantastic super hero you think with a sly grin.

But Bucky... James.

He makes you smile in a different way.

Yes, you love Helmut, you feel it in your bones you care for that man so deeply, but Bucky stirs things you that you have to force yours to ignore. His smile which he doesn't give easily makes you want to break the rules. When he talks you lean in, somewhat awed by his vintage charm and stoic reserve. Not to mention that metal arm that you keep eyeing.

When you wake up and see him quietly looking out the window as you fly through the night, you get his attention and strike up a reserved, but easy conversation. He may be the enemy but not so much so that you can't pass the time. You quietly chat while Zemo and Sam sleep and you realize not only is Bucky cute —cute? No he's classically handsome— he's actually a nice person, which is a real mind fuck as you had every intention of giving him and Sam the cold shoulder the entire time. He does after all want to take Zemo from you once they're done with him.

He also seems to be judging you a bit for your relationship with the man they call a terrorist, but you don't mind. Your love is unconventional in many ways. Bucky picks up on this and leaves it alone, but he does a poor job of not making a face when you talk about your life with Zemo when he asks how you ended up here.

You laugh at the way he eyes your sleeping Baron only to realize Zemo isn't asleep at all. He's watching you, both of you and the look on his face is a warning. You assume it's because you've broken rule one, even though you did try very hard not too.

"Go and sit in back." Zemo tells you.

You bow your head and unbuckle, quietly doing as you've been told. Just before you pass him completely, Zemo catches your hand and pulls you down to kiss you and asks softly. "Are you wearing them?"

You bite your lip but nod. "Yes Baron."

"Good," He strokes your face with the back of his hand and you almost continue to your new seat, but he turns his hand, gripping your face and pushes his finger into your mouth. He gives you a look and you know what to do, no matter how humiliating. You suck him just a little as he turns to look at Bucky, as if to show the former solder exactly who you are.

His.

When Zemo pulls away, you press your own fingers to your lips, surprised but excited as you go to the lonely seat in the back and wait, knowing it's only a matter of time before you're forced into an orgasm that only Bucky will be able to see.

The poor man looks confused to say the least, he can't grasp how you, a grown woman, here of her own free will could suddenly become this silent and submissive thing that does as the Baron says, but when Zemo looks at him, and you can practically sense the exchange between the two men, Bucky looks you in the eyes with the first real smile you've seen on his face, and you know that he will understand soon enough.

*

I know, that was a long one. Thanks for sticking around. Hope you enjoy!

@fictionlandslanddreams

[beautifulterriblequeen]

I keep thinking about Silmarillion, and I was wondering : what do you think of Fëanor ?

I don’t know exactly how it should be seen...

Ooh, Fëanor. Gosh, okay, let me change the channel in my brain.

Fëanor is, at heart, a Capitalist Inventor. He's Dark Tony Stark. He creates endless things for the world to use, but what truly drives him is the bone-deep belief that he and his chosen ones deserve his most prized possessions more than anyone else. And he's willing to kill anyone on both sides to get them back. He swears an oath to fight until he gets what he wants, and thus seals the doom of untold thousands he'll never even meet.

That's an antagonist. Which is not the same thing as a villain. But Fëanor is very much an experience to be survived - or not - rather than any kind of ally. Much of what he does in the Silmarillion is imbalanced, driven by emotions he doesn't seem willing or able to control. And because he's an elf among elves, and they all live a very very long time, the effects of his choices carry forward for thousands of years. This one dude got a lot of people killed, directly and indirectly, including his whole family. For an elf was supposed to love the stars, he wasn't very stellar. Our Man in Valinor was way more into fire.

The part that bothers me about his character - and this is a modern take looking back at JRR Tolkien and his world in the last millennium - is that Fëanor is born this way. He is flawed from birth, and he's just Like That, forever. No chance to change, no encouragement to be different, to be softer, to be better, to corral his spirit of fire into something more light than heat. He's just dangerous chaos from start to finish. He comes into the world sucking his mother's spirit dry so she dies, he lives his life disagreeing with everyone around him except his sons, and he goes out encouraging those sons to hold to their unholy oath to retrieve the Silmarils or die trying. Which they do - the "die trying" part, anyway.

He's a piece of work.

He was also a brilliant, god-tier craftsman. I guess that's what happens when you study under the Vala Aulë himself, who literally shaped the physical world into existence.

He created the Silmarils, capturing the combined light of the Two Trees into three brilliant gemstones in a way no one ever did before or since.

He crafted the palantíri, which not even Sauron could replicate later.

He invented Tengwar script, which is the swirly elven writing we all associate with Middle-Earth.

He crafted the mysterious Feanorian lamps, which are crystals that emit blue light and cannot be doused.

He was constantly thinking up new ideas and crafting them. Eru only knows what he made that has been lost. You'll notice none of these things he made are swords. Yet he led an attack against the Teleri on his way out of Valinor, and the Teleri defended themselves, so I kind of assume he was also a weaponsmith, trying out new ideas in metal form if nothing else.

Brilliant and misguided, a flawed juggernaut, destined to drag the entire world and countless lives off course. The earlier these characters show up in the timeline, the more destructive chaos they end up causing.

I do not like Fëanor. He's a White Guy, doing as he pleases with no thought for the consequences, to himself, to those of his family he actually likes, or to anyone else. He holds enough privilege and power that people keep following him into disaster, and then he just goes and does it again, without learning a damn thing from his imbalanced approach. He even dies thinking he did nothing wrong ever in his life. Like... Bitch.

Having power is no guarantee that you deserve power, and Fëanor is a prime example of why.

This has nothing to do with the objects he made. Those are just tools, free to be taken and used for good or evil, as the palantíri were, and as every message ever written in Tengwar was. Would the world have been better off without the Silmarils at all, or the palantíri? Would a different language script have somehow altered the world for the better? Since it's fiction, we could just decide that Yes, Yes It Would, or No Actually Not.

What's not fictional is my distaste for presumptuous assholes with a bit of power but no self-awareness, because I've already met too many of them who weren't fictional, either.

You want my unvarnished opinion of Fëanor? He's a billionaire. And I'm glad he got eaten. It wasn't nearly soon enough.

Eat your billionaires before they get all crusty, kids. They taste best fresh and plump. Nom nom.

Still here? Oh, then it's time to compare Fëanor to TDP! Because as much as I despise him, he makes for excellent storytelling angst and conflict, and vicarious conflict is how we learn to avoid it in our real lives - if we're paying attention.

I've said before that I'd like to see some kind of Oath of Fëanor effect in TDP. The absolute horror at seeing good characters get yoinked into bad deeds just because they promised? Ahahaha, horrible, thank you, I'll have some more. If the Moonshadow assassins have something like that behind those creepy binding ribbons, I'm gonna be cackling in between my tears, fam.

But Fëanor himself? Oh, do you see, that's Aaravos! He's even got that craftsman side, since he made the relic staff, and boy is it swirly.

(Does that make Ethari a Celebrimbor type, separating himself from the dark deeds of his forebears yet still massively talented, creating amazing magical devices?)

Aaravos is the main villain of TDP, as far as we've been told. He's crafty, in both senses of the word. Did he have some angsty complex family life with half-siblings and a mother who died because she birthed him? Maybe. Stars can be born from the detritus of other stars that exploded and died, so there's a sciencey metaphor there already.

Of interest: Fëanor had seven sons, and the world of TDP has seven kinds of magic. Aaravos created at least one of them. Did he create primal magics too, from the deep magic that came before? Might there be some kind of oath involved there, with the first elves to wield differentiated magic?

How about those primal stones that look like palantíri? How many of those did Aaravos craft? Can he use one from his library to spy on people who have them or something? That would mean he could already know a ton about Viren even before he came to the Storm Spire and stole the mirror. Woah.

What about a Silmaril equivalent? Are there especially glorious magical gemstones in Xadia? Did Aaravos wear them in his crown and now he's mister Grumpy Glam without them?

Did he create the original runes that diverged into all the elven languages? With his sloppy handwriting? Heh, the other elves must've been very patient.

You know... Aaravos has been called a Promethean figure, gifting humans with knowledge and skill they didn't have. But that gift was the gift of fire. A tool. A tool employed by craftsmen.

Fëanor literally means "Spirit of Fire."

In the end, Fëanor was consumed by his own spirit. He never learned to vibe with it, and it destroyed him and many others. Sounds a lot like dark magic.

Maybe the real Oath of Fëanor in TDP is one you have to speak backwards.

[boxofbadaddiction]

Thinking about...

How Ron started working for George at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

My theory, or headcanon (however you'd like to look at it), is that Molly proposed the idea...and George absolutely hated that suggestion.

But not because it's Ron.

He hated it because never in his life would George have imagined himself doing what he does without his Twin, and the thought of 'replacing him' causes bile to rise in his throat.

It would take many days of denial, small arguments and George finally reaching his breaking point to consider the idea that: perhaps Ron wouldn't be such a bad addition to the team...

I imagine it's sometime after the War and George has finally brought himself to reopen the store. Maybe it's only been back in business a couple weeks or for a few months now, but he's struggling a little bit. Because he doesn't want to admit he needs another worker around to take some of the load off his shoulders. And a little more than that: he just doesn't want to do it with anyone other than Fred.

Meanwhile, Ron is struggling to find work or get placement in Auror training. Because let's face it: even though he is Harry Potter's right hand man and helped win a War; his grades were...unideal.

I see Ron venting to Molly one day in the kitchen, perhaps after receiving another rejection letter, and she's running a loving hand in comforting circles over his shoulders while he's slumped over a hot chocolate. She's telling him to hang in there and that these things take time, offering that perhaps he should look into a part-time role with his Father within the Ministry. Or reminding him that Percy offered him an internship in his office.

But Ron hates both those ideas.

At this point George walks through the door looking exhausted. Greets the pair casually as he shrugs off his jacket and throws it over the back of a chair. He places a quick kiss to Molly's cheek and ruffles Ronniekin's hair as he moves to make himself a hot drink to wind down after a busy day.

"Hello Dear, busy day?" Molly smiles somewhat sadly, taking in her son's tired figure.

"Extremely." George huffs as he sits down across from the pair with slumped posture. "What's wrong with you, Ronnie?"

"Another rejection letter." Ron replies sadly as he annoyedly flicks the cause of his dejection to the centre of the table and drops himself against the backrest of his chair, taking up a similar slouched position to his older brother.

That's when Molly's struck by the idea. As she looks between her two boys and wishes she had a solution for them...the answer so simply presents itself. But she doesn't say anything.

Not yet.

She doesn't want to get Ron's hopes up if that's something he'd be interested in, and she knows he would be given how much he loves the Twins Shop. But more than that, she doesn't want to just spring the thought onto George because she knows how touchy the topic is going to be.

And it was.

A few days after this thought comes to her she gets her opportunity to run the idea past George. The two of them are alone doing a mindless task together, like washing the dishes. George scrubbing as Molly dries.

They've worked in comfortable silence thus far, but that's because Molly's too busy running a million different ways she can bring this up to George, through her mind, and which is the least likely way to upset him. George meanwhile is just enjoying the time with his Mother and the familiarity the task at hand brings. A strange sort of nostalgia washing over him, one which he'd never consider to be as therapeutic as it was.

But there's something nagging at the back of George's mind. And it has everything to do with the fact his Mother has been dutifully drying the same glass for 5 minutes now.

"Mum..." his voice snaps Molly out of her daze, drawing a surprised hum of acknowledgement from her throat. "I'd say that glass is dry by now." George joked with a crooked smile. "Oh, yes, I suppose you're right."

Molly's slightly flustered and places the cup down. But her expression remains rather vacant, mildly discontent. This finally prompts George to ask what's on her mind. Molly decides to simply go for it. There's no easy way to bring this up around George and she's really just stalling to forgo an uncomfortable conversation.

"George, I've been thinking..."

"Not good."

"I'm serious right now."

"So am I. You thinking never means anything good for me and-...for me."

"It's about Ron and finding him a suitable job, until he's accepted into training..."

And that's how it begins. She cushions the conversation considerably before asking the question she's been stewing over for days. She talks about how disheartened Ron has been in his misfortune, how desperately he wants to be apart of the work force. She talks about how tired George has been the last few months trying to run the shop by himself and how she just wants to be able to help the two of them get on their feet.

When she finally does ask the question: "What if, Ron came and worked for you?" It doesn't go down well.

She watches how swiftly his body language changes. From his casual 'I'm listening' demeanour to instantly putting his walls up. She watches as the words cause him to freeze. Every muscle in his body turning ridged and defensive.

His response is near immediate: 'No'. And he returns to the task at hand, however, he's no longer so comfortable within the grown silence.

He holds zero care in the way he handles the dishes as he cleans them, though it's notable how hard he's trying to not take any of his frustration out on them.

The conversation doesn't stay civil for very long.

Molly falls immediately into a sort of plead as she questions why George won't even take the time to consider the idea. She points out every reason why it is the best possible solution to both his and Rons current situations.

George shuts down not really answering any of Mollys questions as she rambles. The words seemingly falling from her mouth faster than she can process them; working herself into a right fluster.

George warns her quite a few times to drop the subject, but she continues, and he finally snaps. Tossing whatever dish is in his hands down into the water and yelling for her to stop talking. To drop the conversation because it's not going to happen before storming off elsewhere to cool down.

They spent a couple days without speaking after that.

More weeks pass and Weasleys Wizard Wheezes only gets busier. George feels like he's drowning in paperwork and just can't seem to get ahead. He goes to work an hour early and comes home hours late. He's tired and just about had enough. He can't even begin to imagine how he and Fred ever found so much joy in the work as they had.

"It's not work if you love to do it." Is what Fred always used to say when people would ask how he could possibly be so happy while on the clock.

George couldn't do this much longer. Not without his brother.

After one particularly difficult day George arrives home after all other occupants of the Burrow had gone to bed...or so he thought.

Walking in through the back door to all the houses lights out, save for a single lamp in the sitting room which Arthur and Molly leave on for him, he collapses into one of the Armchairs, too tired to attempt the walk up stairs right now.

His palms dig into the sockets of his eyes, harshly rubbing at each lid, to try rid the sandy feeling in them brought on from lack of sleep, then his fingers draw down on his cheeks; pulling at the skin in frustration.

He doesn't know it but Ron is, at this point, looking at him from the staircase landing. He'd meant to come down for a cup of water but instead found himself faced with his Brother.

Or rather, the shell of his brother.

Ron's never seen him look so...hollow and lifeless. It's like a horrible flashback to those months following the loss of Fred and it makes his stomach turn.

Ron comes over and sits on the sofa opposite George, a look of sympathy and concern on his face. George tries to joke and make light of his current situation but the humour and light doesn't come close to reaching his eyes and the smile he paints on looks painful.

After a little while of trying to get George to open up, and receiving quite the snap of attitude Ron concedes. He very well would have left for bed if the hanging silence hadn't made George feel enough guilt to attempt a change in conversation.

Soon though, after the initial awkwardness subsided, they get lost in talk.

It had started as a question of how Ron's job search were going but somehow ended with the pair laughing over silly childhood memories. Something George hadn't been able to do in a while.

Something changed between both brothers that night. They'd bonded in a new way and were much closer than they likely ever had been before. Ron had even managed to spark some product inspiration in George, and over the next couple days as he tries to perfect the concept they spend more time together.

From then on, George can feel a shift in the way he views Ron and in the possibility of him working at WWW. The idea of hiring him doesn't bring that bile feeling to his throat as it does with any other name or applicant who is suggested to him.

So, when George believes he's finally perfected the new product and takes it home to show Ron, that's the day he asks Oh, Dear Ronniekin's to work for him at the shop.

Which he of course agrees to.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Insanity

Prompt: Hi... I uh... I’m back, again anonymously.... to see if maybe... you could... write a thing? No pressure but if so... maybe a hurt/comfort?

Remus is used to dealing with feeling like he is loosing his mind on his own. Like he puts up an insane front so that the others don’t notice when he is loosing his grip on his sanity. Then he ends up laughing as he is falling apart and thinking that he has indeed found the real meaning of going insane. And he just laughs until it hurts and the laughing fades but the tears don’t stop. He’s thinking of doing something drastic like just running away to the subconscious so he doesn’t have to exist as a side anymore, but on his was he runs into Janus and Virgil or other people if ya want. Then they talk him down out of his insanity and realize remus needs a lot more help than they ever imagined.

I know this is a really long prompt and if you don’t wanna write it no pressure whatsoever. I just like your writing better than mine lol. Uh, thanks if you do and thanks for having boundaries if you don’t! <3

Thanks for the prompt! 

Read on Ao3 Part 2 (ish)

Warnings: as you can guess, this revolves not just around Remus, but on intrusive thoughts. Self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychosis, insanity. There is a happy ending where our boi gets comforted and grounded, but the way to getting there ain’t pretty. Take care of yourselves please

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic, you decide

Word Count: 3864

Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

Sometimes the world just really fucking hates him.

Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

 Remus doesn’t know why his brain decides that right fucking now is the perfect time to swan dive off a balcony into a wrought-iron fence, he just knows that the wind on his face cuts his cheek like ice because of how cold it is.

 He doesn’t understand the compulsion to stride to the middle of a volcano and dive into the magma just to see how the lava flows on the inside, he just knows that the burn in his hands from being even this close to a volcano is only matched by the burn in his head to just fucking go.

 He really doesn’t know how he ends up wanting to rip his brother apart, piece by piece, so he can see how every inch of his muscles work, he only knows that hat he’s got his arms tightly around Roman, it’s the most grounded he’s felt in fucking ages.

 Sometimes the world just really fucking hates him.

 The light switch would look perfect controlling the precise contractions of his organs. The bird that flies by outside the window tears his trachea out with its razor-sharp beak. The water bottle Patton uses would screw into his eye sockets until his corneas shattered.

 Remus knows to laugh them off. They can’t hurt him, they’re his! His ideas! They’re supposed to be disgusting, revolting, it’s a good sign if it’s him they revolt too. After all, he’s sure as hell got higher standards.

 On the other hand…is this what it fucking feels like?

 The idea of using a knife sometimes makes it feels like ants are crawling through his bone marrow. The steel glints way too harshly in the light as he picks it up and suddenly all he can see is blood, blood, and more blood, cuts in his arms, throbbing muscle, it hurts, why doesn’t it hurt that bad, make it stop, make it go away —

 Remus takes a deep breath and puts the knife down.

 He’ll walk past a window on a bad day and all he can feel is glass, sharp glass, in his skin, in his eyes, in his tongue, broken glass, inside him, cutting little nicks and tears and it hurts, it won’t stop hurting, why can’t he taste the blood, what’s happening to him—

 He draws the curtains and walks away without another word.

 The Sides are all there in the living room and his hands itch for his morning star, for a sledgehammer, something, anything to break them apart, put them back together, stitch them up in horribly beautiful ways, listen to their screams as their vocal chords break, why can’t he hear them screaming, why are their screams so loud—

 He smiles feebly and sinks out.

 Remus curls up in his bed and howls, the room collapsing in on itself, pressing against his lungs. He keeps screaming and screaming and screaming until he’s laughing. He laughs. He keeps laughing until his voice dies in his throat. He keeps laughing.

 Something has its wriggly little talons in his stomach and he can’t stop laughing. It hurts. He can’t breathe. He wants it to stop. He never wants to know what it’s like to laugh again. He never wants to stop laughing.

 He wants it to stop.

 He knows exactly what this fucking feels like.

 He can’t open his eyes sometimes because he can’t look at what he knows will appear in front of him. He can’t close his eyes sometimes because he’s too terrified of what will be carved into the underside of his lids. He can’t speak because he knows what horrifying thing will tumble out of his mouth. He can’t stay quiet because he knows what happens when all the voices stay trapped in his head.

 He can’t be because it hurts too much.

 He can’t not be because then it will stop hurting.

 The others don’t know about this. Of course they fucking don’t. They don’t listen to him when he fucking wants to talk to them about shit, why the fuck would they pay attention to the stuff he doesn’t want to tell them?

 Patton doesn’t give a single flying fuck about him. He made that perfectly fucking clear.

 Logan thinks he’s boring. That’s the most fucking offensive thing Remus has ever heard, and that’s fucking saying something.

 Virgil’s a scaredy-cat. And he’s gotten boring to terrify. Virgil’s afraid of fucking everything.

 Janus is so nuanced, it’s fucking annoying.

 Roman’s his brother.

 Remus growls and rocks himself faster, clutching the sides of his shirt until the fabric tears. He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the pain in his ribs. The voices howl and cackle as the winds swirl around him. He ignores them as best he can.

 It’s fucking cold in here and it’s too fucking hot.

 They don’t see this part of the fucking mess that is Remus’s existence. They don’t see the un-fun parts of the crazy. They don’t see the reality of what Remus has to deal with.

 They see the sex jokes, the crude puns, the horrible images he plants in their funny little heads. What must it be like in there, it must be so boring.

 They don’t see the way he has to hold himself back from jumping onto every sharp object, throwing himself from every high height, digging his teeth into his own flesh and stripping it away from the bone.

 Remus growls as he shoves the pillow between his teeth. The cotton tastes awful but it keeps his teeth away from his own tongue. He’d tried that once, tried biting it off, maybe the horrible taste of battery acid would leave his mouth if he had no tastebuds. He just wound up on the floor of the bathroom, vomiting up chunk after chunk until his tongue grew back, twitching against the roof of his mouth. He started biting the pillows after that.

 It’s so fucking stupid, that they can’t fucking see this shit. He knows he can’t let them, he’s got fucking wires crawling around beneath his skin. He’s convinced of it. He can’t listen to Patton being condescending, he can’t listen to Logan flatly telling him he’s off his fucking rocker, he can’t listen to Virgil flip out at him, he can’t listen to Janus’s snide disapproval.

 He can’t fuck up his brother.

 So he just laughs.

 Long and loud and hard and obnoxious because if they’re listening to the laughter they’re not listening to him.

 There’s always going to be something they fucking want to pick on with him; they’re so fucking boring they can’t tolerate a little bit of difference. But if they start poking at his scars with their razor-long nails he’s going to rip open his skin and let the swarm of wasps inside him devour them whole. So he just laughs and laughs and lets them stare at him in disgust.

 Disgust is better.

 Sometimes his laughter is fucking hysterical, rising and rising and rising until they’re all screaming at him at the top of their lungs just to be heard. They say that he’s scaring them. Good. They should fucking be scared.

 Sometimes his laughter is just in his head. They say they can’t hear him but he’s laughing. He’s laughing and they can’t hear him. Could they ever?

 Sometimes he doesn’t realize it’s him. Someone will be laughing and they’ll all be glaring at him and oh, yeah, that’s him.

 Sometimes he just can’t shut the fuck up.

 Maybe it would be easier if he fucking could.

 If he could shut his brain the fuck up for two goddamn seconds maybe he could actually make this work. Maybe he could be palatable enough to be tolerated. What does being tolerated feel like? What does it look like? Is it red, like blood, does it run in rivulets down his arms?

 Is it dry, like the pillows? Does it just sit there in the corner, begging to be torn apart by razor-sharp teeth, or does it actively try to suffocate him as he wraps his mouth around words that won’t ever fit?

 Or is it empty, hollow, like the blood vessels in his heart? Does it make him ache when a strong breeze blows by? Does it taste like steel, ozone, does it burn his tongue as he tries to breathe?

 What does tolerance feel like, Remus wonders, because he’s all too familiar with isolation.

 He’s never really alone. The voices won’t leave him be. They scream and cackle and whisper and taunt him with their awful, awful words and ideas and images and sensations. But he’s alone in every way that matters.

 Except for the monsters.

 He and Roman haven’t told the others about the Subconscious. It’s the one thing they’ve both consistently agreed on. The others don’t get to know about the Subconscious.

 It’s not a nice place. It’s not even really a place. It’s a void, deep and vast, populated by things darker than darkness. The things in there are terrifying enough to make Remus’s skin crawl. They drag things down into the depths and rip them from the inside out, shredding tissues as they’re flipped inside out.

 Monsters live in there.

 Beasts. Creatures. Things.

 They whisper to Remus sometimes. Their tongues are soaked in fear. Not Virgil’s type of fear, a thicker type of fear. It oozes out of their gaping maws and coats Remus’s limbs until he’s stuck, drowning in a tar pit. Insanity.

 Sometimes he can struggle out of it.

 Not this time.

 The monster purrs in satisfaction as its shadows whip about the walls, crawling up to the ceiling, tapping their long, bony fingers against the very edges of the eye. His ribcage creaks, rent asunder by the sudden invisible weight. Dark passages yawn at the foot of his bed, around the fuzzy edges of the candle’s glow. Is there a candle in here? He’s not allowed a candle. Why is there a candle in here?

 The shadows creep closer, up the long winding staircase—staircase? Where is he? Is he moving? Are they moving him?—through the banister, dancing up the curtain strings. There is insanity here, delectable, soaking through the walls, coloring the soft breaths that sigh in the still interior. The shadows creep closer, luxuriating in the darkness, the unseen. Remus stands at the brink of madness, teetering, awake, dripping head to toe in insanity.

 A single candle burns atop the nightstand. He’s not allowed a candle. Its light flickers. His head pokes out above the sheets, fingers curled around its edge. He didn’t tuck himself in. He isn’t in bed. Yes, he is. The bed is standing up behind him. Now it’s lying down. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

 He dares not move, lest the shadows hear him and find him, and yet he dares not close his eyes. A chill reaches a long finger through the window pane and lightly strokes the space between his shoulder blades. He keens.

 The fingers lift his hairs to stand aloft, tugging them as if they are puppeteering his arms. They aren’t his arms. They never were. The chill cackles, diving to squeeze his legs, massaging its frigidity into his thighs. A knuckle comes up to trail along the soft skin under his arms, laughing as he curls up tight, trying to block the probing touches from snatching the rest of his warmth. He’s too warm. He’s too cold. The air atop him merely flutters, letting the chill dig and prod and one at him with its relentless talons. The insanity merely rumbles, soaking him to the bone. Is that what it wants? To steal his bones?

 As the insanity drips through the air, it fills his ears, sending the shadows along the walls, up the ceiling, down beneath the skin. The light flickers. The insanity pours into his eyes. The chill rubs it in, still reaching wiggling fingers toward the soft meat of his tummy, blowing the insanity into ripples across his pupils. It reaches two fingers into his mouth, sliding across his tongue. As he gasps, it wriggles back under his arms and cackles anew. The insanity simply hums, sliding across his skin, down to pool in the hollow of his arms, nestled against his chest. Crueler hands dig into the meat at the back of his knees, the undersides of his rear, delighting in how he shivers. He whimpers. A knuckle runs over the very edge of him and lingers, coaxing the insanity to its wiggling lure.

 The pit yawns beneath him, the monster voice luring him in, closer, deeper, come, down…

 He does the only thing he can do.

 He laughs.

 Loudly. Heartily. He laughs so hard it bends him in half, cracking his spine. The sound scrapes along his throat. It rips spittle out of him, flying off into the darkness. He laughs. He laughs. He can’t stop laughing.

 Spittle is joined by tears.

 He can’t stop.

 It won’t stop.

 They won’t stop.

 Nothing ever stops.

 “Remus? Remus!”

 “Jesus Christ, Remus, what’s going on?”

 “Come away from there, sweetie, you’re going to fall.”

 “Remus, come on, come here, listen to us, come on, you’re—you’re gonna fall.”

 Hands wrap around his arms and yank, sending him hurtling back from the edge. He falls into something soft.

 “Hey, hey,” comes the quiet growl, “hey, dude, it’s okay. Shh, shh, breathe, Remus, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

  Too late.

 “You gotta breathe, man. It’s gonna be worse if you don’t.”

 I can’t, Remus thinks frantically, I can’t breathe.

 He’s still laughing. There are still tears running down his face.

 “In and out, Remus, you can do it…”

 Virgil? Is that Virgil? Isn’t Virgil scared of him? Why is Virgil here?

 “There you go, Remus, it’s okay…” Virgil’s rubbing his arms. Arm? How many does he have? “It’s okay.”

 Something hits his chest like a thunderclap and he gasps.

 “That’s it, that’s it…it’s okay, Remus, it’s gonna be okay.” Something’s strangling him. No—no, trapping him. Also no. What’s happening? “You’re alright now, Remus.”

 “V—Virgil?”

 “Yeah, Remus, it’s me. J’s here too, it’s gonna be okay. We got you.”

 Remus cranes his head backward to look up at what’s holding him. Janus smiles down at him, concern written plainly all over his face.

 “Hey, sweetie,” he says softly, stroking Remus’s damp cheek, “you gave us quite the scare there.”

 “S-scare?”

 “You looked like you were hurting,” he says, not unkindly, “and that you were scared.”

 Something twists in his gut.

 “What would you know about being scared?”

 To their credit, neither of them fucking blinks.

 “I know that I care about you,” Janus murmurs, still cupping Remus’s face, “and that the thought of you falling into that pit scared me.”

 “I care about you too,” Virgil says, “and you were hurting.”

 “Everything hurts,” Remus hisses, yanking at Janus to get him to let go, “there are ants crawling around inside of me and monsters force-feeding me insanity.”

 Virgil shoots Janus a worried look. Janus reaches behind them to fetch a tissue box, silently cleaning Remus’s face.

 “It won’t stop,” he mutters, “it never stops.”

 “What never stops, sweetie?”

 “Everything.”

 Janus glances up. Then back down.

 “The others are worried,” he says softly, “they want to come see you. Should we let them?”

 He can’t hold back the scoff. “Why would they care?”

 “Because they care about you, sweetie, you’re important.”

 “No, I’m not.”

 “Of fucking course you are,” Virgil says immediately, “don’t say that.”

 “You’ve got a fucking funny way of showing it,” Remus hisses, “you don’t want me around.”

 “That’s not true!”

 “Patton.”

 “No, Logan! He doesn’t believe we care about him, let me go—“

 “Patton?” Remus turns his head.

 Patton…Patton is also crying?

 The other Side drops to his knees in front of Remus, reaching out to catch another set of Remus’s tears in his palms. His lip wobbles, curling around Remus protectively.

 “Of course we care about you, kiddo,” he manages, “you’re so wonderful.”

 “You can’t fucking stand me.”

 “I don’t understand you,” Patton corrects, “but I could never hate you. You’re so passionate. I love the way you love things.”

 Fucking pause.

 “You—you what?”

 “I care about you, kiddo.” Patton presses his forehead against Remus’s. “Please don’t leave.”

 What the fuck is going on? The monsters pull back, uncertain, but the ants have no such qualms. They burrow deeper into his bones, crawling through his muscles in searing agony.

 “Remus,” Logan calls softly, “Remus, can you hear me?”

 “Yeah,” he gasps, “yeah, I can hear you.”

 “Good.” There’s a gentle hand under his chin. “What’s the matter?”

 “There are ants in my bones and monsters trying to drown me in insanity.”

 Logan just nods. He fucking nods. “Why do you think there are ants in your bones?"

 “I can fucking feel them,” Remus growls, “they chewed through my veins. They’re in me.”

 “Where do you think they started,” Logan says softly, “can you show me?”

 Remus just lifts his wrists limply. Logan takes one in his hands, frowning in concentration as he runs his fingers gently over the skin.

 “There aren’t any marks here,” he pronounces after a moment, “no holes, no bite marks.”

 “There…there aren’t?”

 “Not here.” Logan holds his hand out, palm up in offering. “Where else?”

 He lays his other wrist shakily in Logan’s grip. He looks it over with the same attentive care, pronouncing no bite marks. No ants.

 “Are you sure?”

 “I’m sure,” he promises, rubbing his thumb over the back of Remus’s hand, “is there anywhere else you’d like me to check?”

 “Behind my ears,” he blurts before he can stop himself, “I—I can hear them.”

 Logan nods and stretches his arm forward. “Come here, then.”

 Has Logan always been this…soft? The gentle fingers pressing and stroking behind his ear, carding through his hair, have they always been so…kind?

 “Would you like me to take a picture,” Logan whispers after a moment, “to show you there’s nothing?”

 Remus nods. There’s a quiet click of the camera shutter.

 “See?”

 “…yeah. Yeah.”

 “Anywhere else?”

 “My back. My spine. It—it hurts.”

 “May I have a look, then?”

 Logan checks him over. Every single spot. He doesn’t once roll his eyes or huff that Remus is being ridiculous. He doesn’t scold him for it. He doesn’t pretend that the ants are real and he knows how to get them out. He doesn’t tell Remus that he’s going to be eaten alive from the inside.

 He just…checks. Patiently and thoroughly. His hands are warm. His voice is quiet.

 “I can have an x-ray ordered,” he says after he checks the last spot, “if you’re still unsure.”

 “N-no,” Remus manages, shaking a little, “I—I believe you.”

 Logan nods. He reaches out to cup Remus’s chin again. “Are you alright?”

 Is he?

 Has he ever been?

 “N-no.”

 “That’s okay.” Logan smiles—fucking smiles—at him and glances up at the others. “Can I show them how to check for you, in case it happens again?”

 The question shocks him to his core. He barely has the wherewithal to nod.

 Logan’s hands are back on his skin, turning and pointing carefully. He can feel their eyes on him as he works. Janus gently undoes the top of Remus’s collar so they can make sure his neck is clear as well.

 “Roman?”

 Remus’s heart sinks.

 “Roman, do you want to see how to—Roman, what are you doing?”

 Remus peers nervously over his shoulder to see Roman standing in front of the pit. From the line of his shoulders, he can see how tense Roman is. His hands are shaking.

 “...Roman?”

 He turns. His face is deathly pale. His gaze finds Remus and he swallows heavily.

 “…Re?”

 “Roman?” Remus swallows. Is that what his voice sounds like? “Ro?”

 “Were you…” Roman glances over his shoulder. “Did you…?”

 Shame.

 Shame bubbles up so fast it springs hot, guilty tears behind Remus’s eyes. He ignores the worried noises from the others as he slumps.

 A truly wounded noise comes from in front of him as Roman barrels forward, knocking his brother flat on his ass and wrapping his arms so tightly around him that Remus gasps awake.

 Warm. Real. Roman. Roman is here, Roman is safe, Roman cares about him, Roman is fucking here. He lets out a cry of his own and clings to his brother.

 “Not one of them is gonna touch you,” Roman swears, his voice shaking, “you hear me? I’ll gut them myself. They’ll have to get through me before they can even touch you.”

 “I know, Ro—I know—“

 “Swear to me,” Roman whispers frantically, “tell me you know I would never have let them take you. Tell me you know I’d’ve torn that place apart just to get you back.”

 “I know, Roman, I—I—“

 “Don’t ever scare me like that again, Re, I can’t take it.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re staying right here—“ Roman holds him tighter and it’s the good kind of sore—“right fucking here.”

 Distantly, he hears Janus chuckle and there’s another warm swirl across his back. He looks up from the crook of Roman’s neck to see Logan settling in, reaching out to give them a hug. Janus sits behind him. Virgil and Patton grab blankets and join the pile.

 It’s…it’s good.

 “Listen to us,” Roman keeps whispering, “not them. They’re not gonna lay a hand on you. We got you, Remus, we’ll keep you.”

 “Gonna keep me?”

 “Always, Re.”

 “R-Roman—“

 “Let it out, Remus, come on. We’re not going anywhere.”

 Remus cries.

 Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

 But sometimes, as Patton ruffles his hair, as Virgil leans his head on his shoulder, as Janus rubs a hand across his tummy, as Logan starts talking very softly, as Roman holds him tight, sometimes it doesn’t.

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[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

A Little Blood Never Hurt Anyone

Fandom: The Mentalist

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader (Reader Menstruates, but no pronouns used, reader is Marcus’ partner not specified as GF or BF)

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Rating: T (Nudity, nothing sexual though, are boy is just here to help you)

Warnings: Blood because periods and your embarrassment, but Marcus is a sweetie and he is here to help you. 

Summary: There’s one thing about Marcus that differentiates him from all your past boyfriend’s and that is that he’s an adult man who acts like an adult man. He’s mature, he’s responsible, he’s kind, he’s pragmatic and romantic. So when you’re bleeding everywhere, it surprises you, but really shouldn’t, that he’s calm, collected and just wants to take care of you.

Notes: This is a theme I come back to, I think mostly because as an adult who menstruates there’s something deeply attractive about a man who’s a actual adult and can’t handle you bleeding from your vagina like an adult and not like a child who can’t even say the word period. 

Archiveofourown

There was never a worse feeling than the slick wetness of blood pooling between your thighs at 2 in the morning. There was not a worse way to find yourself roused from sleep than to feel that sensation as blood slips down your inner thighs and pools beneath you soaking into your bed covers and clothes, this wake-up call was made exponentially worse when you realised Marcus had slept over and that you’d never even had to broach the topic of periods with him. No, no conversation had ever happened, you had no idea what his attitude was, but now you’d gone and bled over your bedding and partly on him, if the feeling of blood pooling near where he was curled around you was anything to go by. You hadn’t expected to have to deal with this with your boyfriend of four months, but you supposed it was inevitable, seeing as it happened every month. 

With a groan you push the duvet off of the two of you and sit up to assess the damage. Turning on the lamp, Marcus barely stirs as you take time to figure out what’s happened. There’s a noticeable red spot through your pajama bottoms and the fitted sheet underneath has a large wet spot too, looking to Marcus you feel embarrassment warm your cheeks at the blood stains on his pajama bottoms where he’d been curled up with you. It makes you want to cry because this is not how you wanted to wake up or spend your morning and you’ll have to wake Marcus who already has to get up early to leave for a case at 5am. He shouldn’t have to get up early and he shouldn’t have to have his pajama bottoms ruined by your blood. 

“Marcus...baby.” You shake his shoulders gently, wincing at the feeling of blood slipping down your legs as you sit up and how gross you feel in that moment. You can’t believe it came a whole week early, a whole week, how were you supposed to predict that? 

“Mmm, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” His voice is thick and heavy with sleep, deeper than usual if that’s possible and under any other circumstance it would make you want to curl up into him as he talked to you. 

“I...I started my period and there’s blood everywhere, I’m sorry for waking you, baby, but you need to get changed...I...I’m sorry.” It’s the embarrassment and upset in your voice that wakes him up fully, forcing him to sit up and take stock of the situation. You’re right there’s blood on him, but that’s okay, his pajamas are the ratty sort that he should have thrown out years ago anyway. You're covered in it and the bed needs changing too, but it’s okay, he thinks, this is okay, he can do that simply enough. He’s never minded changing the bed. The sheets are dark enough in colour that it shouldn’t stain too badly. He’s calculating the best course of action, what to do first before he even notices your downward gaze and trembling lip.

“Hey...honey,” He’s cupping your cheeks in his hands, large and warm. They bring your focus back onto him and not the blood that is drying on your legs or the aching that’s starting up in your lower back and abdomen. “It’s okay, a little blood never hurt anyone. Let’s get you cleaned up first, okay?” He keeps his voice soft for you, hands stroking a gentle thumb on the apple of your cheek before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

He’s wide awake now as he steps out of your bed and walks to your side, hands gripping your own as he walks you backwards to the bathroom. The bed can wait until he’s got you into the shower and got you some clothes and whatever else you need. You come first and you’re clearly uncomfortable as the blood flows steadily downwards with the force of gravity.

“I’m so embarrassed, Marcus…” You can’t wait to get clean, you feel horrible and uncomfortable. The lure of warm water has you picking up the pace to the bathroom even though your stomach cramps are getting worse and worse with each second. 

“Honey, you don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. If it’s about the blood…” He gestures to the red stains on his sweatpants that you just know aren’t coming out with how they’ve already dried, “I’m an adult, a little blood doesn’t bother me and I needed to throw these away anyway.” 

He turns the shower on, letting it heat up as he begins to help you out of your stained pajamas. He’s certain he can get the blood out of them if he gets them in a tub to soak fast enough, the blood is fresh enough. He knows they’re your favourite pair and he’d hate for you to have to throw them away, “I don’t ever want you to be ashamed of your periods, sweetheart, it’s natural. It’s okay.”

“What did I do to deserve you?” You think back to the last couple of boyfriends, how they just couldn’t even stomach you mentioning your period let alone the sight of blood or a sanitary towel or tampon. He’s so vastly different in the maturity with which he’s handling this that it confuses you that he’s not shying away from you right now. 

“Baby,” He holds your face in his hands again once you're free of your clothes, “I don’t know what sort of guys you were dating before, but they should have helped you with this, okay? I’m not setting a new standard, I'm just doing what I should.” It breaks his heart to think that you’re ashamed of your body, of something that you can’t help and that you somehow think he’s something special for doing what anyone should do for their partner when they’re bleeding for days on end. It’s the least you should expect from him. 

“Now, get your cute butt in that shower and I'll get these clothes in a bucket and change the bedding. Do you want one of my shirts to change into? Where do you keep your tampons? Pads?” Taps you on the butt, a light tap urging you under the warm spray before gathering your clothes. 

“Yes please, I think there’s one in my closet? The flannel that you left last time? I’ve got some stuff in here in the cupboard,” You think to your stash under the sink, grateful you weren’t running out of anything. 

“The flannel, got it, honey!” 

He leaves you to your shower and strips the bed off first before anything else. The blood spot is pretty large, but it’s still wet and once again he’s pretty sure the stain will come out, especially in the darker fabric. His pajama bottoms follow, they’re probably a lost cause but he figures he might as well try and clean them just in case. He putters to your kitchen and fills your mop bucket up with cold water and stain remover, leaving the laundry in it to soak before putting it anywhere near a washing machine.

The flannel is in your chest of drawers and he grabs it along with a pair of your underwear that he’s sure are one of your comfier pairs. You’re still under the stream of hot water when he comes in to place them on the closed lid of the toilet seat.

“Got some clothes for you, sweetheart.” He takes a moment to watch you. He’s just happy to see you relaxed, sure it’s early in the morning and he’s tired, but seeing you brighten, that’s worth it. He can sleep on the plane later, it’ll take a few hours to get from DC to New York where his case is and he doesn’t mind being tired if it means your day goes a little smoother. 

“Thank you, baby.” You sigh out in response, the warm water easing some of the pain in your body. The cramps never feel as bad under warm water and your back ache eases a little bit at least. 

“Do you have a spare set of bedding?” 

“Umm…” You have to think for a moment, what did you do with your old bedding, did you throw it out? No, you wouldn’t have, surely not. “Maybe? Check the cabinet in the hallway?” 

He finds it hidden in the back of the hallway cabinet, the bedding doesn’t match the current colour scheme of your room but he doesn’t think that matters much when you just need a clean, comfy bed to fall into. He has the bed made by the time you’re walking out of the bathroom, hair dripping wet, his flannel over your shoulders. 

“Get into bed, honey.” Marcus urges you, opening up the blankets for you and sliding in besides you. 

You reach over and turn the light off, “I’m sorry I woke you up at 2am…”

“It’s okay, sweetie, you need anything else?” He asks as he wraps himself around you, arms tight around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder, dropping little kisses there. His beard tickles a little, he’s still got the thing, not that you mind. He’s warm and he smells like comfort and that’s all you can really ask for even while your uterus is having a go at you.

“Just hold me till I fall asleep?” 

“I think that can be arranged.” A leg slips between yours, toes pressed into the back of your calf and it’s like having your own living, breathing weighted blanket. He becomes a comforting weight at your back, a warmth that has your eyes drooping and you yawning into your pillow. 

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

The next time you wake up it’s to say goodbye to him at 5 in the morning. He demands you stay in bed, giving you a longer than necessary kiss on his way out and making sure the laundry is in the washing machine before he leaves. You miss him the moment you hear the front door shut, but allow yourself to nuzzle back into your covers and fall back asleep. The lethargy you always feel around your period hitting you like a truck already. 

Work for the next few days is a killer. Your back aches, your stomach keeps cramping so hard you want to bend yourself in half to relieve them. You’re constantly hungry, constantly tired, and everything your co-workers say gets on your nerves. Added to missing your boyfriend, who’s off trying to deal with another stupid art thief who couldn’t wait a few more weeks before deciding to steal a Picasso, you’re having a hell of a week and a hell of a period. You’re not sure you’ve had one this bad in a while actually. 

It’s a Wednesday evening when the door to your home opens and closes again, the sound of keys being thrown on the side and shoes being kicked off meeting your ears. You’re curled up on your sofa, a hot water bottle pressed against your stomach in a vain effort to relieve some of your discomfort. 

“Marcus?” You call out because it can only be Marcus, no one else has a key to your place. You’re a little confused because he always phones you when he’s on his way back from a case, but the rustling of bags and his deep voice calling down the corridor reassures you that maybe he just forgot, it’s certainly not a burglar. Unless, he has an evil doppelganger somewhere. 

“It’s me, honey!” He drops his bag by the door, he’ll deal with the dirty laundry later and follows the sound of your voice into the living room. You’re curled up amongst what looks like every blanket you own, mind numbing TV playing that you’re not even watching, your face is scrunched up in pain and you're clutching your stomach. This part of the reason he decided to forgo going back to his own place, he wanted to check on you, make sure you’re okay, that and he really missed you.

He drops the shopping bags on the coffee table and crouches next to you, fingers pushing back strands of your hair and smoothing the harsh lines by your eyes as you wince. You’re warm to the touch and he hopes that’s normal for you and not a sign you’re getting sick on top of your period. 

“You okay?” 

“Just cramps. It’s okay...I’ll be okay., I���m just glad you’re back, I’ve missed you.” You ease into the soft feeling of fingers, the delicate little touches to your skin as rubs little circles into your temple and down your neck. You’ve missed this, missed him. You always miss him, but this period has hit you especially hard and you wanted him around more than ever.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.” He presses a quick kiss to your lips, but you grab his tie and pull him back down. Nipping at his bottom lip he opens his mouth to your tongue, hand cupping the back of your neck before you’re gasping in pain as another crump hits you. Marcus pulls back and presses his forehead to yours with a sigh and a quick kiss to your cheek. 

“Would a bath help? I stopped at the store on my way over, got some of your favourite bubblebath and those baked things that you like.” 

“Have I told you lately how you’re the perfect boyfriend?” You ask pressing kisses over his cheeks before settling for brushing your nose against his. You’re not sure how he manages to make you feel better even when you’re in pain and hormonal, but like a magic cure he does. 

“Mmm.. I don’t think so?”

“Well, you’re the perfect boyfriend and I love you very much.” You press another kiss to his lips, sighing into his mouth before pulling back and settling back into your nest of blankets. 

“I love you too, why don’t you stay here? I’ll go run that bath.” He reaches down to grab the bubblebath from the bag and tosses you a few bags of your favourite snacks to munch on while you wait. You decide then and there that anyone who ever gave him up was an absolute idiot who couldn’t see that they already had the crown jewels. Why would you ever want anyone else?

He’s never understood your fascination with burning hot bath water, but he makes it how you prefer it even if it’s a tad hot for his tastes. If he wasn’t so sore from his flight, he might have tried to carry you to the bath, but the last thing he wanted was to drop you when you weren’t feeling great, so instead he just moves your half eaten snacks to the coffee table and pulls you gently by the hands to your bathroom. 

There’s nothing sexual about the way he helps you undress, it’s something you love about Marcus, that he can put aside his libido to help you get undressed and into your bath. There’s no touches outside of the caring and gentle ones, no comments about your nudity, just him helping you get into the hot bath water. You sink into it like it’s the finest feather bed, watching him undress himself, before sliding in behind you. Legs on either side of yours, chest pressed to your back. 

Your tub is a little small for the two of you, so you can’t stretch out completely, but that’s fine because you’d take it being a little cramped and Marcus being there over being on your own. He helps you wash, careful with you at every step, gentle as he whispers how much he’s missed you, how much he loves you and tells you about his case and how they managed to catch the gang of thieves this time. 

He massages the back of your neck and shoulders as you lie against him, working on the knots that have started to form over the last few days. A pop in your neck has you sighing and you’re thankful for the press of his fingers over your spin and through the knots that have been causing you to lose sleep while he’s been gone. 

The two of you stay there until the water begins to get cool, Marcus helping you out of the tub and drying you down with a towel. He collects your clothes and helps you get dressed for bed even though you can put your things on yourself. It’s nice that you don’t have to, that he carefully slides your legs into your pajama bottoms and drags your favourite sleep shirt over your head before pressing two quick kisses to your lips and ushering you into bed. 

“Marcus, where are you going?” You ask when he leaves you there, hand grabbing his as he walks past you to the door to the rest of your home. You just want him wrapped around you right now and can’t understand why he’d leave you.

“I’m going to lock up, honey, and grab your blankets. I’ll be back.” He gives your hand a squeeze. He loves that you want him around, after all the times he’s been more invested than his partner, this time, this time it feels right. You don’t just tolerate him, you love him. You want him there and it makes every little thing he does for you infinitely more rewarding when he knows you appreciate him for everything. 

“Quickly?” You’re cute staring up at him with a pout and he knows that he wouldn’t be able to take longer than is strictly necessary when he knows you're waiting for him to come back to bed and curl up beside you.

“Quickly.” He leans over you placing a kiss to your nose before going to lock up. He makes sure all the windows are shut, the front door locked, the television off, all before grabbing the pile of blankets you’d left on the sofa to return to you.

He throws them around you, letting you grab a few to snuggle up with, before climbing in bed beside you, spooning you from behind. He takes a deep breath and feels his body relax with the familiar smell of your shampoo and the feeling of your warm skin against his cheek. He could spend the rest of his life looking after you, curling up with you after coming back from a case and he would die happy that way. He’d happily take care of you through every single period and every single bout of sickness, just as long as he gets to be with you. 

“You need anything?”

“No, everything I need is right here, baby.” You sigh back into his arms, twisting a leg through his as he rubs a hand over your stomach soothing away the lingering pains with gentle circles.

[starkerdestroyedmylifee]

Thief

Peter tries not to feel the weight of his backpack as he makes his way up from the lab. He really does. But, it’s heavy. 

‘Well, of course it is.’ 

Peter curses himself, popping up each step and hoping- praying- he doesn’t bump into anyone on the way. It’s still heavy, though. Even with his super-strength; heavy, and metal, and not his, because he really, really shouldn’t have it.

At all.

When the day had begun, Peter’d played the part of ‘devastated mentee’ to a T. His eyes had been puffy, exiting his aunt May’s car, rubbing his runny nose on the cuff of his suit.

No, not his suit.

Some store-bought thrift that didn’t quite fit his shoulders. A black jacket with fabrics frayed at the base, and dress-pants not quite long enough. Pepper had offered paying to get something tailored, but Peter’d declined quickly. It didn’t feel right, taking money from Mr. Stark’s fortune, even beyond the grave. They hadn’t known each other well enough. Which is odd, considering he’s currently attending said man’s funeral.

Peter tries not to linger on the fact that he’s technically (Technically meaning actually) stealing from Mr. Stark, and instead makes his way through the crowded living room. The majority of guests seem to be winding down now, what with Tony’s eulogy all said and done. Only soft, meditated tones, and consoling hands on shoulders, and Ms. Pepper Potts- smiling politely, but dead on her feet- striking up some conversation about sewage. He meets her gaze, and the weight of his backpack is bone-breaking.

She doesn’t walk over to him, thankfully. Of course, he’s just another kid wrapped up in her late husband’s antics. The invitation sent their way had been courteous at best, but worded as something that was supposed to happen, despite being a bit inappropriate. Peter’s a stranger, after all. And, what happens when you invite strangers into your house?

They steal your stuff.

Still, Ms. Potts nods his way. Soft; disinterested. Her gaze quickly slides over him, onto another guest far more deserving of her attention. Despite this, Peter’s back goes rigid for the few seconds spent on him. He holds his breath- freezes- before letting it out in relief.

‘This is horrible.’ Peter thinks to himself. ‘I’m literally going to hell for this.’ 

It doesn’t matter at this point. Not with his mind fogged in an overwhelming cloud of grief, or his eyes still stinging from such a heavy cry, or his throat burning from yet another wave of anguish. ‘No,’ he decides, tapping his aunt’s shoulder. ‘It doesn’t even matter at this point.’

He feigns a stomach ache, by which May thinks he’s playing sick to escape the depressing atmosphere of his idol’s funeral, and drives him home before Happy can so much as woo her to stay at his place.

Up the stairs.

Through the hallway.

Into his bedroom.

He shuts the door. Crumbles to pieces. Because-. Because, he finally starts realizing what he’s just done.

‘Oh, god. Oh god, this is so much worse than I thought it would be. This is- This is literally the worst idea I’ve ever had. Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

Peter can’t help his hands from shaking as he lifts the metal helmet out of his bag. It’s cold against his skin, which only makes his mouth go dry. Mr. Stark used to wear this. He used to wear this, and it’d been cold. Heavy and cold.

“...I really fucked up.” He says out loud, which only seems to solidify it.

Well, he can’t take it back now. Not if Pepper ends up noticing that it is gone. A monument. A goddamn trophy of Mr. Stark’s. One of his earliest models, with the classic red spray and golden faceplate. Christ, if he’d wanted it so badly, why didn’t he just buy a replica?

Because it wasn’t the same.

It isn’t the same.

But, damn it all, it’s also not his. 

Peter had just wanted something to remember Mr. Stark by, and-. God, that helmet had called to him like a siren. 

‘Mr. Stark would want you to have it.’ His brain had supplied.

Which-.

Uh.

No.

No, he would not want a literal child hanging onto his legacy like a fucking baseball card, instead of in a museum, or some well-maintained pedestal, or in a safe to be preserved for the next thousand years. Tony had been over the top like that. He liked to think his work was worth something. It was meant to adore.

The thought of Peter one day throwing it on top of his dirty laundry made him want to cry.

“Oh, god. Oh- Oh, shit. Okay, Peter. This is-. Oh, shit.” He tosses Mr. Stark’s helmet on the bed, and really does almost cry. A High-Tec, revolutionary piece of hardware, worn by Earth’s savior had just been thrown on his rumpled bedsheets, and goddamn fucking shit Peter is definitely- definitely- about to have a panic attack. He throws his arms up.

“That’s it.” Peter rambles sharply. “I’m screwed. I am so screwed, because I-. Oh my god, is it chipped? Of course it’s fucking chipped, Peter. It-. It’s Tony’s. Of course. Oh my god, I’m going to jail.” He peeks out the window, half-expecting to see cop cars at the entrance of his apartment complex. “Why did I do this?”

That’s the big question. Up until this point, Mr. Stark had only ever been an idol. Then a mentor. Then a father figure.

And, then-.

Okay, no. Peter is not going there. He paces around his room, onto his walls, the ceiling, hanging off his fingertips before plopping back onto his bare feet. He sighs, cursing, before making his inevitable journey back to the helmet.

Picking it up, his senses note a slight rise in temperature. It’s still cold, obviously. His room is well-heated though, unlike the lifeless cellar they’d had it cooped up in just hours before. Which makes Peter feel a little better about things- he smiles, tilting it this way and that. ‘Ha! A real home.’- before noticing a patch of crumbs on the helmet’s jaw from when he’d eaten Cheetos on the bed, wiped his fingers against the sheets, and seamlessly forgotten to throw them in the wash.

Peter almost faints.

Luckily, they’re easily wiped away by some bed-side tissues (Peter tries not to remember what he uses said tissues for. He’s already mortified by his poor treatment of it.) He sits on the bed with a huff, settling Mr. Stark’s tech in his lap like a pet. Peter runs his fingers over it apologetically, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing feels like enough. He sighs, lowering his head.

“I bet you think this is pretty funny, huh?” Peter supplies, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, it’s not… It’s a little funny, but only because I know you’d probably have some quippy one-liner set up for me.” He falls onto his back, bringing the helmet to rest against his chest. Breathing out through his nose, he raises the metal mask just above him, so he can stare up at it. His bedroom light catches the surface of gleaming red, and Peter feels like a dirty slob just touching this rare treasure.

“Something like…” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “‘Oh, Peter. Looks like you’re a head of the game…’ That was really bad.” He chews his lip. “‘Sorry, kid. I want you to fill my shoes. This is a little much.’ God, no. That doesn’t sound like Mr. Stark at all.” Peter turns onto his side, letting the helmet lay against his pillow. They stare intimately at each other. ‘They’ being Peter and a lifeless curve of metal. He pulls the mask a bit closer.

“‘Woah there, Spiderman. At least buy dinner before you take it to bed.’” Peter turns his face into his pillow, groaning pitifully. 

“Why are helmet jokes so hard?” He pauses, mulling his complaint over. “Okay, that one wasn’t bad.” Like that, Peter angles his face to check on the helmet, and looks to see its reaction. Which creeps him out, of course. Alright, so maybe there are even more implications to stealing his idol’s helmet then the fact he stole it. Maybe it’s just bad to have an inanimate object symbolic of Mr. Stark around him.

‘No shit.’ Peter thinks to himself, drawing a hand down his face.

Still…

He places a finger along the metal mask’s faceplate; feels the cool of its surface, the crisp curve of each indent. It’s nice. Really, really nice. Which is exactly why he has to pull away and face the wall of his room.

‘Nope. No chance. Time out, Peter.’

He closes his eyes, counting back from one hundred. He does it seven times. Eight. It doesn’t matter. Peter turns around to face it again, and does exactly what he’d been doing before. His fingers map out the metal slabs, just imagining what it must’ve been like inside.

‘It probably smells like him.’ Peter’s brain coos.

‘What? Like booze, and sweat, and morning breath? Is that what you’re tempting me with?’

‘Yes.’

It doesn’t smell like Mr. Stark, for the record. It smells sterile and lifeless and unworn, like someone went and purged it of everything Tony. Which, Peter assures himself, is completely, totally fine. It doesn’t bother him a bit.

Not one bit.

Not when he slips a hand inside and feels the strange padding used to cradle Mr. Stark’s head. Or when he pulls it out, not devastated to find the man hadn’t shed any hair. Nope. Not even a little. Because that would be weird, and a little obsessive. A lot obsessive. It’s not like Peter could clone Mr. Stark if he had any kind of DNA. It’s not like Peter wants to.

He checks his alarm clock, the same one still ticking five years after the blip; 10:47.

Not crazy late. On the contrary, it’d be amazingly early for the hyper-active teen to turn in just yet. That’s what he tells himself as he reaches over his night stand, tugging the string of his lamp light. The room goes dark and Peter tries (Read: fails miserably) to fall asleep. Looking his crime in the face anymore than he already has to is punishment enough, at least for today.

He tries to ease his muscles, but they just won’t let up. There’s a weight in his bed that he’s not used to, and it sets all his human nerves on edge, even with his Spidey-senses dormant. Peter should put it in the closet, but he can’t bear the image of allowing it to collect dust. On the contrary, the thought leaves him choked and wanting a glass of water he doesn’t have the energy to grab. The idea of mistreating anything Tony Stark-related has the young vigilante in shambles.

Which is why he soon finds himself rotating around to face the helmet in his bed. Even through darkness, he can make out a sharp outline of lunar beams streaming in through the window. It’s soothing. It’s reprimanding. Peter sniffs, blinking away what feels like an ocean of tears.

“I’m sorry…?” He offers shyly. His tone breaks, shoulders bunched, brow pinched with a grimace only offset by the flush of his cheeks. ‘At least here,’ Peter thinks to himself, ‘I can get some kind of closure.’ 

Which is exactly what leads him to kiss the metal armor.

Soft, across where he’s sure Tony’s lips would be located. It’s quick. Innocent, really. If things weren’t so different in the 21st century, people might mistake it for a platonic peck. Because Tony- brave, wise Tony- was like a father to him, in the only way he understood a father could be. It’d been so tender, after all. With those sweet, thin fingers caressing, not pulling, and palms that cradled, not smooshed. Nothing demanding. Nothing sexual. Just a good ol’ fashion kiss, which lasts no more than a few seconds.

Peter promises himself it isn’t anything else. It’s a platonic kiss on the lips. Which is a thing. It is, but other people might make it out to be something more. Someone like MJ would probably cackle her ass off if she knew he’d given the mask a kiss, as short as it is.

The few that follow after are a bit longer.

By the time Peter finishes, he’s relaxed in the worst way possible. He feels groggy, worn at the lips, and shitty as all hell because that last kiss had definitely been excessive. 

And, okay.

Peter has a massive crush on Mr. Stark.

It’s terribly obvious. And tragic as shit, since the man is dead. Despite reminding himself, he can’t help but cling onto that damn feeling of metal on chapped, teenage lips. He feels sleepy, and he suddenly doesn’t want to be. It feels immensely inappropriate falling asleep next to a helmet he smooched to pieces.

Like sleeping next to Tony in Peter’s perverse, miserable fantasies.

Where Ms. Potts is away on business, and Mr. Stark is oh-so alone, and oh-so desperate for some kind of bodily touch. Where Peter is his sexy young intern, who has the confidence to wear feminine lingerie under his work clothes, and doesn’t mind brushing hips. They could make hot, passionate love in the lab for all he cares, and Mr. Stark would call him Baby, and Peter would call him Daddy, and it would hardly be funny to say in the moment, though he might snort when thinking over it later.

Best of all, Tony likes Peter best in his fantasies.

Parker is his favorite.

It’s only ever fantasy, though. Peter knows better than to indulge it.

In a conflicting fit between putting the helmet away, or pulling a sheet over top, or entertaining the notion of sneaking it back in place before anyone notices it’s gone, Peter decides to give the mask his bed while he sleeps on the floor. He’d much rather give Mr. Stark his best than chance disrespecting the man’s memory in favor of comfort. He obviously can’t be trusted, getting too close to Tony-related objects.

Laying on his bedroom floor twiddling his thumbs, Peter can’t help but wonder: What has my life come to?

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Christmas Specials: Fishcake

CW: Some hint of dehumanization and references to Bahram’s depression/past breakdown at the end, some brief emeto references, but really this is just fluff. Oh, also brief unintentional ableism that Miah calls out.

Introduction | Siren Song | Cries | Here | Not Sure | Draw Blood | Fish | Signs | Stop | Something New | Help | Please Don’t Let Me Drown  | Fish Food | Squeaky Toy | Fading | Fishcake

---

BAHRAM’S NOTES

December 24th, 20XX 11:15 pm Mer in Residence: 71 Days

Miah showed up tonight with a Christmas present for me, and now I feel like a giant dick for not having anything to give her. 

Christmas just isn’t a thing in my family. I mean, I have cousins who go overboard with it, kind of a fitting in thing, but my family never did. Baba does some kind of fast, but for Maman it’s just another day and for me it’s always meant mostly a day where I played video games all day because I didn’t have to be at school or work. 

Oh, I need to call Baba and Maman tomorrow, note to self. She always gets worried about me right around the end of the year, what with how they figured out I was quitting school and everything.

I guess getting a phone call from a hospital leaves a bloody impression.

Anyway, Miah comes in with this big shopping bag in her hand, waving at me all bright and sunny and cheerful. She set the bag down long enough to berate me for - she assumed - having not taken my medicine on time. 

For the record, she was right, but I didn’t tell her that.

Nearly drowning in saltwater made my lungs apparently terribly angry with me, so for the next eight days I’m on a run of antibiotics to handle a lovely case of bacterial pneumonia. Would’ve been far handier to get pneumonia right away, but instead I ended up in Urgent Care yesterday, paying 200 dollars and waiting two hours to see a doctor for less than ten minutes. 

Dr. L says she’ll reimburse me the cost, but still. 

Miah asked me how I was feeling, I said I felt fine, really, and then of course I had an awful coughing fit just to prove myself a wonderful liar. The coughing’s the worst part - every time I really get going, it’s like being underwater all over again. I can feel my lungs fighting to inflate, to take the air in, and I can hear how hard I’m working to get enough air to stop coughing at all. Miah can’t hear it, but she can see it all right, and she looked worried.

I signed, “I’m fine, it’ll stop, the doctor says it will,” and she frowned at me, but let it go, I guess. While she had her face turned away to greet the mer, I opened the pill bottle and dry-swallowed the meds really fast. Sometimes there are benefits to Miah not being able to hear things.

The mer - Kima, I can call him by his name in these notes, the ones only I see - was already at the side of the tank, watching us. He’s perked up a bit lately, since I started giving him live fish on the days Dr. L isn’t around and Miah brought him all these enrichment things. We’re doing what we can, but I know it’s still not enough.

Enough would be figuring out where his bloody family is and getting him back to them, but I just… I can’t even begin to explain, even to myself, the logistical nightmare of hauling a six-foot-long mer back to the ocean and finding someone who would take him back up north where his family likely is in the middle of bloody fucking December.

It’s the right thing to do, yeah.

But it’d just be too hard to pull off, not without losing… my whole taped-together life, yeah? Plus I’m still dealing with trying to figure out who exactly is my real employer at this point - who’s paying Dr. L - and what they want from the mer’s… thing he can do.

Miah glanced over at him and signed, “Don’t worry, I have something for you, too,” and Kima just looked back at her, head cocked to the side. She looked over at me and signed, “It’s a fish-cake.”

I have to admit, it took me a second to even begin to respond. My hands just… hung in mid-air, before finally I asked, “A what?”

“A fishcake. It’s like a fruitcake, but so much worse.” She leaned down to dig around in the big bag and pulled out a box, pausing to add, “I had to wrap it and box it or the car would have smelled horrible for days,” before she picked up and laid the box on my desk, opened it, took out something wrapped in layers of plastic, and unwrapped that, painstakingly slowly.

I glanced over at the mer, who watched with total fascination. Maybe he’d caught the sign for fish, he’s incredibly food-motivated. Which makes sense, of course, probably with his pod he’d spend a lot of his day eating and hunting for more, but

Bahram. Focus.

She was right - as soon as the plastic came off, I could smell it. 

“How can you handle that? Isn’t your sense of smell… really good?” Ah, yes, I am always so proud of myself when I forget a sign for a word I want to say and have to sort of cobble together the spirit of it with other signs.

She looked at me with this sort of dry are you kidding me expression, then signed, “I’m deaf, B, not a superhero,” in a way that made me feel about ten inches tall.

“Sorry. That’s an awful smell, though.”

And it was. I like fish as much as the next man, but this was foul. She grinned at me and picked up the tupperware the fishcake was in using towels to protect her hands from picking the smell up too, I guess, and went over to the ladder up to the platform. Her back was already to me, so I couldn’t ask her the question I had, or tell her not to do that one-handed. Instead, I just sort of… got up and hovered uselessly while she climbed up without looking back, and then followed her up there.

The platform makes me… nervous, now. I stay closer to the ladder, farther from the water. I hope the mer, that Kima doesn’t think I don’t want to be close to him or something.

Miah took the lid off the tupperware and waited. Soon enough the mer popped up near us, interested in what we were doing on the platform. 

I watched those nasal slits open wide when he smelled the fish. And I watched how his eyes went big and shiny with excitement. Whatever Miah had put in the foul thing, he wanted it.

She dumped it into the water - I didn’t see much, other than a sort of loaf-shape and a sense of texture I never want to think about again - and Kima tore into it. It was the grossest thing I’ve ever seen, and I have actually watched Kima eat raw fish that was living seconds before. I had to look away - and so did Miah, but she was laughing. She can’t hear herself, only feel the vibration in her own throat. Her laughs kind of sound almost honking, choked-off, just totally un-self-conscious noises she’s barely aware of.

I should tell her that I like the way she laughs.

Oh, I absolutely should not do that.

Maybe I should, though.

She grinned at me, still laughing, and signed, “This is disgusting!”

“It is,” I signed back, “And it’s your fault, don’t forget that!”

She was still laughing when Kima looked back up at us, fish bits smeared around his mouth, and she signed, “Merry Christmas, K-I-M-A,” to him. He stared back, signed yes, and then dove back under the water, present utterly devoured, leaving only gross little particles I will probably have to hose off the sides of the tank on cleaning day when the filters can’t quite pick them up.

Miah looked at me, and I just thought, you know, she’s really pretty even under the sun lamps, and nobody is pretty in that light. Then she signed, after this moment of stillness, “I bought you a present, too.”

“Me?” I pointed back at myself, blinking, surprised. “I don’t do Christmas, M, I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “I know. But I still bought a present. Can I show you?”

“Um, sure.” I get nauseous when I’m nervous. For a second, climbing back down the ladder, I thought I’d just get sick all over myself. I was badly designed, my defense mechanism is just to vomit on myself to scare predators away, clearly my body thinks pretty women are dangerous and I have to embarrass myself until they stop looking at me.

Finally, though, we were back at my desk. The smell… lingered. I’ve since burned the candle Miah got me, and the sulfur from the matches and the scent of the candle itself have largely done away with it, but when we got back, it was still powerful. 

She didn’t pull anything out of the bag, instead she just took a small card out of her back pocket and handed it to me. 

I looked down at it. “Alborz?” I realized I’d spoken out loud, looking down, and looked back up quickly so I could repeat it in sign, so she could see. “A-L-B-O-R-Z? A gift card to a restaurant?”

She nodded, quickly, signing so fast I was having trouble keeping up. I guess… was she nervous, too? “It’s food like you grew up with, yes?”

“Yeah, more or less. I mean nothing is better than my mother’s food. But why-”

She reached out and grabbed my arm with one hand to stop me, leaned in so close that the smell of this super subtle perfume she wears was stronger, for a second, than the smell of fish. “B,” She signed, with heavy, slow emphasis, “Think about why I bought you this.”

I just looked at her. I didn’t get it at all, and told her so.

I’m so bloody dense.

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air with an eye-roll and a smile, and then signed, “When are you taking me there?”

She had to repeat the signs three times before I realized she was asking me on a date.

So anyway, I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink tonight, and also I think I celebrate Christmas now.

Date-mas.

That was an awful joke. I’m leaving it there just to properly shame myself if I ever reread this.

---

@astrobly  @burtlederp   @finder-of-rings   @slaintetowhump   @moose-teeth   @misspelledwitch   @whumpfigure   @whumptywhumpdump   @boxboysandotherwhump   @whumpywhumpwhump   @yet-another-heathen   @fanmanga1357-blog @justabitofwhump  

[chelseamount]

Enough About Heather! Part two

(gif by: @rafecameron)

A/n: PART TWO IS HERE GUYS! I hope you guys will enjoy it, please comment your thoughts it makes my day! thank you all for the support on part one. I love you all

READ PART ONE RIGHT HERE

wordcount: 3,3k+

Based on: Before you go by lewis capaldi and A little heather by conan gray but that was part one

Warnings: a lot of angst, fighting, crying, yelling, blood, considering of suicide probs more

---

Place: Outer banks

One year before the accident

Rafe's Pov

I fell by the wayside like everyone else I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, but I was just kidding myself

"dude you need to focus on something else than Y/n and JJ," Topper says to me as he takes a sip of his beer

"But look at them they think they're special or something" I scoff

"dude she's your best friend, besides they aren't dating and you know that"

"then why the fuck are they hugging."

"you and Y/n do that all the time you're just friends"

of course, he wouldn't understand, he never does it might be because no one knows about my feelings for Y/n, hiding them is better anyway. Cause Y/n and I have been best friends for longer than I can remember, but as we got older, I started realizing my true feelings for the girl that has always helped me through everything.

"I think I'm heading home," I say as I pick up my stuff

"But what about golf," Kelce says as he raises his arms in the air.

"another day," I walk away, but the sweet voice that I know so well takes over my mind as I hear her scream. I quickly turn around I am now greeted with Y/n in the water with JJ while splashing water at him, we get eye contact as she waves at me. I turn around and scoff.

---

Anger takes over me as I rush into my room, knocking my lamp over.

I sit down on my bed, my hands running through my hair.

"I HATE HER!" I yell as tears start to form in my eyes.

but who the hell am I trying to fool we all know that, that isn't true

---

One year later

Place: The Cameron mansion

Our every moment, I start to replace

'Cause now that they're gone, all I hear are the words that I needed to say

A setup that's all it ever was. I never thought it would go this far. Still, it did, I knew when I asked Heather to be my fake girlfriend it was a bad idea but what the hell could I do Y/n was always flirting with JJ, and I wanted to see how she would react, but I knew when I canceled our trip pretending it was because I had to be with heather it was a bad idea. But what the hell could I do? I knew if I went on the trip with her, my feelings would grow even more. But what I forgot was, of course, that she would speak with Sarah.

days after and here we are me about to walk into our mansion when I hear her laugh, and at this moment I forget everything going on that is of course until it all comes flooding back

'Heather emergency I'll pay you 100 just be quick,' and she indeed is cause ten minutes after she's here.

"What!" she asks as she puts a hand on her hip

"Y/n's in there."

"ugh fine, OMG Rafe your so funny" she yells

"shh, put this on" I give her my green sweater that I fully well know Y/n loves a dick move I know, but maybe that is what needs to get her to remember all our memories. After all, how can I forget that third of December?

'Cause now that they're gone, all I hear are the words that I needed to say

We start walking down the hall as Heather starts laughing loudly.

at the end of the hall, I see her and my sister pocking their heads out from Sarah's room

"Uh hi," I say

"Hi," Y/n says as she quickly looks at the ground

"Hi," Heather says.

We all look at Sarah

"I'm not saying hi," she says.

now I know I shouldn't do this, but I can't stop myself as I see the hurt in Y/n's eyes

"Could we maybe talk Y/n?"

"Sure yeah, let's," she says as we quietly walk into another room.

"What's up?" she asks as she looks at the ground

"Just wanted to hear how you are."

"uhh, not good, it kinda sucks being blown off by your best friend." shit

"I haven't blown you off." I have

"You have. I see Heather is wearing your sweater." shit, okay, Rafe; this is your moment tell her everything.

"Yeah, I gave it to her, she looks better than me in it anyways." FUCK ME! how fucking stupid can I be precisely what I said to Y/n that third of December

"I feel like I've heard that before," she says, and she's right, okay now you can fix this Rafe!

but jealousy from JJ comes rushing over me as I say, "Calm down, its just polyester."

"It doesn't matter what it is. You like her better anyway" she walks out of the room. "Sarah, I'm going home," she yells

"y/n wait" I try to stop her

"what the hell did you do" I hear the voice of my sister say behind me.

"I fucked up."

---

When you hurt under the surface Like troubled water running cold Well, time can heal, but this won't

Place: The Dock

"no please Y/n don't close your eyes," I say as her beautiful eyes close the tears streaming down my face hits the ground as I try to stop the bleeding

"hello 911 what's your emergency."

---

Place: The Outer Banks Hospital

Time it's a thing that you sometimes can't have too much of in this case, that was just the thing, cause as the smell of hospital fills my nostrils, and the blood on my hands starts to dry, time stands still.

Cause I lost her and it's all my fault, if I hadn't hired Heather, we woudn't be here right now.

"Rafe" I hear a voice calling from beside me, I look over as I am met with my sister

"Sarah"

"What happened," she asks as tears stream down her face.

"Barry" I sob

"Barry, your fucking drug dealer, this is all your fault," she screams as she starts hitting my chest with her fists.

"Please don't."

"it is, you have always been the worst brother, but you got my friend shot."

"I didn't know it was gonna happen" I grab her wrist as I look her in the eyes

"Is she gonna be okay."

"they don't know that yet."

"no," she falls to her knees as she puts her face in hands.

Now Sarah and I have never been like normal siblings we hate each other, but at this moment we need each other, I fall to her level as I hug her. The tears start again as my body starts to shake.

"Sarah, I can't lose her. I love her."

"I know."

"no Sarah I'm in love with her" she freezes as she looks at me

"you," a male voice calls from behind us, but before either of us can react, a fist comes in contact with my face.

JJ

"you prick you got her killed," he says as we start to fight

"No, I didn't, you fucking Pouge."

"Guys stop," Kie's voice interrupts as she breaks us apart, "we need to be here for y/n."

"but he killed her, kie."

"no he didn't JJ Barry shot her, we don't know if she's dead, stop saying that"

"but what if she is Kie I can't lose her."

"I can't either you dickhead" I try to punch him again, but Sarah stops me

And with that said, a nurse walks out, making us all go dead silent.

"Miss Y/l/n is out of surgery, but she is currently in a deep coma we don't know how long it will take for her to wake up, or if she will, but we got the bullet removed, and we are pleased to say that the shooter has been caught"

"thank you, " John b says

"So, who's going to go see her first?" Pope asks

"Honestly I think it should be Rafe," John B says to my surprise

"What why he's the one that got her here in the first place," JJ says

"JJ it's barry's fault, Rafe, you should go in," Kie says

So, before you go, Was there something I could've said to make your heartbeat better?

"hi baby, it's Rafe. I'm so sorry that I put you in this situation, y/n I want you to be strong please, I can't lose you, not you. Anyone but you. I don't know if you can hear me, but the doctors said that there was a chance that you could, so I'm just trying okay. Y/n we have been best friends since forever and ever since I started realizing what feelings were I knew I felt that towards you, I remember when we were small we would always hold hands, and I would give you fake lollipop rings asking you to marry me, and you would always say in some years. Y/n I need those years. I need those years with you. You are what makes me wake up in the morning and what makes me fall asleep at night. And when I saw you getting close with JJ, I got jealous, and I hired Heather, and I know it's wrong, but y/n, please forgive me. Y/n, I love you, so please don't go okay. was there something I could have done anything to prevent this, y/n I want to feel your hand squeezing mine again or your lips on my cheek whenever you leave, I need you y/n please."

Why isn't she waking up she should be waking up why isn't it working why am I not waking up from a horrible nightmare by now why don't she squeeze my hand back

"y/n, please wake up... why aren't you waking up, y/n please" the tears fall freely from my eyes hitting her blanket while softly shaking her.

"Rafe stop, don't do that," Sarah says as she storms through the door "come here," and for the first time I think ever Sarah cares and hugs me like a little sister

"it's my fault" I sob

"no Rafe stop it, I didn't mean that."

"But you were right, what if there was something I could have done, to at least just make her stay awake for a little longer."

"Rafe, there wasn't this isn't your fault. let's go home okay you need to wash the blood off you."

"no, I can't leave her."

"Rafe, you need to go home and take a shower, and then you can return again, okay?" I nod softly as we start walking out the door

---

As the water drops runs down my body while the towel is hanging loosely around my waist all I can think about is that they are right this is my fault, what if I had never even started on doing drugs then she would be okay this is all my fault.

The drawer in the nightstand where my gun is at that's my only solution, right? If I don't have y/n, then I don't want to live, and the doctors said there was a minimal chance of her surviving, so who the hell am I kidding, after all, I did this.

As my hand comes in contact with the cold metal, all the memories come rushing back, right from the start to the end. As I lift my arm pushing the gun against the side of my head, the tears start falling again, but it's only when I hear the click signally the weapon was now loaded. I fall out of my trance, dropping the gun to the floor.

I can't just leave when things get rough. She needs me. and I need her

---

Time: a year before the accident.  

If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather. So, before you go, Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting? It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless So before you go

your pov

A day at the pool sounded like a great idea when Topper laid out the idea, but now when I'm in my bikini looking at myself, it sounds like less of a good idea. My tights look bigger, and my stretch marks are more noticeable, not to mention my ass is not the best today.

Tears start to fill up my eyes as I sit down on my bed.

But before I can even wipe the tears from my face, Rafe comes through my door, smiling, but his smile falls as he sees the tears falling from my eyes.

"love what's going on," he asks with concern in his voice as he wraps his arms around me.

"it's nothing."

"it clearly is, y/n please what is it?."

"I'm just so ugly and fat a-"

"y/n y/l/n you are none of that you are the most beautiful girl on this planet, there is no one more beautiful than you. And I want you to realize that. when you smile, I smile, and you are not fat. You are perfect and beautiful, and you make me a better person, y/n I love you. You are the person I love most in this world, and you are perfect" he interrupts me, I start to sob at his words as I throw my arms around his neck holding him tighter than ever. all I want is to kiss him, but I know I can't, cause, after all, we are just best friends

---

Time: two weeks before the accident

Rafe's pov

Was never the right time, whenever you called Went little by little by little until there was nothing at all

I know what I'm doing is wrong. I should just tell her but, I need the right time and moment, and I need to think things through.

Cause I love her

"RAFE YOU PIECE OF SHIT, DID YOU TAKE SOME OF MY MONEY" here we go again with my father, but another day another fight right

"When will you understand dad, I didn-" before I can finish my sentence, my phone rings, I quickly see who's calling.

Y/n

"Dad, I have do take this," I say about to take it, but before I can press the button, he takes the phone out of my hand.

"the hell you aren't."

---

place: midsummers

Our every moment I start to replay

You know midsummers used to be a decent event, but without y/n by my side, I have realized how fucked it actually is.

cause with Heather now by my side, which cost me money, not a single smile has fallen from my lips, with y/n that was never a problem

---

"y/n please, I hate dancing," I said as y/n dragged me across the dance floor.

"yeah, but I love to so you have to" she smiled a smile that makes the whole room light up, a smile that makes everyone else around smile too. a smile that belongs to my favorite person

---

But all I can think about is seeing that look on your face

"Rafe it's Y/n" Heather pulls me out of my thoughts

"shit do something," and she indeed does cause as her lips capture mine by surprise all I can wish is for those lips to be y/n's, I open my eyes and catch hers. behind the scoff she pulls, there is pain cause I know her better than I know myself and I know that I cause the pain

---

When you hurt under the surface Like troubled water running cold Well, some can heal, but this won't So before you go Was there something I could've said to make your heartbeat better? If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather. So, before you go, Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting? It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless So before you go

Time: a month after the accident

Place: Outer banks hospital

A month a month has gone, and nothing new. I think people are starting to worry about me after I almost haven't talked to anyone, and I don't think I have left the hospital for two weeks.

Yesterday she stopped breathing for some seconds, and I swear at that moment my world crumbled into pieces, the doctors said it was normal. But holding her pale hand is hard, and not knowing if she's going to wake up is even more challenging.

"y/n, I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can, I need to tell you something. If you're in pain, I want you to know that it's okay. You can let go if the pain is too much, cause you deserve peace, and if that is letting go, then it's okay, but y/n before you go, I need to say something else. I talked with Heather and, I found out that she is actually into girls, and she did it so she could impress the girl she is in love with. they're together now, so that's good, but y/n I never loved Heather."

Would we be better off by now If I'd have let my walls come down? Maybe, I guess we'll never know You know, you know

"But I can't help but wonder if I had just told you how I felt, if everything would be better now, or if you would have been holding me too right now, I guess we'll never know. But before you go know that I love you. I'm sorry."

---

One week later and I'm still here, I heard the doctors talking today about her maybe not making it, but they can't just give up right.

Right?

Every night for the week, I have been having the same dream y/n wakes up, and then I wake up, and she is still not awake.

It's a pattern that doesn't seem to stop.

"Rafe?"

I can't take it anymore I can't go through it again.

"stop this isn't real, you aren't real please" my eyes stay shut as my hands pull my hair

"Rafe what happened, please open your eyes."

"no, it isn't real."

"what? I'm confused."

"you aren't awake; it's just another dream," a pain in my hand makes my eyes open quickly as I see y/n pinching my hand while looking at me.

"I don't think you can feel pain in dreams" she laughs a little, but before I can even think I swing my arms around her afraid if I let go she will be gone again

"your real" I sob as the tears fall down on her shoulder

"yeah," her hands find my hair as she hugs me back "I'm sorry it took so long, but I couldn't wake up. I tried to believe me, but I couldn't."

"it's okay at least your awake now. I didn't think I would ever hear you talk again."

"I heard everything, you know. I'm sorry if you felt like I was in love with JJ I never was"

"you heard everything?" I ask as we make eye contact

"yeah, and you wanna hear a secret" she moves up to my ear as she whispers "I love you too Rafe Cameron" I smile as the tears start to fall again, I hold her face as tears begin to fall from her eyes too, I move closer to her, and our foreheads meet.

"can I?"

"I would want nothing more, Rafe."

And even though it took years and a gun, our lips finally meet, as a new chapter of our lives starts but this time with each other hand in hand

"why did you hire heather? Why didn't you just talk to me," she asks as she breaks the kiss, but I quickly close the gap again, but of course not before I reply.

"Enough About Heather."

taglist/people taht commented last time: @queenieloveswriting​ @drewstarkeyobx​ @butgilinsky​ @obx-direction-sos​ @lotsoflovefromlea​ @prejudic3​ @wannabeactress​ 

[restmyheadatnightcontent]

thats why i’ll always stay around

another fic in this verse 

yennskier | 1127 words | cw: very minor illness, mention of nightmares

_____________

She wakes up just as the door opens. She blinks her eyes open blearily to see Ciri standing in the doorway, and through the darkness she can just make out the faint trace of tear tracks running down the girls cheeks. Pushing herself up, she reaches and turns on the lamp, filling the room with a gentle golden light. She can see better now, and can see Ciri’s red-rimmed eyes as she hovers in the doorway, nervously fiddling with the hem of her T-shirt.

“Everything alright sweetheart?” she asks, but Ciri doesn’t answer, she just looks down.

“Was it a bad dream?” she prompts, and Ciri nods confirming her suspicions. It’s been a while since she’s had a nightmare but they always make a return. Normally, Yen manages to hear her before she wakes up and is able to soothe her, but she’s been run down with a bad cold this week and she was out like a light as soon as her head hit the pillow. And Jaskier is out at a gig tonight, otherwise he was sure to have gone to her. It must have been a bad one, for her to come to Yen’s room like this. Normally, in the rare instances she wakes from a nightmare alone, she tries to calm herself as best she can before trying to go back to sleep, not wanting to bother anyone and saying that she doesn’t need anyone’s help.

Yen just lifts the blankets and the girl is running and throwing herself into the bed, before coming to lie next to her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Ciri shakes her head and burrows further into Yen’s side.

“Do you want to just try and sleep?”

“Can you read something?” Ciri asks, voice muffled from where her face is buried in Yennefers shirt.

“Of course,” she answers and picks up the book from the bedside table. It’s one of her favourites and had become one of Ciri’s too – both of them enjoying the story about the girl who got to fall down a rabbit hole and escape the world, just for a while. She always goes back to it whenever she feels ill, seeking the comfort and familiarity of the words and Jaskier has been reading it to her for the last few nights. She’d claimed that her head hurt too much to read the words but actually she enjoys listening to him, enjoys listening to the lilt in his voice and finds it calms her so she can sleep.

“’The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was, “Why is a raven like a writing-desk ?’” she began and it wasn’t long before Ciri was snoring gently next to her, and eventually she drifts off to sleep too, the book slipping from her hand.

*

She wakes again to the sound of the door opening, only this time it is obviously morning, the sun peeking through the curtains and she can hear the birds chirping in the distance. Ciri is still asleep next to her, mouth wide open, drooling slightly onto the pillow,  and with her hair falling across her face. Yennefer gently brushes a strand from her cheek, before glancing up at the door which had awoken her. Jaskier enters the room and begins searching for something, clearly not aware that she’s awake, as he is moving in a way that suggests he is trying not to make any noise. Which doesn’t work because Jaskier is Jaskier and is incapable of doing anything quietly.

“Morning,” she says, immediately wincing at the rasp in her voice. He jumps, turning and smiling at her.

“Hello.” He comes to perch on the bed next to her, and raises his hand to forehead. “Feeling any better today?”

“No. Still feel like shit,” she whines, swatting his hand away. It is always worse whenever she wakes up, with a dry throat and her nose all blocked and she hates it. She also hates how vulnerable she gets when she’s ill, hating having to accept any kind of help. But it is easier with Jaskier. He doesn’t seem to pity her when he brings her soup and medicine, as he picks up her used tissues from the floor by the bed, as he wraps her up in blankets before making them all dinner. He hasn’t treated her any differently, and though he has been coddling her it hasn’t felt like coddling. It hasn’t felt patronising like it normally does when someone tries to help her when she is sick. He has just been there, and done whatever needed to be done without drawing attention to it, without making a fuss. Because as annoying and dramatic as he can be, he cares. He cares about her, even when she thinks that she doesn’t need it, doesn’t deserve it – he is there. And its what she loves about him.

“Yeah, you look like shit,” he says, with a crooked smile, the one he wears when he thinks he’s being funny. The bastard. She just smacks his arm, the only part of him she can reach without having to move, but he just catches her hand and entwines their fingers.

“How was the gig?”

“It was alright. Missed my number one fan though.”

“Oh, was Valdo busy?” she asks dryly, letting out a breathless laugh as Jaskier pokes her in the ribs.

“Horrible woman. See if I offer to make you coffee now.”

“You will make me coffee because you want coffee too.”

“True. You’ve got me there,” he sighs.

Quietness settles over them for a moment, Ciri’s soft snores the only sound in the room, and they just sit, Jaskiers fingers gently stroking over her knuckles.

“I don’t remember you coming to bed last night.”

“I slept on the sofa. Got back late and didn’t want to disturb you two.” He gestures towards the sleeping girl. “Bad one last night?”

She nods. “Yeah. But she was alright once she came in here.”

“Pancakes for breakfast kind of morning, do you think?”

“You just want pancakes.”

“Maybe I do. But you want them too, don’t deny it.”

God she wanted pancakes. She hadn’t had much of an appetite with her cold, but right now pancakes sounded absolutely brilliant.

“Can we have chocolate chip ones?” a sleepy voice next to her says, and they both turn to look at Ciri who is blinking awake.

“Of course we can, Princess. I’ll go start them now.” Jaskier answers, and he kisses them both on the forehead before heading out and down to the kitchen.

“You doing okay?” Yen asks, running her hand through Ciri’s hair.

“Yeah,” she mumbes, snuggling back into Yen’s side. “Always am ‘cause I’m with you.”