#simply adjust but will i ever feel like its something i want to experience/endure .

[lemongogo]

need 2 find myself again in 2025 . tbhwu

[aeceso]

the relationship / marriage.

this headcanon has been a long time coming, but due to the somewhat yikes nature of the topic, i have been putting it off. it discusses a relationship with a major age gap so please be wary of that. i am not sure if it requires a tw, but if you think it does, let me know and maybe even tell me what would be the most appropriate way to tag it.

porlyusica was very young when she fell into earthland. consequently, she was very young when she got caught up with the guild. to adjust to an entirely new world, to come to terms with the realisation that she might never be able to go home again was difficult, but she tried. she knew it had been a one-way-trip for her, that there was no going home. she opted to make the best out of a difficult situation. she was twenty-three by the time she was married to a man twenty years her senior and had her son, ivan.

the marriage, however, was doomed from the start. the obvious difference in age and life experience aside, the tempers were not really compatible.

porlyusica’s keener senses and her generally introvert nature meant that she did not feel comfortable in loud places with lots of smells and visual noise. and her husband . . . his eyes and hands did not really stop wandering, just because he was married now. she was not the quiet and docile housewife he might have wanted her to be. but---she had her son. and she loved and loves ivan more than anything. that ivan adored her made the humiliation endurable, but it still grated on her nerves. by the time ivan was seven, she had told her husband that whatever he did when she was not around, she would be very upset if ivan would catch wind of it.

to accommodate her need for less noise, she moved into the cottage in the woods. her marriage would continue for a few more years, but she was seeing less and less of her husband. she did not exactly mind, she had her research to occupy her time. and the migraines she started to get around this time made trips into town very unattractive to her.

nevertheless, they finally divorced when ivan was sixteen---porlyusica had reached her last straw with her husband. to ask for divorce was something she had been wary of for a while: while papers had been forged when she had first arrived, those papers would only hold up as long as no one looked too closely at her. and as a wizard saint, her husband had access to far more resources than she could ever think about. that he had a friend on the council who could easily leak incriminating evidence was another thing that made her very anxious. 

still, the divorce went through. ivan chose to stay in his father’s home in magnolia---which made sense, he was a guild mage and the house was closer to the guild, making it far more convenient. and porlyusica stayed in her cottage, finally wrapping up her university education and generally avoiding her ex-husband. seeing him was not always easy, but when it was for her son’s sake, she did it.

by the time she was in her mid-forties, the fact toxicity of her marriage really hit her. she liked not to think about it very much because there was always the underlying knowledge of its wrongness that tended to upset her and be a stone in her stomach, but as she was older, she did wonder why none of the proper adults did anything. frankly, his lack of interference was one of the first things she would come to hold against master precht, but it would not be the last thing.

nevertheless, later in life, she would say that yes, she would do the marriage again if she got to start over, simply because otherwise, she would lose ivan.

[treesandtheirberries]

Dad!Harry talks to his daughter about her questioning sexuality

A/N: might make this into a blurb series? so presh. if you have any concepts around this, send them my way. 

wc: 2,249

June was Harry and Y/N’s first baby, their biggest accomplishment before they were soon having another child. June was currently 13, the awkward age of Middle School, puberty, and overall questioning of identity. Y/N and Harry wanted this weird stage to be a smooth transition. They always encouraged her to express herself, with clothes, in hobbies, with their conversations. Although their first child, they both felt as though they managed to get through the difficulties of becoming a parent easily (thanks to the massive amount of parenting books, from birth to adolescence, that Harry kept buying while June was still in the womb). 

Yet, there is only so much you can prepare your child for, and surely you can’t be there to guide them through every difficulty. Harry and Y/N weren’t sure if June would question her sexuality as both of them weren’t straight, they didn’t know if the process was the same for heterosexuals. But they never skirted around the topic. If anything, they encouraged watching same-sex couples in movies and such, even having many friends who had families with someone of the same gender (or a partner that was non-binary). 

Harry hoped that this would be an excellent way to acclimate their children to the varying diversity of the world. Y/N grew up with racial diversity, but anything deviant from heterosexuality or cisgender was heavily frowned upon. They hoped that with their lack of omission of the varying aspects of identity their children would have the opportunity to understand themselves easier rather than constantly question their identity. 

They forgot to take into account that this was simply a stage in adolescence they had to endure though, as Eric Erickson put it: a fight between identity and role confusion. And June was currently right at the center of it.

June, even as a child, was usually calm and they rarely had problems with her being fussy like they do with the twins, Mazzy and Mick (named after the artists constantly playing on their home turntable). Thus, any changes were quickly noticed in her behavior. 

-------

Picking up the kids from daycare and June from school was on the top of Y/N’s list of things to do for the day. She adored seeing everyone’s faces after a day at work and seeing their warm smiles and tight hugs always brightened her mood. 

Today, things seemed different. 

June jumped into the front seat with a grunt, a frown, and even went as far as throwing her bag onto the floor of the car forcefully. This was generally out of character, except Y/N and Harry have noticed these bursts of anger more recently. 

“What’s eating at ‘ya bug?” Y/N calmly asked, wanting to maintain a balance of emotions although knowing June was perhaps all over the place as most teenagers are. 

June rubbed her hands on the top of her thighs and noticeably took a few deep breaths; a calming tactic her father taught her when she was younger to calm herself. She took a few more breaths until facing her mother to talk. “Sage didn’t want to hang out this weekend,” she finishes, the frown being found on her face once again.

“Oh, is she busy? Thought you two were having a sleepover at home?” Y/N inquired. She knew Sage and her daughter were best friends since the beginning of sixth grade, and she hoped they would maintain their friendship although she knew the ups and downs adolescents faced it might not be possible.

“She said she’s going to the mall with Rye.”

“As in the bread?” Y/N chuckled, trying to lift the mood.

June rolled her eyes, another behavior that has risen in frequency. “No mom. A boy. That she likes.” She grumbled crossing her arms and sinking further into the seat.

“Oooooh I see what’s going on here, Sage is going on a date!” She rose her voice to a pitch of puppy love, which didn’t sit well with June. 

“We promised we wouldn’t date boys in Middle School. They’re all so stupid and ugly. I don’t get why she’s ditching me for him.” 

Y/N was a bit surprised by this. Harry and she have talked about the day they’d have to worry about June’s infatuation with others and they were dreading it. Hearing that June didn’t have interest in it now was a relief, but of course, this whole conversation was concerning. 

“I understand, not the nicest to make plans with someone when she already made some with you. But June-bug, you guys are teenagers. Of course, she’s going to take an opportunity to go on a date with a freaking boy!”

“Language momma!” Mick yelled, the three-year-olds’ well acquainted with naughty words.

“I guess. Just rude s’all.” June finished with another grumble. She wasn’t known for throwing huge fits, and her outbursts were usually this short. 

Still, Y/N knew that this would be something that would affect her for the rest of the week. Her daughter is calm but incredibly sensitive, and the two parents have learned how to work through her internal struggles. She decided to ask the usual question during June’s turmoils: “wanna talk to dad about it?” 

“Yes please.”

--------

Harry was finishing washing the plates as Y/N was getting the twins ready for bed. The small domestic moments like these reminded Harry of how lucky he was to have a family like his. He noticed June’s mood as soon as everyone entered the house, and once Y/N confirmed they would need to talk later, Harry was preparing himself to support his daughter through her problems. Y/N and he were definitely lucky with their firstborn being like June. Sometimes he’ll credit his efforts in teaching June meditation early, and depending on the day, Y/N agrees. 

As he dries the plates to put back in their cupboards, June walks in. 

“Hiya bug. C’mere give Poppa hug.”

June rolls her eyes (he’s having a hard time adjusting to these teenager habits) and walks closer to her father. Although she’s extremely close with both of her parents, there is a timeless connection she has with her father. “Not a child anymore dad. And please, do not call yourself poppa again. You’re not that old yet.” She mumbled in his chest, clearly needing the affection.

“Mom said you wanted to talk? Want her there?”

“Uhm. Maybe we could just talk in my room please.” 

“Of course, let me just put these plates all back” Harry smiled, only letting go of the hug once he felt June move away. A small trick he learned from his mother after she attacked him with countless parenting trips: never let go in a hug with your child, let them determine when the hug is over. It gives them more comfort and stability in their lives and although he saw this as minimal, he understood its significance.

“I’ll help.”

----

As they walked to June’s room, they caught Y/N walking back from the twins’ room. “Hey baby, twins are done for. I’ll be in the room. “ She pecks Harry quick on the lips and turns to June to wrap her in a hug. “Love you cutie,” she winks at June as she goes to her room.

“Love you momma” June smiles, happy that she has a supportive family like this one. 

“I’ll be there in a bit,” Harry smiles, his arm going back to June’s shoulders, giving it a squeeze. 

Once they get to her room, both take a seat on June’s bed. Her back is on the headboard while Harry sits at the edge facing her, cross-legged. Every once in a while June would request to speak to Harry, Y/N,  or both of her parents on the issues bothering her. Harry and Y/N were proud of having a daughter that felt comfortable enough to communicate with her parents, and they always were looking for new ways to enrich themselves with the issues kids have a different ages. 

“Speak to me June, what’s on your mind lady?” Harry starts, initiating the push. He can tell that she’s struggling to bring her thoughts to words.

“Did you....well. How did you ... realize you didn’t like ... uhm, just girls?” She hesitantly asked, too flustered to look at her father on such a strange topic. 

Oh, it’s happening, Harry thought. “Well, I was pretty young, I guess around your age, and I realized that I just wasn’t fully straight. It developed from there I guess, I talked to a few friends about it, spoke to your grandma, and eventually met a boy I really liked. It was really scary, I’m not going to lie, figuring out my feelings at that point. After that, it wasn’t a big deal and everyone in the family understood. I just knew something like gender wasn’t a big deal to me, and if I liked someone I liked them. But it’s different for everyone. Your mom can tell you how she found out she’s bi.”

June was soaking in the information her father gave her. She knew both of her parents weren’t straight, but hearing how they found it out was something entirely different. It wasn’t that she was foreign to the concept, but in personal terms, it was utterly confusing. 

She finally looked to her father, giving him a small smile at the personal information he shared. They were a very open family, but something about this felt even more personal. “But, did you ever think you were faking it?” 

“Not really, but you already know how pretentious your father is,” he chuckled, lighting the mood. “Your mother, as she’ll tell you, had a completely different experience. Said she struggled for years thinking she was either faking it or actually completely gay! She once told me that she just couldn’t disclose it with anyone, and that led her to a lot of contemplation. But if you’re feeling this way too, I need you to know your mother and I are here to support you in any way we can.”

“Dad,” June scrunched her eyes looking down at her crossed legs. “I think I might like girls. Or at least, I think. After Sage told me she’d ditched me I just realized I don’t like her just as a friend.” 

At this moment, tears began to form in her eyes from all the confusion. Instantly Harry brought her into aa encompassing bear hug, keeping her safe in his chest. It hurt him to see her going through this dilemma, the inter-workings of adolescents were never fun. 

“It’s just,” June suddenly choked on a sob, grasping her dad’s hoodie. Harry began to rub her back for support. “I like her I think. Like really like her dad. I don’t want her to date a boy, I want to date her. But she won’t like me and...I don’t know! Why did this have to happen to me!” She continued, clearly soaking his hoodie.

“Oh baby, please don’t ever think this is a bad thing. Sexuality is a spectrum, many of our friends are somewhere on it, and you already know Elizabeth and Mary are married. This is a beautiful thing to discover baby. But yes, I won’t lie to you, it’s going to be hard. There may be times you like someone who doesn’t like girls but bug, that’s simply life.”

“What if I am dad. I don’t know if I like boys at all.”

“Then you are. As simple as that. You can label how you feel or not, it’s all about what feels most comfortable to you. As you know, your mother and I will be here to support you in any way we can. If you like girls, so be it, you’re still our daughter and you know that. If you like boys, which I mean yuck,” he imitated a gagging noise, rising a laugh out of June “then okay. Both or everyone? It’s all okay bub. I do want you to think about it, It might take some time to accept it but we’re accepting you any way you are. You’re so beautiful and strong, and your sexuality doesn’t diminish that in any way.” He made sure to hug her tightly as he said this, expressing his full support. 

“Dad, thank you.” June exhaled, releasing herself to wipe her tears. 

“Of course, June. I’m so happy you were able to tell me this, I know it must’ve been hard.”

After a deep breath, June looked calmer after her small crisis. “I knew you guys would be okay with anything but it’s just, much harder than I expected to really like your friend who doesn’t like you.”

“It’s hard, so so hard. Ask your mum, seriously I swear she told me she also liked one of her friends at your age. Universal gay experience perhaps?” Harry pondered. 

June gave a small laugh to that. “Yeah, I’ll ask. I don’t want her to think I left her out of this, it’s just that I’ve heard about your sexuality in the media more.”

“Pesky things, but I understand. It was so hard for your mom in comparison to me. Do you want me to let her know first, is it okay that I let her know you might be questioning?” He gave her daughter a sincere inquisitive look, valuing consent over everything. 

“Yeah, of course. Probably talk to her tomorrow after we drop the twins off. I really appreciate it, dad.”

“No problem bug. Let’s get you tucked away.” 

__________ part 2

OH MY GOD this is my first I HOPE YOU LIKE. please any feedback would be so sexy. 

[starshipsofstarlord]

Sheer | Kai Parker

Warnings; SMUT, ANGST, and FLUFF, mentions of death, mourning, loss, mentions of murder, trauma, swearing, unprotected sex,

A/N; sorta made up a whole storyline for this imagine, may be a teeny bit different and may have gotten a little carried away, please enjoy loves

It would not uphold, the weather held a grudge against you as you trudged through the pouring rain, cursing you for thinking that you would be safe on your lonesome.

Instead of a monster, the world wished for you to drown in its falling rivers, making you shiver down to the bone. It was too cold, but you had to go there, it was a ritual.

Since the death of your boyfriend, Aaron, who was killed by Damon, someone you thought to be a friend, you felt broken.

You had tried everything to bring him back, but without the power of a witch, it was deemed impossible, and Bonnie refused to help you, claiming that it was necromancy, and far from her beliefs.

It angered you, how everybody would dismiss the lost lives that Damon took. He got a free pass, he didn’t even regret his own invalid actions.

He was a monster, and you hated him. If you couldn’t bring Aaron back, then you would instead kill his murderer. That would not only give you a sense of revenge, but also make the world a safer place. There would be one less vampire making people’s lives a misery.

“Hi there.” You stopped in your tracks, the voice sending shivers down your spine. Whilst it sounded like a man, in reality it could be anything.

The skin of a human was a disguise the majority of the time, a bloodsucker or a wolf coping inside the exterior, thirsting to break free from the walls of bones and flesh.

“Kai.” He was not exactly human, he was a witch, the one thing that you needed. You had met him through Elena, who was luckily also angered by Damon’s actions, Aaron had been her friend.

And just like that, he had died. But she hid her feelings well, pretending all was fine because she was in love with the gruelling monster that you wished to execute.

However, even though you wanted to bring back your lost beloved, the time that had passed made your mind being up the idea of moving on.

The first person that sprung into your imagination was Kai Parker, the new sociopath in town. He was new, unaware of the traumatising past experience that lingered in your heart, and not to mention, his specimen was one of beauty.

Those grey eyes, ever so curious could bore straight into your soul, and you’d gladly let him mangle it, you no longer had a use for it anyway.

“Why are you out here y/n/n?” He asked with a tilt of his head that had your heart beating profusely.

Everyone knew of his effect on you, but they told you to dismiss it. It was cruel, that they’d rather have you mourning the loss of your partner than to move on with another.

To you, it didn’t matter if he were supposed to be the enemy, you no longer wanted to fight their battles. All you desired was to be in love, with somebody that felt the same.

And whilst you doubted that Kai knew how to feel such a strong emotion, some attention wasn’t the worst thing in the world. As a matter of fact, it worked well as a distraction, it made you almost forget the grudge that you held against the eldest Salvatore.

Almost.

“It’s nothing.” You whisked the direction of the conversation away from your deceased boyfriend, not wanting to talk about him to anyone, let alone Malachai Parker.

Even thinking of Aaron caused a void to open in the middle of your chest, it was unbelievably painful. You thought some people, such as Bonnie would understand, rather than think the loss as a regular occurrence.

To put it simply, the entire ordeal was completely fucked up, and you felt much more guilty for biting your lip at the expression that Kai pulled; his eyebrows raised, and his fingers carefully running down the side of his own jaw.

Oh god, his fingers. There were so many things that you could imagine him doing with those, and from the way he waved them on a greeting, he knew that he teased the thought too.

“Basically...” he began, rolling his grey eyes with what he liked to call modesty, and you classified as boredom, “you’re stuck out in the rain, and if I’m not mistaken, you live halfway across town.”

“Stalker much?” You sneered, crossing your arms across your chest, which only made his gaze wander down, and hold their movements for a dragged out moment. “What are you looking at?” You exasperatedly sighed, only understanding when you followed his peering.

He was focused on your chest, that through your white shirt, appeared almost bare. The lace of your bra was giving him a clear frontal, and so you adjusted your arms, so that they covered more and whatever they had pushed up to peak his intrigue.

“Why am I not surprised?” Shaking your wet hair, which was pointless considering that it was still raining, you realised that you felt the creeping of the cold.

You had been oblivious to it, thinking that it was a side guest to your tears, almost a consequence. But you were no longer tearful, mostly angry at the killer that ruined your future and acted as though it were no big deal.

“I thought you were supposed to be at college.” Kai quirked his brow, proud of the fact that he knew that. However you shook your head, and watched as he removed his jacket, clasping it around your shoulders, shielding you somewhat from the weather.

It appeared as no big deal to him, but it was to you, sociopaths weren’t famous for being kind and charitable. They always had agendas, their agendas, well they were obviously sociopathic.

But from the glazing of the witch’s eyes, you only saw a lost man. He was misinterpreted by all that he knew, they treated him like an outsider, alienated him as though he were a monster, and validly that was why he was seen as one.

“No.” You whispered, confused as to why you were so complied to correct the man. “My boyfriend was killed, I don’t want to go back there, it’s clear why.”

You attempted to give him a small smile, but it came out as a pained grimace. Just the thought had your mood drained, even more so since there was no route to resurrect him.

“Oh yeah, I heard about that.” He didn’t shiver in the rain, instead he seemed comfortable simply standing there, conversing with you in the rainfall. “Damon did it, right?”

Licking your lips, you hesitantly nodded, ashamed of the fact that you had once called the vampire a friend. From the start, you were always wary of him, but eventually you managed to become close to him. And then he ruined your chance of happiness, literally sucking the life out of it.

“What a dick.” Kai was blunt with his annotation, but you couldn’t deny that he was right about them. “Sorry for your loss and all that blah blah. We should get somewhere warm though, you can tell me more.”

It was a strange feeling, you felt pulled to the male, it was as though he was one side of a magnet, and you were another. And so you accepted his invitation, and followed him, breathing in the scent of his black coat. It was much sweeter than you had expected.

🏹

His so called home was an apartment, that you no doubt expected he had convinced someone with his magic to give him rent free. Or he killed them, either or you guessed.

But the thought of death itself was one that you weren’t too keen on thinking about, not now. Instead, you’d rather enjoy the company of someone that didn’t shame you for hating and desiring to kill the one and only Damon Salvatore.

Most of your friends didn’t take you seriously, they just barked laughter, not believing, nor willing to think that you could ever commit such a sentence. But they didn’t share your pain, if they did, you were sure that they’d understand.

Matt got it, he resented the vampire and a lot of the other blood suckers too. And your certainly couldn’t blame him, he had lost his sister, and there was no reason behind her change. It had all just been a game, a gruesome one at that.

Kai lightly removed his jacket from your shoulders, hanging it on a hook to dry. He almost appeared embarrassed, having you in such a private space.

But you didn’t want him to endure such a mindset as that. Instead you smiled, brushing your damp hair out of your face, grasping his hands. They were cold, and that made you frown. No one ever cared what he had gone through, instead they just wanted to rid the world of him.

Even his family had dismissed him, all because he had been different, and treating him as such had definitely had a mind mingling affect on him. It repented an unstoppable rage inside of him, one that ended in dead children and imprisonment.

“Thankyou.” The small example of affection had Kai tilt his head awkwardly and pull his hands away from your own. He wasn’t used to people even being polite towards him, let alone openly sharing contact with him.

You should have been scared of him. Or at least somewhat repulsed, but you weren’t, and it was a first for him. Most around him taunted him with blame, or pointed out his obvious flaws.

And so he ducked his chin downwards into his chest, taking a couple of steps back, mumbling something about retrieving you a dry shirt.

As you waited for him, you peeled off the sheer layer, dropping the ball of wet material upon the ground. Your bra had soaked into your skin, but you left that on out of modesty.

When Kai returned, his mouth gaped open, eyes widening at the half undressed sight of you. But he tried to avert your gaze, blushing at your lack of attire.

“It’s okay.” You jested to him , reaching out for the clean shirt that he had brought for you. “You can look, it’s not like I’m naked.”

“Yet.” He smirked as he allowed his stare to freely roam. His voice had been small, but you had heard it as clear as day. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be thinking like that, you’re in mourning and I get that you wouldn’t want to, yknow.”

His hand gestured between the pair of you , prompting what he was talking about. But maybe he was wrong, after all, it had been a while since you had any physical intimacy, and you’d be a fool to deny that there was chemistry between you and a particular witch.

“Don’t be sorry.” You put the dry shirt aside, walking closer to the brunette. “I am in mourning, but I’m going to get my revenge, and a distraction sure wouldn’t hurt.”

“And here I thought that you were just a pretty face.” Kai’s hand drifted to the side of your face, pulling you closer so that your lips were almost brushing. His breath ghosted over your own intermingling the fumes of lust and intrigue. “But it seems that there is a darkness in that mind of yours, I’m impressed with your plans to say the least.”

“I haven’t even told you any of them yet.” Your hand drifted under the band of his jeans, plucking teasingly at the denim, licking your teeth as you made strong eye contact with him.

“Tell me after.” He ordered, grasping your hips, and clashing your bodies together. Your lips worked hungrily against each other, both pairs of your hands grabbing all that they could, you and him both desperate to hold onto anything.

Kai shoved you backward into a table, trapping you against it as his lips fell downwards, and began to suck at your neck.

But at that contact, you pushed Kai away, freezing for a moment. Damon’s teeth had been on Aaron’s neck, sinking in and draining all that be worth.

“See Elena thinks I’m a monster, and she’s right.” You were unable to move as Aaron stood against the vampire, you had been compelled, and you wanted nothing more than to scream out for Damon to stop, but there was no audio in your throat.

There was no scream as Damon bared his fangs , nor when he sunk them into your boyfriend’s neck, instead you were holding back your tears, as you had been commanded to.

He held him to his mouth for a moment before dropping his body lifeless upon the ground. And you couldn’t help but stare at the sight.

Enzo wore a content smirk, and it sickened you to your stomach. Damon turned, his thirsty eyes boring into your form, that wanted nothing more than to crumble into a million people.

“You may now speak.” His pupils found yours, engaging with your soul, that felt broken and completely shattered.

“Are you going to kill me too?” A part of you was hopeful that he would, but as he came closer, you recognised the mischief in his stance.

He had plans for you, none of which you suspected to like. “Do it, show Elena how much of a monster you really are!”

If he killed you, you’d have liked to think that Elena would be furious , but it was expected that eventually she would forgive him when he put his humanity back on.

“Or instead...” you feared his humoured expression, eyes flickering between his feet that were walking closer to you and your dead partner that lay lifelessly a couple of meters away. “I could show her how much of a monster you are.”

He bit into his wrist, bringing it towards your mouth, and as much as you felt the urge to squirm, you could do nothing more but stand there and abide his compulsion.

“Are you okay?” Kai asked, brushing his nose against your own, wanting to know if you wanted to continue. He knew that you were a victim of trauma, and he understood it’s affects.

In regards to his past, his coping method had been inflicting it in return. But you had done no foul against him, and so he would not torture you or force you into something that you had no intention of continuing.

“Yeah.” You breathed, blinking to push the memory away, temporarily at least. “Bedroom.” You ushered, squealing distractedly as he hoisted you into his arms, wrapping your legs perfectly around his waist.

He dropped you upon the mattress, hovering over you, removing his shirt after you began to tug on the dark and rain pelted material.

Leaning your elbows, you unclipped the back of your bra, discarding it somewhere far from your memory, and Kai sunk down, his lips latching onto your nipple, playing with the other in his rough hands.

“Your fucking gorgeous.” He hummed around your breast, his fingers drifting down your stomach to the band of your leggings.

His compliment made you smile, and as he ripped off your pants, he slipped a hand inside of your panties, rubbing your sensitive flesh. But you groaned, frowning at his tantalising actions.

“Just need you inside of me.” You told him, and he was more than happy to comply, so he worked on his belt, as you slipped off your own underwear, and removed the torn fabric from around your legs.

When you looked up, you noticed that he was completely bare, and already had himself in hand. There was precum balancing on his tip and at the sight you licked your lips.

“You ready?” He asked bringing his head down to your chin, placing a delicate kiss upon the bump, and teasing his other tip against your opening, swiping through your wetness and using it to lube himself up.

“God yes.” You sighed, your hands finding refuge upon the back of his shoulders, your nails sinking into his firm skin.

And so, with consent, he pushed in, groaning at the initial tightness. “And I thought that it was wet outside.” He laughed, causing you to snort, he was funnier than you had expected him to be.

It almost made you swoon, but no, you couldn’t be interested in Kai, could you? Everyone thought you had been, even Bonnie had stated that you often undressed him with your eyes in the worst of situations, but it had never been a big deal to you.

And then it hit you like a ton of bricks, with a snap of Kai’s hips. All along you had denied any interest of another man, all because of the one that you had lost. And everyone already knew that there were sparks between you and the witch, before either of you had caught on.

“Shit.” He huffed, reaching down and biting your lips, causing your eyes to flutter sensuously, and dark veins to appear underneath.

At the feeling, you tried to bury your face sidewards into the pillow so that he couldn’t see, but he held you still as he gave shallow thrusts inside of you.

“Don’t look away, I think you’re beautiful.” Him saying that alone had you almost in tears. Despite trying to bring Aaron back you feared what he would think of you when he returned, or well, if he could.

Would he think you a monster, that stood idly by when he was killed? Because if so, you’re heart would literally break, and you wouldn’t be able to bare living any longer.

Living, funny. You hardly described what you were doing as such anyways. But currently, you did truly feel alive again, perhaps that was just the affect of having a dick inside of you.

But as Kai reached down and fiddled with your clit, you knew that you were done for. Your head fell back, eyes closed and mouth open, showcasing your fangs, your orgasm hitting you like a train.

He continued his movements until he felt he was nearing his point, and then he finished too, having no worry in impregnating you as you were well, to put it lightly , dead.

Both of you panted as he pulled out and fell beside you. Your eyes stared at the ceiling, your concentration eventually broken when Kai spoke.

“Damon did it, didn’t he? He turned you.” Your face had returned to its previous disguise, you looked human once more. But it was no secret that you were now a savage, a monster like Damon.

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, trying not to cry at the thought. It was the last thing in the world that you ever wanted, but Damon knew that too. And so he had cursed you, for all of eternity.

“Then he deserves to die.” Kai stated, he was already against the Salvatores, but his hatred for them had just increased.

[lavendermin]

when it storms | kazuha

pairing | kazuha x reader

word count | 1.9k

genre | light angst, soft, first encounters

The skies had been cast over with rolling clouds of dark grey. Where the sun and moon used to glow so reverently, there now only fell a heavy rain in their wake.

It was fortunate for the land, your father had commented after a few days of downpour. The rain season was hardly this generous in recent years, and with the nation currently closed off there was an uneven flow of imports due to adjustment. More paperwork, longer shipment times. The people would have to endure less patron flow as the rain kept most indoors, but harvests and plenty of crystal clear lakes would be a sight to behold in the coming months.

This is good, you convinced yourself. Perhaps the dry storm seasons won’t be as many.

The streets outside slowly became less and less active with the usual flow of people. You stand against the door frame of your family’s restaurant, watching the never-ending sea of grey clouds above. The rain is cold against your skin as you stick out a hand curiously. It feels refreshing, pleasant.

“We’re closing up a little early today since the rain is starting back up again. Bring in the sign that’s outside. It would be a shame if it got blown away by tonight’s storm,” your father said as he wiped down the counters and put away clean bowls.

With a nod you happily went outside, umbrella in hand. The rain pattered quietly and rolled off the sides of its protective roof, surrounding you with a soothing atmosphere. The day had dwindled to a lethargic close, and with a languid fondness you watched the last few shopkeepers huddle back into their shops and homes.

The streets emptied out within minutes leaving muddy streets behind. The smell of wet earth hung in the air nostalgically.

Maybe it was fate, that double-take you took. With one last gaze out across the rainy-soaked street, you noticed them. The figure was so still—statuesque— that you wouldn’t have noticed them through the rainy mist if it hadn’t been for the bright crimson of their clothing that stood out.

Had they nowhere to go? Or were they someone who enjoyed standing in the rain? Better yet… How long had they been standing there in the pouring rain?

The question made your heart sink just thinking about it.

From within the building, your father’s voice called out with amusement. “Y/n, come in quick or you’ll get soaked. I don’t want you getting chilled and falling ill because you wanted to watch the rain.”

There was a squeeze of your chest when you turned back to the rain—a pang of guilt that gripped onto your mind. Rain fell relentlessly hard as it picked up, and it filled your mind with concern for that stranger in the rain.

Your body only partially turned toward the door, a quick hesitation stopping you in your tracks as you took one last look over your shoulder. That person… would probably get sick at this rate. Something in the way they stood rigidly against the elements held no joy for the downpour. No childlike amusement like the one you held for rainy days.

“I’ll be right in,” you reassure. “I forgot I left something outside.”

Peering your head quickly through the door frame, you see your father wave you off with a patient smile.

“Be quick.”

With a nod, you wait until you see him disappear up the stairs to the second floor to turn in for the night. You are quick on your feet making your way down the street of shops and houses. The patter of your boots on the rapidly-forming puddles pushed your aching legs forward, umbrella tightly gripped in hand.

The stranger was still unmoving as you approached, steps sounding out with the splash of water with each step. You were sure he heard you, yet he did not turn to meet you as you drew near.

“You’ll get sick if you stay out here in the rain, stranger,” you lightheartedly commented as you stopped next to him, holding your umbrella over him just enough to still partially shield you from the rain.

His eyes remained on the grey sky above, only now torn away slowly from the trance. There was a sorrowful haze that gripped those misty, crimson eyes.

“Do you think the rain is beautiful?” he asked.

This sudden question took you by surprise. The way he looked out at the sea of clouds held anything but sympathy for the grey skies that rained mercilessly.

You blinked, not knowing how to respond to this mysterious stranger. Unexpectedly, though, you felt at ease in his presence.

“I think the feeling of it is beautiful,” you responded, looking at the sky with him.

He hums at this answer, seemingly contemplating it. The answer comes from someone who spends their life indoors, and he understands it. Somehow, these small differences in experiences from person to person brings a little comfort to him. To know that not everyone’s simplicities of life are plagued by grief soothes his soul.

Brief silence overtakes you both as you stand in the downpour.

“Do you not like the rain?” you quietly ask after a while. There’s a worried crease in your brows as you look at him, and he cannot help but feel like he gravitates toward your warmth.

Only the harsh patter of the rain on your umbrella and flooding of the streets fills the silence for a beat as he remains in his thoughts.

“It’s been a while since I heard that question directed at myself,” he chuckles. The small smile that graces his features doesn’t reach his eyes, but answers fondly all the same. “When I was younger, I loved the rain.”

There’s weight in the words as he speaks them. You choose not to pry into the emotional scars tied to his answer.

“Are you travelling?” you ask, changing the subject.

He gives you a smile, and you notice how his snow-white hair clings to his face from the rain. It leaves a pleasantly warm feeling in your chest—how gentle he looks.

“Something like that.” Though his answers are vague, you aren’t one to pry—not when his eyes hold a distant sorrow in them. “It’s best to head inside. You could get sick out in the rain.”

“Come indoors with me, then,” you offer simply. With a warm smile you add, “If you’d like.”

He blinks at you, watches as you hover the umbrella closer over him. The rain is soaking most of you by now, and your smile is radiant— innocent in it’s bright sincerity as you offer him a roof over his head.

It makes this kind gesture all the more difficult to refuse.

“Kazuha,” is all he responds with, a thankful smile softening the gloom that surrounds him as you both hurry back down the muddy street. You introduce yourself just as briefly and lighthearted.

With a motion to the bar counter, you tap your hand on its surface to offer him a seat while you close up the shop and disappear into the kitchen. Kazuha wordlessly takes a seat, the warmth of the restaurant enveloping him pleasantly. His hands grip the towel that now rests around his shoulders a little tighter.

Within minutes, there’s a steaming bowl of noodles placed in front of him. “You’re too kind. I couldn’t possibly—“

You wave him off, plopping down on the seat next to him. “If the food is available, why not share a meal?” you interject simply, settling down next to him to begin eating your own noodle dish. “It’s hard to cook small portions when you’re only ever used to making large amounts for hungry customers. So, please, help yourself.”

“Thank you.” And Kazuha means it. “I’ll take my leave once I’ve finished.”

The look you give him is a little incredulous.

“In this rain? It’s an awfully harsh storm we’re expecting tonight.” You set down your chopsticks, looking at him fully with wide, concerned eyes. “You’re free to stay in the guest room until the storm passes. I would feel terribly guilty to leave you out in the rain.”

It’s silent, and you’ve both left your food untouched as Kazuha becomes a little tense. There’s something weighing on his mind with how he avoids your gaze, hands anxiously clenching and unclenching in his lap.

He reaches into his pocket, clutching something in his palm shielded from your view.

Now you’re curious.

His voice lowers, soft and cautious. “I don’t want to put you in danger with my presence.”

The smooth metal of the vision’s frame clangs quietly as Kazuha places it on the table, sliding it towards you.

“I’m a wanted man.”

There’s no response from you for a brief moment. Visions are rare to see nowadays, and even more dangerous to have. Your fingertips smooth over its surface momentarily, eyes sparkling with intrigue and wonder.

“The vision… Why is it missing?” you wonder silently.

Kazuha looks down. “That’s—“

“You don’t have to explain anything. This doesn’t make you a bad person,” you quickly defend. It takes him aback, caught off by the sudden emotion that makes your eyes twinkle. “Stay.”

“It would put you in da—“

“I don’t care. Your life is important. I’ll help you.” There’s a fire in your eyes as you hold his gaze, face serious. Your expression softens as you place the blank vision back in his palm with a reassuring gentleness. “I won’t lose another person to them.”

There are details that both of you do not know, information left out of each other’s backgrounds and circumstances. But one thing reigned true—there was goodness in his heart, and in yours, too. Perhaps this is what convinced him to accept your generosity.

He’s smiling, gentle upon his expression as he picks up his chopsticks once more.

“You aren’t the first to put your life on the line for me,” he adds quietly. The atmosphere has relaxed once more as you both continue eating through idle conversation in the dim restaurant lighting.

You hum, mouth full of food. “And I’m sure I won’t be the last. But,” you bite your thumb, pondering. “I’m sure you’ve been running for a while.”

With a quiet sigh, he answers, “Longer than I thought I would last, if I’m being honest.”

There’s a glint in your eye, and you’re deep in your own onslaught of thoughts. There’s an underlying anxiousness that falls upon your shoulders. Kazuha wishes he could read you better.

For the remainder of the quick meal, you hold your tongue but he can see the gears turning in your head. The bowls are emptied, hunger satisfied, and you show him to the guest room through hushed voices.

“Kazuha,” you call quietly before leaving the room you prepared for him. Your voice lowers further, barely above a whisper and you make it a point to sidle closer to him. “If you had the chance to escape Inazuma… would you?”

His eyes go a little wide for a moment. “You couldn’t mean…”

“I have a plan.”

And in that moment, he gazes at you with reverence and trust. His heart would be safe in the palm of your hand. You wait for his approval to continue with the idea. The smile he flashes you is contagious, and you are a beacon of hope in this tumultuous uncertainty.

He sits on the sleeping mat you've prepared, patting the spot next to him where he plopped down. “Let's hear it, then.”

In the late hours of the night, two hushed voices debate their best chance of escape.

“I have a close acquaintance, captain of her own fleet from Liyue.”

[keigoslovebird]

Next Chapter

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader

Warnings: Manga spoilers!! Pregnancy and references to pregnancy, you have a child (obvi), aged up characters, breeding kink, negative self image (on Toshi’s part), references to alcohol, self deprecating language, very fluffy Daddy Toshi shenanigans

Genre: Fluff, smut

Word count: 8.3k

Author’s note: I had so much fun writing soft husband Toshi, if it isn’t obvious by the word count. I just want to rub his soft belly and tell him how much I love him. Hopefully you enjoy this as much as I did writing it!

Note: Flashbacks indicated by italics

Wakatoshi Ushijima has always been a man of few emotions and even fewer words, with just one thing on his mind—volleyball. 

Since he was a young child, he has always slept, eaten, breathed volleyball. Nothing came close to his fiery, burning passion for the sport, not that he had the time to care about anything else.

That all changed when he retired from professional volleyball at the ripe young age of thirty-one, the years of wear and tear on his body finally catching up to him. He knew it was time when the pain in his joints was so severe he could no longer keep up with his much younger teammates. It was a difficult, emotional decision, but he ultimately viewed it as passing the torch to the next generation of volleyball players.

The announcement of Wakatoshi’s retirement was met with great sadness from the sports community at the loss of such a talented, renowned player, but he left behind an exceptional legacy marked by achievements and historic wins. 

His final game with the Schweiden Adlers concluded in a symbolic victory, this chapter of his life drawing to a close the same way it began—with Wakatoshi as an indisputable champion. Every player, coach, and audience member rose from their seats, clapping and screaming words of encouragement. Each of his teammates got on their knees, lowering themselves to press their foreheads into the floor of the stadium, bowing in an ultimate show of respect. The sight of his peers, his coaches, the entire auditorium giving him such an impassioned send off made a heavy lump form in his throat that refused to go away, no matter how many times he tried to swallow it down. Tears pricked at his eyes but he didn’t want to cry, not in front of all of these people.

The dam broke when you sprinted across the court, wrapping yourself around him in a bone crushing hug.

“You did so well Toshi. I am so proud of you,” you praised through choked sobs, pressing your tear-stained face into his neck. Your watery eyes and trembling smile shattered whatever willpower he had, his own tears streaming down his face like a waterfall. All those late night practices away from you, the excruciating injuries, the heartbreaking losses, all led up to this moment. This was the last time the Super Ace would step foot on a volleyball court as a professional player, but all good things must come to an end. 

The screaming and clapping was so loud you could barely hear his quiet, trembling whisper of, “I love you.”

----

It took him awhile to adjust to what one would call a “normal” life, one that didn’t include daily flights from country to country or backbreaking practices that lasted from sunup to sundown. Sure he still went to the gym and practiced with the volleyball net strung up in your backyard, but it was nothing like his grueling schedule when he was a pro athlete. To make matters worse, the blinders he wore his entire life that blocked out anything but volleyball prevented him from finding any real hobbies of his own. This meant for the first few months, your husband followed you around the house like a lost puppy, just wanting to be a part of whatever you were doing.

You would be cooking dinner, some soup simmering on the stove, when Wakatoshi’s massive form would come up from behind you to shyly peek over your shoulder. 

“What’re you doing?” he wondered, resting his head in the crook of your neck.

You could feel a smile tugging at your lips at how cute he was being, getting used to domestic life, something you never really got to experience until now. Before, you would often be sleeping when he came home at night, and still be asleep when he left in the morning. “I’m just cooking, do you want to help me?” you asked, holding a knife out to him to cut some vegetables. He nodded silently as he took the knife from you. 

His chopping skills left much to be desired, but what could you really expect from a man who only ever held a volleyball?

Another time you were sitting on the couch, scrolling through Twitter on your phone. You could feel your husband staring so intensely you were afraid he’d pop a blood vessel in his head.

Looking up at him, you cleared your throat and asked, “Did you need something, Toshi?” You set your phone down and gave him a questioning look, hoping to solve whatever was troubling him.

He was pensive for a moment, his eyebrows scrunching as he figured out what he was trying to say. “No, I just… There’s nothing to do,” he answered finally.

You nearly burst out laughing at his concern for simply being bored, but you held it in. “Of course there’s something to do!” you exclaimed, “You can go on a walk, read a book, watch TV, or even just take a nap.”

His head tilted quizzically, unsure of what you were suggesting. “A… nap? Why would I sleep? It’s the middle of the afternoon,” he questioned, sounding like you had proposed he eat sand and not to take a quick snooze.

You chuckled and walked over to the chair he was sitting in, plopping yourself down into his lap. “Sometimes people sleep in the middle of the day because they’re tired, or just because they want to,” you clarified, “We can go take a nap right now if you would like.” 

Suddenly Wakatoshi stood up, causing you to squeak in surprise, his arms securely carrying you bridal style.

“W-what’re you doing!?” you squealed, panicked by your sudden lack of solid ground, slightly struggling in arms. 

He tilted his head again, reminiscent of a pet confused by its master’s orders. “We’re going to take a nap together, yes? I’m taking you to our room,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of your shared bedroom. 

You stopped squirming once you took in his words, your belly fluttering with affection. Sighing happily, you snuggled your face against his chest, giving him a simple “mhm” in response.

That day Wakatoshi took his first nap since he was six years old and to this day, he still swears he’s never had a more restful, peaceful sleep in his life.

Those instances happened less and less often as he figured out ways to occupy his time that didn’t involve volleyball. 

You adopted a dog, a commitment you didn’t want to make in the past due to both of your busy schedules, but your lives became a lot less hectic after Wakatoshi’s retirement. Your husband made it a daily ritual to take your puppy Leo out on a morning run, both of them returning tired and sweaty before promptly passing out for an hour. He took up a job at the local university to help coach their men’s volleyball team, deciding to try it out when the requests to lend his wisdom and skills kept coming in. Although, his favorite pastime now consists of him standing outside on the patio, beer in hand as he sweats over the flames of his fancy silver grill.

But perhaps the most significant change in your lives came in the form of your son, Hidetoshi. 

Much like your refusal to commit to taking care of a dog, neither of you wanted to have kids while your lifestyle was so unfit to raise a child. You didn’t mind making those compromises for your husband, having known the path he would take since you started dating in high school. Frankly, you didn’t mind not having children at all, so it surprised you when he was the one to broach the subject. 

“What if we did?” he inquired under the darkness of your bedroom.

You turned over to face him, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek. “What if we did what, my love?” you murmured.

His eyes flitted across your face with an uncharacteristic nervousness. “What if we decided to have a child?” The shock on your face made his stomach churn uncomfortably and he almost regretted saying anything at all, but his fears quickly vanished as your expression melted into a soft smile.

“We’d have to talk about it more but I’d love to have your children, Wakatoshi Ushijima.”

You had a deep, lengthy conversation about your wants, needs, plans for the future, and whether or not a kid would fit into them. Once all of your cards were on the table you decided to start trying to get pregnant, a mission that your husband took very seriously.

Even as a teenager Wakatoshi’s sex drive wasn’t very high, and his frequent absence and exhaustion in his adult life made it somewhat difficult for you to have sex often. You made up for it where you could, having phone sex and masturbating together over FaceTime, once you convinced him to do it. When he was bewildered as to why you would suggest such a salacious act, you explained you were a grown woman with needs and if he wasn’t there to take care of them, he’d have to help you in other ways. Once he realized how serious you were, he agreed. 

But your husband as a young adult and your husband post-retirement are almost two  completely different people in regards to sex. He has seemingly unlimited reserves of stamina, built up over years of rigorous, intense training, and he no longer had an outlet to expend them. So, his new outlet to test his endurance became you and your body.

He began fucking you every chance he got with the vigor and gusto of a hormonal teenager, seeking to make up for lost time. He asked for sex at all hours of the day, waking you up in the middle of the night with the insistent prodding of his arousal and lazily thrusting between your thighs in the early hours of the morning before you had to leave for work. He fucked you in every room in your house and on every surface—on the dining room table, in the shower, on the living room floor, and even on your back patio when you both got a little too drunk on some cheap rose. 

You welcomed Wakatoshi’s insatiable hunger with open arms, unable to resist your strong, ridiculously handsome husband, but that, coupled with his seemingly limitless stamina, spelled trouble for your muscles and pelvis. In the first year after his departure from professional sports you had to call in sick to work seven times, too tired to function, too bruised to look presentable, and too sore to walk to the bathroom. At first he felt guilty for fucking you out of commission, but the way you begged him so sweetly to pound your needy, gushing cunt deeper, harder, faster and how you whimpered with delight when he bit bruises down your throat, he didn’t feel that bad. A baser, more primal part of Wakatoshi’s brain purred at his marks covering our body and relished in the way you limped. You were just too tempting, too irresistible not to ravage you every chance he got.

After you agreed to start trying for a baby, your partner’s already voracious sexual appetite became downright menacing now that he had a goal to strive for. 

“Gonna breed you, gonna fill you so full with my cum and knock you up,” he grunted as he battered into your sore, dripping hole, your body folded in half in a mating press.

“P-please Toshi! Ah~ please,” you babbled, nonsensical and uncertain what you were even asking for. He had been fucking you for so long everything was muddled into a singular dreamy, intangible haze of pleasure and ecstasy. 

Wakatoshi gave your clit a slap, hard enough to make you cry out. “Please what? Please breed you like a bitch in heat? Please stuff you full with my cum?” He leaned down to wrap his fingers around your throat, squeezing with enough force to make your head swim and forcing you to look into his wild olive eyes. “Well, what is it?” he demanded.

“W-want you to b-ah! Want you to breed mee,” you slurred, too drunk on the delicious feeling of his cock dragging against your pulsing walls to form a more coherent sentence.

His thrusts grew sloppy and uncoordinated with his impending orgasm. “G-gonna give you what you want, you cock hungry slut, I’m—” He came with a choked, shuddering groan, his warm cum flooding your awaiting womb.

You were both basking in the afterglow, exhausted and soaked in sweat and your combined fluids, when you noticed the furious blush spreading across your husband’s cheeks. “I apologize for what I said during sex. I… I don’t know what came over me,” he confessed, giving your shoulder a remorseful squeeze.

Giggling, you leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Don’t be sorry. I really enjoyed it,” you proclaimed, “I love it when you get rough with me.”

Trying to get you pregnant gave your husband a new goal to strive for and he has never been one to do anything with less than his all.

Thanks to your husband’s dedicated efforts, you got pregnant six months after you started trying, to your shared elation and delight. Those two little lines filled you with as much excitement as they made you anxious, but as long as Wakatoshi was by your side, everything would be okay. 

Seeing your little bundle of joy in a 3D ultrasound changed you, changed Wakatoshi forever. Up until then you had only seen him as a colorless little blur on a computer screen, but getting to watch his precious face scrunch and his chubby legs kick reminded you that he was a real living being. The late night sprints to the bathroom, horrible morning sickness, and miserably aching back were all worth it when you were able to hold Hidetoshi for the first time. With his olive eyes, brown hair and chubby cheeks, he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen and to this day he still is. 

Taking after his father from the start, Hidetoshi was a happy baby that rarely fussed or cried, not that you complained. He slept soundly through most nights, so soundly you slept in a chair by his crib for the first month to periodically check he was still breathing, despite your husband’s insistence the baby would be fine. Your mother-in-law had insisted that you and Wakatoshi would be exhausted for the first several months after the birth. Imagine her surprised when you and Wakatoshi looked just as well-rested as usual, better even, since you no longer had to deal with pregnancy. Many people, relatives and strangers alike, were astounded at how charming and polite your son was, even as a newborn. He was happy to just sit and play with his toys as you had lunch, smiling and waving at everyone who passed by.

A man as attractive as your husband with a boy as sweet as your son meant that, much to your irritation, women were tripping over themselves to flirt with him. To make matters worse, Wakatoshi picked up your son alone most days due to your office job preventing you from leaving early enough to go with him. This meant many of the moms at Hidetoshi’s school thought your husband was single and they weren’t shy in their pursuit.

A crowd of women surrounded Wakatoshi as he waited for school to end so your son would come running out with his arms spread wide, confident his daddy would always catch him. Most of the moms simply stared at your husband with dreamy looks in their eyes, attempting to make small talk with him.

One especially bold mother reached out and stroked his bicep, slightly squeezing to get a feel for his muscles. “My my Ushijima, you’re so handsome and strong,” she purred, batting her eyelashes at him.

“My wife thinks so as well,” he grunted as he gently but firmly removed his arm from her grasp. 

The woman looked as if he had slapped her across the face and cursed her family. “Y-you’re married? But you don’t even have a wedding ring!” she spluttered, “If you have a wife then where is she everyday?” 

“I do have a ring. I just don’t wear it on my finger because I’m afraid of losing it,” he clarified, lightly tugging on the chain around his neck for emphasis, his ring clinking softly against the metal. “I’m happily married to my wife who cannot be here because she is hard at work providing for our family. Do not disrespect my wife or my marriage again or we will have a problem.”

After that the other moms kept their distance, choosing to admire Wakatoshi from afar. It did not, however, stop them from staring with envy on the rare occasion you came with him to pick up your child, glowering at you with an intensity that surely wished you would drop dead. Your husband paid them no mind and neither did you because at the end of the day, you’re the one he chose to marry and have a child with. They can all flirts and look as much as they want, but they’ll never have him like you do.

----

Fast forward to present day, Wakatoshi is seven years into his retirement at the age of thirty-eight and Hidetoshi is now six.

Your husband is an assistant coach part time for the men’s volleyball team at an up and coming university, the rest of his time divided between you and taking care of your son. Hidetoshi just started kindergarten, growing far too fast for your liking. He seems to have gotten a double dose of his father’s genes as he’s already several inches taller than his classmates, though you can tell by the way he smiles and the slope of his nose that he’s yours as well. He’s the perfect combination of both of you—he has Wakatoshi’s tenacity, work ethic, and confidence and your sense of humor, intelligence, and empathy. He continues to amaze you every single day and you nor your husband couldn’t imagine a boy more wonderful than him. 

These days your lives are a lot less busy than they were when your husband was still a pro, but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. With all the playdates, school functions, and parent-teacher conferences combined with your own job, Wakatoshi’s games, and regular house chores, sometimes it feels like you’re right back where you were ten years ago. This time, however, you have your incredible husband and son helping you and you wouldn’t trade your life for anything, no matter how hectic it may be.

Today is Saturday, it’s the weekend, and you’re only awake because of the bright sunlight that’s streaming through your bedroom window and hitting you directly in the face. You rub the sleep out of your eyes with the back of your hand, yawning loudly as you stretch your tired limbs. As soon as you try to get out of bed Wakatoshi’s arm around your waist tightens, pulling you flush against his solid, muscular chest. 

“Don’t leave. Don’t need to be anywhere,” he mumbles into his pillow, voice even deeper and raspier with sleep. His legs entangle themselves with your own so you’re completely enveloped in the warm, comforting embrace of your husband.

“Need to start getting ready for the party,” you sigh drowsily, but make no efforts to remove yourself from his sleepy but surprisingly strong clutches.

“Not yet,” he says simply, and that’s when you realize when he’s doing. He’s slowly, lazily grinding his morning wood on the soft curve of your ass. You’re a little more awake now.

“Oh I see what this is about,” you chuckle, wiggling yourself against him teasingly. 

He groans quietly under his breath, but you can feel the sound rumble in his chest. “Want you,” he says, still groggy from just barely waking up. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and he slips them underneath it, trailing his digits lightly down your stomach, making you shiver.

“Little man will be up soon,” you halfheartedly protest, but you can feel the warmth pooling between your legs.

“He’s not up yet, we have time.” The movements of his hips become more insistent, more demanding and you have to stifle your mewls behind your hand. Wakatoshi easily maneuvers his hand into the waistband of your panties, making a satisfied hum when he discovers you’re already dripping for him.

You’re still resisting, though it’s weak and feeble. The list of all the preparations you have to make for the barbecue still manage to just barely cut through your sleepy arousal. “We have so much to d—ahh~” You try to sound firm, but it just comes out as a breathy moan when he begins rubbing your swollen clit. 

He uses his other hand to push up your shirt that’s actually his shirt, tracing small circles around your nipples with his rough fingertips. You try to push your hips into his hand in hopes to gain more friction, but his arms keep you locked in place. 

“No need to rush. Let’s just enjoy this,” he insists, but the finger massaging your bud gets faster, knowing just how to make you whine after all the time he’s had to learn your body. He pinches one of your nipples between two fingers and squeezes with just enough force to make you gasp.

His erection has gotten even harder at the sound of your mewls and whimpers, hot and achingly hard against your ass and your cunt clenches in anticipation. Your slick is dripping out of you in thick, syrupy strings that makes your thighs sticky, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Please Toshi, need you,” you beg, desperate for your husband to stuff you full just as he’s done so many times before.

Wakatoshi doesn’t respond, opting to push his pants and underwear down to his knees and you almost sigh in relief, just needing to satisfy the desire that’s threatening to burn you from the inside out. You’re so hot you feel like you’re burning and you throw the comforter off of you to try to escape the heat. He removes the hand that was in your panties, instead using it to rub his hard length along your slick folds. You’re keening and so so needy, gasping each time the head catches on the tight ring of muscle around your entrance. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he grits out, barely able to control himself.

Your breath is coming in short, uneven pants as you try to sink yourself down onto him. “I love you so much I...”

That’s the moment when he sheaths his entire cock inside you in a singular fluid movement. You let out a strangled moan, relishing in the familiar burning as you stretch to accommodate how thick he is.  Your pussy clamps down on him like a vice, molding perfectly around his length.

“It’s like you were made for me, made to take me,” Wakatoshi growls, sending another wave of arousal rippling through your body. He stays still for a moment, breathing deeply because he doesn’t want to cum and have this end so soon.

He starts moving his hips, thrusting slow and deep to reach the spongy spot inside you that makes you scream. The hand on your breast reaches around to grab your throat, stifling your moans into small, stuttering gasps. You whine each time he shoves himself deep inside you, his cock dragging deliciously against your spongy walls.

You stay like that for a while, bodies joined in the most intimate of ways as Wakatoshi moves his hips in leisurely, unhurried strokes. Your body is hot, sweaty, thrumming with the pleasure that’s so overwhelming all you can focus on is the intoxicating feeling of your husband’s cock deep inside you. The tightening in your core signals your impending orgasm, but each time you get close to the edge, it escapes your grasp over and over again. You need him to pound into you faster, harder. You need more.

“Toshi please, I-I need,” you manage to stammer out, but your words are stolen from your throat as he sharply thrusts as deep as he can, the tip of his cock smashing against your cervix with just the right amount of pressure. 

“Don’t worry. I know just what you need.”

Wakatoshi is fucking you with so much force that your eyes are rolling back in your head, and all you can hear is the wet slapping sound each time he’s sucked back into your wet heat. He’s close, you can tell by the breathy groans he’s making, but so are you. You clench and spasm around him, growing impossibly tighter and bringing both of you closer to climax. His merciless pounding of your insides just gets faster and rougher, and his other hand moves down to rub your clit in tight, fast circles. 

The pleasure that clouds your senses is overwhelming, just dancing on the edge between pleasure and pain and your body can’t take it anymore. Your vision goes white as you cum, cunt clamping down so hard Wakatoshi can barely move. You clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming, your body shaking and trembling as you gush around him. The endless clenching of your muscles practically milks his orgasm out of him, a stifled groan leaving his lips as his thick, hot cum coats your insides. All you can do is moan softly in appreciation, too incoherent to say anything else. 

Your husband presses a kiss to your sweaty neck. “Are you okay?” he asks, taking in the sight of your limp, spent body. 

You haven’t caught your breath yet and your lips won’t form proper words, so you make the only noise you can, “Mmfmm.”

You whine as he slowly pulls out his softening length with an audible pop, sensitive cunt spasming at the slightest stimulation. He untangles himself from you and you want to reach out for him, but you’re too boneless to even attempt to do anything yet.

As Wakatoshi gets out of bed to get a warm washcloth, you hear the familiar sound of little footsteps making their way towards your room and you shoot up in bed, fully alert. You quickly pull the covers over your body, just in time for Hidetoshi to come bounding in.

“G’morning Mama! Where’s Daddy?” he wonders, his little head poking around the corner.

Your husband comes out of the bathroom, now fully dressed and washcloth in hand. “I’m right here, Hidetoshi.” The boy runs straight towards his father who picks him up effortlessly, swinging him around in the air as he squeals with delight. “Did you sleep well?”

Hide bobs his head enthusiastically, “Mhm! I had a dream I was a professional volleyball player just like you.” 

Your loud, exaggerated sigh draws both sets of olive eyes to you, but you train your gaze on your husband. “Have you been putting ideas in his head?”

Wakatoshi shakes his head no, but the child in his arms pipes up first, “Daddy has been showing me videos of his old matches from when he was with the Schwimmy Addles.” Your husband makes a noise of surprise, a guilty look on his face now that he’s been found out.

“You two are going to be my undoing, I swear,” you chuckle as you flop back into the fluffy pillows.

Hide squirms in his father’s arms, reaching out to you, but the man recognizes the warning look in your eyes and tightens his arms around him. “We should let Mama finish waking up first. Why don’t we go downstairs and make breakfast?” he asks, tickling his sides.

The boy shrieks with laughter and wriggles even harder in Wakatoshi’s arms. “F-fine Daddy! Stooop it!” Your husband stops his tickling and hoists your son over his shoulder, gently patting his back.

He passes the washcloth to Hide. “Why don’t you give this to your mama? Then we can go have something to eat.” 

Hide uses his little arms to hold the cloth out to you and you take it from him, nodding with gratitude. “Thank you sweetie, now go with your daddy.”

Your husband starts walking towards the door as a small, chubby hand waves bye to you and you blow kisses to them as they disappear into the hallway.

Using the washcloth, you clean the mess between your legs and muster the monumental effort it takes to get out of bed. You begrudgingly walk over to your dresser to put on clean pajamas and brush your hair so you’re presentable for a meal with your family. The sound of the fire alarm going off has you racing downstairs to the kitchen where Wakatoshi and your son should be.

As you slide into the kitchen and almost fall on the slippery hardwood in your haste, you realize your panic was for nothing. There’s a pan on the stove, grey smoke billowing out of it. Upon further inspection you discern that it’s eggs, you think, that are simultaneously under and overcooked. The guilty parties are sitting at the kitchen table a few feet away, a jug of milk and a couple of boxes of cereal surrounding them. Hide is shoveling spoonfuls of Cheerios into his mouth as your husband eats his own breakfast, only slightly neater in his approach.

“So… you tried to cook?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow at the large man chewing his Wheat Chex. He looks over at you and nods, mouth full with milk and cereal. “I’m guessing it didn’t go very well, judging by all the smoke,” you say slowly. Your husband simply shakes his head no, unbothered by the fact that he nearly gave you a heart attack.

Deciding it’s not worth the argument or the work to make a proper breakfast, you sit down next to Hide and pour yourself a bowl of Cheerios. He smiles at you, mouth open and full of disgusting half-chewed food, but you still return his beaming grin and ruffle his hair. The both of them are troublemakers in their own ways, but they’re your troublemakers nonetheless.

After you’ve all eaten breakfast, you lay a notepad in front of them that has a list of all the things you have to do before your guests arrive for the barbecue. 

You’re standing between them, pointing at each task on the list. “I still have to sweep and vacuum the house, Toshi you need to go to the store and buy all the food, and Hide you need to pick up all your toys that are in the backyard. We have a lot to do today and everyone has to do their part, okay?” you urge, looking between the males on either side of you and they both nod emphatically.

With everyone so busy, it’s difficult to find weekends where they’re all available so this get together has been planned for months. You’ll all be seeing friends and loved ones you haven’t seen in a long time, and it’s a team effort to make sure everything is ready for tonight. 

----

You finish all of the tasks on time, with an hour to spare thanks to your joint efforts. 

Hide is playing in his room while you and your husband get dressed and ready for what will likely be a long night of socializing and entertaining.

As you’re doing your makeup and getting ready for the party, you notice Wakatoshi staring at himself in the mirror, shirtless. His brows are furrowed, a deep frown on his face as he scrutinizes his reflection. He pinches his belly with both hands, scowling at the softness that used to be hard muscle. Tracing a finger along the stretch marks on his stomach and arms, he sighs heavily.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” you ask from the bathroom. 

Your husband walks over to lean against the wall behind you, his unreadable expression reflected in the bathroom mirror. He hesitates before answering, “I’ve let myself go.”

You set your mascara down on the counter and spin around to face him. “Wakatoshi, what in the world are you talking about?”

“I just said what. I heard a couple of my players say that I’m not as strong or as fast as I was when I was a professional.”

You loosely wrap your arms around his torso, squeezing gently. “Of course you’re not what you used to be, Toshi.” At the sight of his deepening frown you quickly add, “You’re so busy being a father, husband, and coach you don’t have the time to work out like you used to.” Getting on your tippy toes, you press a kiss to his nose, “And that’s okay.” It’s a rare occasion that he looks this vulnerable. His anxiety and self-consciousness are so clearly written in his features and it makes your heart ache for him. 

“It doesn’t bother you that I don’t look like that anymore?” he asks, pointing at the framed photo of his first win with the Japan National Team that hangs on the wall.

“Why would it bother me? This is the body races my son across our backyard, helps me fix our home we bought together, and makes love to me every night. I love you just as much as I did back then, and even more now that we have Hide,” you reassure him and you mean every word of it. Sure he’s not the most romantic of husbands, but he’s your husband and you love him just the way he is, with or without muscles.

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips and he squeezes you even tighter to him. “I know I probably don’t say this as much as I should, but I love you.”

You pepper kisses all over his eyelids, lips and nose. “And I love you more than anything, Wakatoshi. More than you will ever know.”

Your hands lovingly caress his chest that’s softer now, but still sturdy and muscular, and his arms that are not as lean anymore, but are still just as powerful and capable. “For the record, I love how soft you are these days. It’s great cushioning for when we cuddle.”

“Hidetoshi says the same thing,” he recalls, smiling at the thought of your beloved son.

After giving him a knowing look, you go back to putting on your makeup. “See? I told you. That boy is just as smart as his mother.”

It’s nearing five o’clock so Wakatoshi goes to the backyard to start grilling the food for everyone, while you and Hide finish plating the fruits and vegetables you prepared earlier.

You work in comfortable silence until your son turns to you, his eyes shining with unanswered questions. “Hey Mama?”

Putting down the strawberry you were holding, you sit down on the stool next to him and hold his hands in yours. “What’s on your mind, sweetie?”

“Do you not want me to be a volleyball player like Daddy? Is that why you got mad when I told you he showed me the videos?” 

You almost break your neck with how fast you shake your head in denial. “Of course not! I wasn’t mad, it’s just…” you start, trying to find a way to phrase your thoughts that he’ll understand. “Daddy’s job was very hard. His body still hurts a lot from all the times he got injured when he played volleyball. And… his job took him away from me and I missed him a whole lot.”

The look on his face is so reminiscent of his father, it’s like young Wakatoshi was frozen in time and plopped into the chair right next to you. With the way his eyebrows are scrunched up and his mouth is downturned as he thinks, he really is the spitting image of your husband. “Did it make you sad?”

Taking a deep breath, you hold your arms out to him so he can climb into your lap. “Sometimes it did. Mostly at night when I was all alone and Daddy was really far away.”

He rests his head against your shoulder, looking up at you. “Do you wish Daddy had a different job?”

You look out the window at your husband who’s starting up the grill, then look back at the sweet, round face of your boy. “No, I don’t. Daddy’s job was really important to him and it made him so happy that I grew to love it too, even if it made me sad sometimes.”

He sits up in your lap, thinking hard about what you said as he plays with your necklace. “Does Daddy still wish he could do it?”

“Probably, but it’s okay. If he hadn’t stopped, we wouldn’t have you, and you make our lives so much brighter and happier. Your Daddy and I love you so much, you couldn’t even imagine it.”

He spreads his arms out as far as he can. “This much?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Even more.”

“Wow, that’s a lot.” Hide’s eyes are wide with surprise, mouth slightly agape as he tries to imagine something so large and vast.

Laughing, you press a kiss to his head. “It sure is a lot, baby. Now why don’t we finish putting out all the food so we can go see what Daddy’s doing?”

Your son leaps out of your lap to grab handfuls of grapes and blueberries from the cartons on the counter, dropping them into the divided sections of the serving platter. “Aren’t you going to help me, Mama?”

You give him a look of mock offense before standing ramrod straight, giving him a mock salute. “As you command, Commander Ushijima.”

You carry both trays of food out to the backyard, not trusting Hide’s ability to hold them upright, while he carries a volleyball in his arms. Wakatoshi turns at the sound of footsteps, a small smile on his face as your son drops the volleyball, barreling straight into his legs with a force that makes the man grunt.

Hide looks up at his father, both arms wrapped around his legs. “Whatcha doing Daddy?” he asks.

Your husband reaches a hand down to ruffle his hair, a slight look of pain in his eyes from the boy slamming into his shins. “I’m just getting ready to start cooking the food for tonight. Do you want to help me?” He bends down to pick him up and Hide quickly hops into his arms, well practiced and effortless with how strong your husband is. The man points to different parts of the grill, explaining what they do, taking care to keep the boy far away from the flames. 

Setting the plates down on the table, you inform Wakatoshi, “Hajime and Tooru should be here soon, so should Tobio and Eita. Satori called and said he might be late, something about his luggage getting lost.” At that moment the doorbell rings, signaling your first guests are here. “I’ll get it. You two stay here and get the food on the grill.”

You open the front door, greeted with the familiar faces of Hajime and Tooru. “It’s so nice to see you two! Come on inside, don’t be shy,” stepping aside, you hold your arm out to welcome them into your home. 

“Mrs. Ushijima you get more and more beautiful each time I see you,” Tooru teases as you snicker in response.

“I see marriage hasn’t changed you at all, has it?” you question, more so directed at Hajime. 

“I tell him people are going to get the wrong idea,” the shorter man replies, sounding exasperated.

You usher them towards the backyard before picking up various soda and beer cans. “Wakatoshi and Hide are both in the back. You two go ahead and keep them company while I bring these out.”

It takes a few trips before you join them in the backyard, handing each adult a can and a juice pouch to Hide, who’s sitting at the picnic table with Tooru while Hajime chats with your husband. 

“How old are you now, little man?” the brunette asks.

Hide holds up five fingers plus his thumb as he swings his legs back and forth. “I’m six! I just started kindergarten.”

They both wave at you as you join them, sitting on the other side of the table. Tooru leans in towards you, a hand cupped around his mouth, and you tilt your ear towards him. “He’s so… polite and well-mannered. Are you sure Ushiwaka is the father?” he whispers, narrowing his eyes.

You lightly smack his head, glaring daggers in his direction. “Yes, obviously. Look at them, they’re basically twins.” Tooru looks at the boy sitting next to him then at your husband standing at the grill, then back to your son, then back to your husband. Hand on his chin, he takes in their matching olive eyes and hair and similar expressions, nodding seriously.

“I was just making sure.”

The doorbell rings a couple more times, Tobio and Eita arriving one right after the other. With almost all of your guests present, everyone is drinking and catching up, some casually passing a volleyball back and forth with Hide.

You’re in the middle of telling Tobio that Hidetoshi is too young to be thinking about his future career when the doorbell rings once more, indicating the last of your guests has arrived. You rush inside to get it, not bothering to check who’s there because you already know who it is. Swinging the door open, you pull the man into a tight hug. 

“Satori! We’re so glad you made it,” you exclaim, giving his back a few hard slaps.

The redhead pulls away from you, smiling. “I’m so glad I was able to make it in time. The airport lost my luggage, then my parents forgot to leave me a key to their house so I had to wait until a neighbor could let me in. To make matters worse, I got stopped by security when I landed because of this,” he says, holding up a white box with a bow around it.

You quickly grab the box, shaking it to try to hear what’s inside and sniffing it for good measure. “Ooh la la, did you bring us some fancy French chocolates?” you ask. “Actually, don’t tell me, Hide will want to open it.” You hand the box back to him and gesture him to follow you, “Everyone’s in the back so just follow me.”

With Satori in tow, you step onto the back porch and call your son’s name. He hands the ball to Eita before running over, eyes lighting up when he sees the man standing next to you.

“Uncle Tori!” he shouts, launching himself into Satori’s arms.

“Hey there Little Toshi, how you been? Keeping your dad out of trouble?” he asks, hugging the boy tightly.

“I think so! Well… we burnt some eggs this morning and the smoke machines started beeping, but that doesn’t count, right?”

The red-haired man waves his hand dismissively. “Of course it doesn’t. Any crimes committed in the name of breakfast are excused,” he insists. Pulling the box out from behind his back, he offers it to Hide. “I brought you something all the way from France, do you know where France is?”

Hide takes the present from him, “Yeah, it’s in Europe! Daddy showed it to me on a map.” He struggles a bit with the bow before he decides to just rip it off, lifting up the lid.

Satori points to the various chocolates laid on top of wax paper. “This one is filled with something called ‘ganache,’ which is basically just more chocolate, but it’s liquidy. That one over there has caramel, and the one right next to it is a bonbon filled with strawberry jelly. I picked all the best ones just for you.”

The boy smiles, eyes wandering over the chocolates like they’re bars of gold. “Thank you Uncle Tori! I bet they’re really yummy.”

He pats Hide on the head. “I hope you enjoy them lots. Now I gotta go say hi to your daddy, where is he?” Your son points to where Wakatoshi is standing at the grill, a spatula in one hand and a beer in the other as he chats with Tobio. “Thanks Little Toshi,” he says, ruffling his hair.

Satori walks over to your husband, pulling him into a crushing bear hug before he can say anything. “Wakatoshi, it’s been too long! I sure get lonely all the way in France, have you guys ever thought about moving?”

Wakatoshi freezes for a moment before giving in, hugging the man back, though slightly stiff in his movements. “We will not be moving to France. Hidetoshi will be raised here in Japan.”

The redhead releases him, sensing his discomfort. “Well, it was worth a shot. How’s your retirement? You miss being a pro?”

“I do miss it sometimes, but it was necessary to let a better, younger player take my place. I wouldn’t trade a few more years on the court for the life I have now with my wife and my son.” 

 Satori lets out a loud whistle. “I never thought I would hear the day that Wakatoshi Ushijima would say he cares about anything more than volleyball.”

“Volleyball was my entire life before, but they’re my entire world.”

The shorter man just smiles, silent for a moment before pointing to the apron your husband is wearing. “I didn’t think you’d actually wear that thing, Wakatoshi!” The apron black with bright red lettering that says ‘Wakatoshi: Grill Master,’ with a drawing of a flaming steak next to it.

“It keeps my clothes clean. Why wouldn’t I wear it?” he asks, genuinely curious. The redhead just laughs and shakes his head, patting him on the shoulder.

Your husband finishes grilling the food, much to the excitement and relief of the many hungry men who have been circling him like a hawk. Everyone takes from the piles of meat and vegetables, noticeably happier now that their stomachs are full. You’re all sitting around the picnic table, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

Hajime recalls a story from when he first signed on as the athletic trainer for the national team. Wakatoshi had approached him after practice, saying he had a serious issue that he wanted someone to take a look at. Concerned for his player’s wellbeing, naturally he took him into the locker room and Wakatoshi took off his shirt. At first, he thought he might’ve stretched one of his ligaments too far or had even torn his rotator cuff muscle. Imagine his surprise when Wakatoshi pointed to an ingrown hair on his back, saying it was inflamed and causing him pain. It was then that Hajime had to explain that he’s not that type of medical professional, and that he should make an appointment with a dermatologist.

 The sun starts to set, but with the fun everyone is having they barely notice. The night begins to wind down once Hide yawns, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and it sets off a chain reaction of yawning that reaches every person at the table. Your son starts tugging on your sleeve, informing you he’d like to go to bed. Not wanting to leave him alone in the house and taking note of the exhaustion on everyone’s faces, you politely suggest to end the night early. A chorus of heads bob, indicating their desire to head home and sleep. 

All three of you hug and kiss everyone goodbye, waving to them as they drive away. You sigh from exhaustion and head inside to put Hide in bed. You and your husband hold each of his hands and take him to his room, pulling back his covers so he can climb in. 

He yawns again and closes his eyes, settling into his bed. “Night night Mama, Daddy. I love you.” 

You stroke his cheek lovingly before placing a kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight sweetie, I love you too.”

Your husband comes up from behind you to kiss Hide as well. “Sleep well, Hidetoshi. I love you.”

With your son asleep in his own bed, all you have to do is take off your makeup and brush your teeth before you too can sleep. 

You’re in the middle of washing your face when Wakatoshi comes into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“I enjoyed tonight, I hope you did too,” he says.

You turn around to look at him and smile. “I did, it was amazing to see everyone in one place. It’s been years since we were all able to see each other.” After you finish washing your face, you stretch and yawn loudly, telling your husband, “I’m getting in bed now, join me when you’re done.”

Climbing under the sheets, you nestle yourself into the softness of your bed. You nearly doze off right then, but the shifting of the bed under Wakatoshi’s weight keeps you awake just a bit longer.

He slides in behind you so he can spoon you, an arm slung over your waist. 

“Goodnight Toshi, I love you.”

“Goodnight, I love you too.”

Before he falls asleep, Wakatoshi thinks of all the things in his life that led him here, to you, his wonderful wife, and his precious son.

Leaving professional volleyball was one of the hardest decisions he’s ever had to make in his thirty-seven years of living, but the end of that chapter of his life gave him Hidetoshi.

He knows that every moment of uncertainty, suffering, and hardship was worth it because it ultimately led him to you and your son, to this life you’ve built together. 

He’d do it all over again a thousand times over if it meant that your beautiful, shining face would be there to greet him in the end.

[featherwriter]

<< Read from the beginning! >>

Sylvanni woke up, back in her cell, which in and of itself was an odd experience. Not a resurrection back up out of death, not the horrific torture room, just a normal awakening from unconsciousness. A sharp scent hit her nose as she breathed in and she quickly reached up to pull the now-spent sedative rag from her face. She couldn’t fully remember having been brought back to life or what had happened after her ‘show of loyalty.’ Whatever they’d given her to knock her out must have clouded her memory. 

Out of some vain, foolish sense of hope, she held her hand out and tried to call her Ghost to it. But of course, he didn’t come. Was I really expecting that to work? 

She slowly pushed herself into a sitting position and was surprised when something pinched at her lower chest. Frowning, she looked down, noticing that her garments were different. Rather than the undershirt and soft pants that she had been wearing during her captivity up to this point—the same things she normally wore beneath her armor in the field—she had now been dressed in something distinctly more Fallen.

A rough-spun garments of loose brown fabric tied tightly with marigold wraps acted as a makeshift sleeveless shirt and trousers, though the rigged contraption of cloth pulled in strange places when she moved. She half-feared the whole thing would come untied and fall off if she pulled it the wrong way. Over top of the awkwardly assembled clothing was a more presentable long tunic in the House Kings golden color, painted with the white House symbol at the knee-length ends. Upon closer look, she realized it was fully open on both sides, more of a tabard than a tunic. 

Securing this tabard—uniform? livery?—was a strange contraption wrapped around her lower chest and upper waist, and the source of the pinching discomfort she’d noticed. It appeared to be one solid band of a bronze-colored metal, bent and warped to completely encircle her body. It had been fitted to the narrowest part of her waist, and therefore dug in sharply at her lower chest and at the top of her hips, ill-fitting on both sides. 

Reaching behind, she felt around at the back of the flat plate, trying to find a joining mechanism, some kind of lock or a clasp. Instead, the metal felt crumpled where the two ends met, almost as though it had been wrenched into place by force. This thing, whatever it was, wouldn’t be removed by normal means, she realized with some discomfort. At the very least, the pain from the poor fit of it was nothing compared to the tortures she’d been through. She could deal with an over-tight wrap of metal if it meant no one was killing her in slow, creative ways anymore.

She pushed herself back to lean against the rough stone wall of her cell, pulling her knees up in front of her and trying not to think about being drugged unconscious while her Fallen captors stripped and redressed her in their colors. The thought of Eliksni claws on her skin made her nauseous, despite the endless other violations they’d inflicted upon her already.

Lowest of House, Erxaris had said. Kings Slave. And Sylvanni had promised to serve, hadn’t she? Paid their price in blood by her own hand, even. Not that the empty words about “loyalty” held any kind of weight after what House Kings had put her through, but if it would mean an end to the ceaseless cycle of pain and death, she could play the role. She could duck her head, let her captors believe they’d tamed a Guardian into something docile and obedient, endure whatever other humiliations they had in store for her. She didn’t have shame left, after all that. 

That is, after all, what I’ve always been good at, isn’t it? Following orders. Doing what I’m told. She’d bide her time as long as she needed to. 

“Well, well, Duv. I thought for a moment there that we’d lost you.” Uldren’s face appeared in the barred gap between their cells, clearly wondering where she’d been. His eyebrows raised when he saw her. “You’ve clearly found yourself something like a promotion. New clothes, even a cot to sleep on. What’d you have to give them for that?”

Sylvanni glanced beneath her, not having even noticed the rough bundle of a cot she’d been lying on. It wasn’t by any means comfortable, but it was technically softer than the floor. She sensed the hook in his question, trying to goad her into giving him an answer. He wanted to know if they’d broken her, if she’d given in to their demands. After everything that had happened, though, Uldren Sov’s needling barely registered. Nothing mattered anymore, not him, not the Fallen, not anything.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said blankly. She just kept staring forward at an unfocused spot between her knees.

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t I? You couldn’t have been gone for more than a week and then you come back wearing their colors, offered even a meager bit of comfort. Is this the measure of the Traveler’s chosen?”

“Maybe it is, then. What do you care?” She could hear that same empty tone in her voice, the words feeling as though they’re spoken by another person entirely.

He scoffed. “One week, that’s all it takes to break a Guardian, then. I’d have thought one with centuries of war and blood behind her would have greater fortitude than that. After all, I’ve been here longer than you, and yet, somehow they didn’t break me.”

“You have no right to judge me,” she snarled, a hot anger flashing within her unexpectedly. She started to lean forward toward him and then winced when that awkward band cuts into her again. “You couldn’t fathom what I have endured, Sov, because you’re still alive. Whatever you think they’ve done to you, it couldn’t even begin to come close. Do not speak to me of fortitude!”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t the hard smirk she was used to from the stuck-up prince, but something softer. Sympathetic. She thought the torture must have made her delirious, the expression was so inexplicable. “There she is,” he said gently. “Keep that spirit up, Duv. We’re both going to need it.”

Her face twisted, realizing what he’d done, how intentional the goading had been. She curled inward again, feeling a terrible vulnerability in how easily she was manipulated right now, even if it was ostensibly for her benefit. “For all you claim you haven’t broken,” she said with a quiet bitterness, “you seem to have been plenty loose-lipped with secrets about me.”

The statement seemed to catch him off guard, and he pulled back from the bars a bit. “What are you talking about?”

She laughed once, an empty sound again. “You’d deny it? House Kings all of a sudden knows things like how much sedative it takes to knock out a Guardian, knows how to disable Ghosts? You’re the only person I’ve ever met who could do that. How convenient that the Kings’ Splicers can do it too, now that you’re here. But no, just a coincidence. You haven’t broken under the pressure, right?”

“I….” He paused, eyeing her more closely. “What is around your waist?”

She almost snapped at him again, knowing he was trying to change the topic, but the knowing tone in his voice stopped her. She changed her sitting position to make it more visible, looking down again. “I don’t know what it is. I woke up with it. Some kind of… decorative armor, maybe.”

“Would you look at that,” he said cryptically, making her seethe again. “They must have needed to make it custom for you.”

“I know you only talk like that just to taunt that you know things that I don’t,” she says. “And I don’t appreciate it.”

Uldren didn’t answer that accusation either. “If you wish to know if I could identify it, you only need to ask.” As she opened her mouth to do just that, he cut her off with the answer. “It’s a prisoner’s stay, I believe. I’ve not seen one used before, but I’ve heard descriptions before. Curious that they would place one on you.”

“That isn’t exactly descriptive, Sov.” Her patience with his toying responses was wearing very thin. 

“By all means, Guardian, allow me to elucidate.” He leaned back, settling into a more comfortable position as he started to talk. “When a House takes prisoners, as you are no doubt already aware, standard practice is to dock their lower arms, a demotion to drekh.”

She rolled her eyes at his clearly Eliksni pronunciation on the last word, but didn’t interrupt. Show off.

“For higher ranked prisoners, however—Barons, Archons, possibly a Captain if they troublesome enough—docking arms on its own isn’t sufficient. Large Eliksni like that have such ether-rich blood that their arms would simply grow back after docking; it’s the starvation rations of a drekh that keep them from regrowing theirs. So, after docking a powerful prisoner, the stumps are wrapped in a stay like that to forcibly keep them from regenerating until their ether levels have dropped to a much weaker state.”

She put a hand to the side of her waist, trying in vain to adjust the uncomfortable tightness of the stay. “That doesn’t make sense. I don’t have an extra pair of arms under here to regrow. And even if I did, Guardian healing on its own doesn’t regrow limbs the way the Fallen can. You need a resurrection to fix something like that. They… specifically tested that.”

Uldren made an interested noise at that, like it was a fact he was tucking away for later use, then continued. “Well, as you might guess, a stay is more than just a practical restraint. It is also a symbol. It’s a status symbol for the capturing House, to have taken a prisoner powerful enough to need one. They’re usually constructed of bright metals like yours, to draw the eye to the docking, a way of shaming a once-great foe. It is a simultaneous humiliation of the prisoner and a trophy for the captor. In truth, Guardian, you ought to be flattered, I think.”

“Flattered, to be paraded about as a powerful enemy laid low,” she said bitterly. “Somehow I don’t see that as a compliment.”

He chuckled. “To each their own. Being a prisoner of status is still some kind of status. I say use whatever advantages you can get your hands on down here. I doubt we’ll have much chance of getting out of here if you don’t.”

She gave him a very long and hard look at that phrasing. “We, Sov? What makes you think I’d break you out if I was escaping? I feel like I’ve learned my lesson about what happens to people who try to rescue you.”

He feigned hurt, an insincere little pout on his face. “After all we’ve been through together down here, you’re still hung up about the tiny disagreement we had on Mars? You wouldn’t really leave me behind in here when you make your grand Guardian break out, would you?”

“You tell yourself that, Your Highness. See if I don’t leave your royal ass to rot.”

That got another smirk out of him. He always seemed most pleased when she was being snappish back to him. “You’d miss my sparkling sense of companionship in your travels.”

“I think we should resume that language practice we were working on, actually. Can you tell me how you’d say ‘Go fuck yourself’ in Eliksni?”

He laughed, and then to her surprise, chattered and clicked an Eliksni phrase back to her, which her vague grasp of grammatical markers let her deduce was probably exactly what she’d asked. “You should note,” he said mock-seriously, “that the phrase in our language may be an imperative, but in Eliksni, it is interrogative. Technically, it’s a suggestion grammatically. In case you were confused about the conjugation.”

“I’m sure it would have kept me up at night wondering,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“In fact, if you want to be really vulgar about it in Eliksni, you should actually put the phrase in the most formal register, which would be–” Another set of clicked words followed, similar enough in sound for Sylvanni to recognize that they were the same phrase, if slightly tweaked. She tried to repeat the sounds softly to herself, trying to figure out where the word breaks were, what order they were appearing in. This might have started out as a way to insult him, but she did have a lot of learning to do still. 

“You should repeat it back louder,” Uldren suggested when he noticed her mumbling. “If you’re wanting an instructor’s corrections, that is. You’ll never learn just talking to yourself.”

She looked him dead on, then with as much precision as she could muster, she told him to go fuck himself in Eliksni. With a grin, he corrected her vowels, to which she quipped that vowels in Eliksni should hardly count since there were so few of them. From there, it was easy to slip into simply another lesson, and though Sylvanni would never admit it, she was unspeakably grateful for the distraction it lent. 

For all Uldren Sov’s flaws and their thorny history, he was the only ally in this place that she had.

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[ashleyswrittenwords]

Whumptober No.7

I’ve Got You (Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker)

Series Summary: After Calamity Ganon awakens, Zelda is left alone and heartbroken. Now something horrible has happened to Link and no more is she merely tasked with fighting the Calamity - but also what is left of her knight.

Against her better judgement, Zelda unfurled from the ball she had cocooned herself into. Impa was long gone – back to the village that wasn’t too far from where she stayed stargazing. Chills snuck down her spine and her joints ached from the long period of stasis on the ground.

She rolled up into a seat, hands quickly rubbing at the crick forming in her neck.

There were a tumultuous number of factors that made this a bad idea. Even while knowing that, she didn’t feel the urge to return to the village where she knew she’d be safe and warm. There was a freedom in being alone, a hint of the independence she had always yearned for.

Now, her fingertips reached for the sky.

I believe he was looking for you.

Her movements stuttered and her arms folded behind her head.

The implications of that were obvious and to pretend they were anything else was childish, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t dwell on it any less. Nor would it spell that she would forget the way Link saw her for the brief span of time. It was almost him.

Almost.

Behind her was a cluster of buildings and within that light from several pitched tents. Zelda wasn’t sure how long she had been away. The songs she could scarcely hear coming from the village had ceased and she assumed that the only ones awake were the rotating night watch. Her nose scrunched at the brief comparison to her former guard. These people were far from that. Though some had formal training, the majority were simply men and women who had lost enough to follow her in protecting what was left of Hyrule.

It was confounding because it was her fault after all. Normally Impa would scold her into “corralling her thoughts”, but Impa wasn’t here to read her mind. Zelda could be as unschooled as she pleased.

A short walk is what she needed, or that’s what she told herself. She’d be a fool to waste a night like this. Other than the slight wading in the snow, it wasn’t hard to convince herself to do just that. The land laid out in front of her, the darkness not as fierce when the stars were there to light the way. The snow, however, hid small crags that made her trip.

She made an embarrassingly uncouth noise, found her bearings, and glanced back at the town she was temporarily leaving. At that point the distance would mask any uncouthness she could muster and it suited her just fine. Zelda wobbled up the hill to gain a better vantage point.

Castle Town had been once formidable. It had fortified walls to keep its wealth within and its enemies outside. For centuries, it had endured and even grown. On a clear night, one could spy the lights of Castle Town from the peak of Mount Lanayru – she would know because she had done it. A chill not born from cold met her as she stared at the black abyss of where the city was meant to be. Nothing but the dull hue of Calamity Ganon illuminated the castle.

As the princess, she should feel anguish and she had for a time. Guilt, sorrow, and grief rolled into one wedged deep. But no one human can keep living with that weight, according to Impa of course. Zelda found that she had only gotten used to it; dulled it, adapted to live with it. None of that was communicated to her Sheikah friend. Some things were better left unsaid.

Below her was the snaking Regencia River, winding from Hyrule Castle’s moats and to the south. Zelda had seen is freeze over before, but she recalled remark from Purah about the downward temperature trends.

Ice skating. That was something she missed. She wasn’t particularly good at it, as much as her father bragged. To anyone that discussed his daughter with him, Zelda was a renaissance woman to the fault of where the kingdom needed her most. Who was to call him out when her days were spent studying in monasteries and venturing across the country for holy springs?

Zelda glanced back at the village while biting at the inside of her cheek. Scaling down the hill left her completely out of view, but her feet had their own mind.

Her mother, however, was a little too honest. It was her smile that Zelda remembered the most, toothy and unadulterated. Always so perfectly her and bursting with optimism. Before the doctors had barred Zelda from seeing her mother alive again, she promised her that she would be able to surface her power. In a sense, she wasn’t wrong but it couldn’t have been what she had expected.

Zelda’s boots toed the edge of the iced over river. Solidness against rubber felt safe enough and once she had smoothed back any loose hairs from her braid, the woman had a surge of confidence. It bubbled in her chest and twitched the corners of her lips upward.

The boot’s heel picked up in hesitance before stepping on the ice altogether.

This was silly.

She took another step and the liberty to slide it across the surface, her stance wobbling in uncertainty. Another step when she regained it. Pale hands outstretched on either side of her. They traded heights frantically as nervous laughter trembled on her lips.

Surely, she had gone mad.

With time she created a gentle shuffling of feet and her subconscious dared her to venture further. Whatever she was doing was a pitiful bastardization of ice skating, but she’d be lying to think that having the correct footwear would make any difference.

A noise made her whip her head back to the shore. The swiftness caused her to misplace her weight and her back foot slipped forward. Her backside hit the ice harshly, pain shot up her sides.

“Dammit-”

The curse froze on her lips when a sharpness pierced through the air. It lasted long, as if snaking through the air. Suddenly Zelda felt it and her hands scraped up the ice only for her to fall again. The bank was so far with her, nearly halfway across the river’s width. Another low, cutting sound caught her ears and then the ice turned to large sectioned puzzle pieces.

Zelda held her breath, scrambling upward to see the world turn and capsize.

Her environment muffled. Shock stalled her muscles as icy cold invaded her senses.

Cold, cold, cold.

She kicked her feet wildly only to realize that she couldn’t tell which direction was up. It wasn’t until the weight of her boot suctioned her further into the dark abyss did she begin pulling herself to the surface. The first attempt was lame, and already Zelda’s muscles burned fiercely.

Anxiety gripped her. She kicked again, then again until there was nothing more she could give. Cold solid ice scraped her fingertips and despite the force she applied to her pounding, it wouldn’t give. In the murky water, Zelda watched how more air left her.

Screaming. She was screaming.

It was foolish. All of this was, she decided suddenly when her hands left the ice. Born a princess, soon motherless, a life of falling dominos left her an orphan altogether.

What was the point?

Meant to be Hylia’s servant, maybe. And she had been for a time. Now here she was, drowning in a river caused not by Ganon. Her lungs met the unforgivable water. It would soon be all black due to her closing her eyes or falling deeper into the river.

Life was unforgiving too. All it did was take. Zelda was all too willing to give: her time, energy, opportunity. Had it not been good enough for Hylia?

She just wanted to be happy – even if it took taking a few dedicated moments back.

The water jostled her.

Had she taken too much?

Solidness gripped her arm.

Her mother seemed happy. Is that why she died?

Then, her waist.

Zelda’s lungs hurt. She wanted it to stop.

“Death is only good when it’s swift.”

It was as if he meant to add that he knew from experience. He watched her with stolen eyes. His coat, too, was most likely stolen. The winter weather an excuse enough to mask what Calamity Ganon had done to him. She had heard stories of him tricking clueless people into giving him shelter.

Zelda hated him. This was not Link. How dare he pretend to be the same man!

But the string of her bow relaxed anyway because nothing good ever came from hope.

There was pressure on her chest. So much pressure that came and went.

The woman was taken away by Impa. The town was built into the hillside, so she found herself on a rooftop. Zelda was stuck in a fight with him. His grin was wild, drunk until she read his steps wrong and her arm was caught in the crossfire of his blade. It was a shallow cut only because he jerked back at the sound of fabric tearing. Blood pooled in the wound, but she rebounded quickly.

The jacket she wore was roughly being torn.

Then, muttering anger. “…never walk on river ice…”

Her short sword balanced in her hand as she met him once more. Link appeared laxed, meeting her blows with an unreadable expression – staring uncomfortably at her arm. The roof was sloped, and with him taking the upper ground she expected this to be difficult. Zelda hadn’t expected to be tripped by his foot and sent tumbling into a snowbank. He was gone by the time she recovered.

Unexpected warmth enveloped her. She clung to it, shivering violently. It was a moving heat that adjusted her until she was comfortably cradled. There was a crackling fire singing in her ears and something that was distinctly not fire. A haven she desperately clung to.

Zelda couldn’t feel much. Her hands were the ice that trapped her. She pressed her fingers closer to that warmth – she wasn’t burned, just pulled tighter. Exhaustion took hold of her mild consciousness. There was a smell that was familiar, but sleep overtook her before she could figure it out.

  “Princess?”

The sudden light made Zelda squint. She buried herself deeper into the quilts.

“Princess, please. Are you alright?”

Light nudges stirred her to lucidity. She blinked, adjusting to the brightness and then to who was in front of her. Esme stared with wide eyes, adverting them with a flush. Zelda shivered and, to her horror, looked down to see pale nakedness. The princess yelped, pulling the blankets around her tightly.

She was at the entrance of a barn; the doors were ajar. Beyond Esme was her soaked clothes laid out nearly on hay bales.

Esme seemed to take assessment, already with a steaming cup in hand. “You have your people worried sick, love.”

“I-I um,” she swallowed, sitting up. It was difficult to form words. She looked down at her forearm to see intricate bandages around her wound from last night. “Did you see anyone else here?”

Esme gave her an odd look, glancing around the small barn.

Evidently not.

[babysprouseisart]

Every story ever has its end or the summary of the thoughts on the past #sprousehart era and attempts to change the attitude of others to this illusionary world

Dear fellows, from the very first days of the origin and further existence of mankind on the planet, in each period more and more foundations, irreversible phenomena and laws in nature or the society in which man lived and continues to live appeared. Time is fleeting, night turns to morning, year to year, and every story ever has its end. You can object, say that this is complete nonsense, but unfortunately everything in our world is natural and therefore in the same way one story of two wonderful people - Lili Pauline Reinhart and Cole Mitchell Sprouse - ended.

Their relationship was and will remain one of the most beautiful and unlike in comparison with others, at least based on what I could witness, love story. And even though this love story began seemingly banal with an audition for the role and the set, it was so real, amazing, which many could dream about, with its special feature of gradual disclosure, so enticing, and that is why it probably resonated so much, along with other reasons.

Like any other relationship, this relationship was based on many things and included many reasons for existence. Starting with a slight interest in each other, first liking and flirting, then there was a strong and almost immediate attraction to each other that they both talked about, a passion visible in the way they acted out scenes together and in glimpses of information from others. Then, after some time, the romantic charm passed, and a new stage began – getting used to each other, building a joint life, adapting to the peculiarities and shortcomings of the partner, and it is during this time the couple tries to create a happy and satisfying relationship for each. Accordingly, everyone got a desire to stand out from the other, to be significant not only in the relationship, but also outside of it, which is why they kept their privacy and wanted everyone to perceive them as separate individuals. They clearly tried to control what they shared with the world, and gradually the amount of what they shared increased. We were lucky to witness many, even small, moments in their lives. We were allowed to see the whole development, although some of it was very hidden, starting with the sarcastic banter on Twitter, the tempting 'Tempt me!', then multiple photos of fans with them, then supposedly random photos of Cole, with Lili in the background, or other way around, then many other breadcrumbs, then expanding of the circle of friends where his friends are now hers and vice versa, family meetings following by huge support to the certain time, then an infinity of her photos taken by him, so divine and beautiful, as well as photos taken by her of him, then numerous long or not so long trips to various places, the first vocation trip together which was made public, then 'No comment!', then more words about love in public media, birthday wishes, comments, bouquets just like that and on special days, 72 roses, chocolate-covered strawberries, the way they were baking together, him making a grilled cheese for her, them watching the sunset at Debby's and the other times we haven't seen, the time when Antelope Valley has become an indicator, the most tender words about each other, endless heart eyes, her inability to stop sitting on his lap, and his habit of touching her shoulder, neck, jokes understandable only to them, the words of others about them as if they are friends for 20 years already, knowledge of each other's body language, bragging about wonderful sexy times and the beauty of each other, giving cute nicknames, comfort, joint red carpet moments, him shaking her of joyness, constant support and much more, what we could obviously notice in social networks, interviews, after videos/photos of paparazzi, almost complete idyll at first glance and so on. All this is certainly only what we were allowed to see or what we guessed having observed various facts and over time it has gotten more obvious, and it was an insanely beautiful experience to be a spectator of all this for which I am grateful that is why I sincerely wish myself and all of you to look at it from the point of view that you need to smile because it happened and not cry because it's over. Nevertheless sometimes if you get too involved you can start looking at it through the prism of pink glasses of love and admiration, enjoying every moment they directly or indirectly shared with us, and accordingly, the impression of a fairy tale is being formed that does not quite correctly reflect reality and it does not allow us to perceive the other part on the other side of the screen/social networks, because we simply do not see it. However, I don't want anyone to take it as if I believe that everything they shared was untrue and false, completely out of the blue. All I want to convey to any reader is that everything we saw was only in an unreal bubble of illusions, since the Internet and social networks, which are, after all, this very bubble in its essence, which we ourselves and they decided to form, allowing us to take it as they want and this is normal, and life is very far from perfect or dreamlike. That is to say life is such an unpredictable thing, where everything is justifiably natural and sometimes things just don't work out the way we would like them to, including relationships which are also a complex structure that is not easy to build correctly, sometimes even with a strong attraction and a strong sense of love, there are things that cannot be corrected or changed. As well as you cannot change the essence of a person and his worldview, his personality, internal or external qualities, his behavior, his views on life and goals, his mistakes and position in society, loss of trust, his moral and physical endurance, other side things like sharing very little time for the second half in connection with business or temporary work, unwillingness to accept any conditions, commitment, settling down or restriction of something, lack of compromise, fading feelings because of passed desire and passion, external factors, especially if we are talking about a public couple/popular people, such as dramas in social networks, created by fans or family/friends, stress from the strong involvement of others or non-acceptance of partner selection by relatives, and so on. Just sometimes if after a while two people failed to get accustomed to each other, as if a plant were transplanted into a new soil or some organ to the human body, thanks to some external or internal features, obstacles, be it custom qualities or external influence on each other with the constant tries for the reconstruction of another and over time awareness of the fact that what has been created by the supreme cannot be altered and adjusted for something else, becoming more and more negative, when one of them in its content can no longer learn to cope with the environment and the further continuation of the joint work of the struggle can lead to the bad conditions of both, with exhaustion from this struggle and, accordingly, to the death of cells. And all this exhaustion for whatever reason can also be theoretically and philosophically equated to the bowels of the earth and depleted sources. After all, a person get used to using fresh water, the earth's mineral resources, eating plants and fruits, vegetables, buying things, and so on, but sometimes it happens that this is either limited or ends and nature is no longer able to provide us with anything, after constant giving, and in return receiving only harm or damage. This is a very complex science and this is a life where, as I already said, many things are not the way we picture them to be. So many interpretations and/or reasons can and could be hidden behind all these failures/ends/dissensions/decays/breakups/bad moments in life, and I cannot even list all the options, but I have some general considerations on the specific occasion, but I do not want to start the speculation now and go into details about why and how I think the end of this love story that we all loved happened, cause it is not my business and I am no one to judge someone or even dare to talk about it when I am not them or relative/friend to any of them and I haven't seen the actual period of their relationship and how it was going from the beginning to the end except my own representation of everything based on this social-media bubble, and each of you can have your own thoughts and draw your own conclusions. However, it goes without saying that even after any obstacles, failures and heart and soul break and with the passage of time, everything constantly takes place to change in any way, people change, the behavior change, the attitude change, and so on, one moment the doors are closed, in the other you open them or they are opened for you so in the end a person finds their happiness and purpose despite previous mistakes and shortcomings.

The penultimate thing I want to say is that obviously, after all this, you are already starting to think about something and I really hope so, given what I said about life and bubbles of unreality in our time, and as you gain experience in this fandom and being a fan very much involved in all of this it can be very useful for us to eventually rethink how much we were involved and how much energy we were giving this every time, and I have already made a whole post about this. And particularly good for me were  the recent events when there is no particular food for thought and to be involved, I'm more and more alienated from the lives of other strangers, and the more time passes, the more relaxed I began to react to many things, although it also sometimes was hard to deal with all the drama and speculation, constantly think through all sorts of logical outcomes, since I am such a person by nature and I cannot be calm without a logical conclusion, and I am still digesting the whole situation happening since the beginning of this year with the fandom and the relationship of these two people, however, as much as I would not like to clearly represent everything and have a clear picture now it does not matter, the main thing is that it was and it just needs to step over, swallow and not give too much attention to this, because unfortunately we could not control the whole situation, we could not prevent what happened and what could have happened just because we are not the supreme or these same people and it is not our business.

In conclusion, even if some may think of me as a soulless person or that I do not care about others, know that this is far from it, I just try and will try to find a way out of the situation, reorganize and look at everything objectively and with a grain of salt because I believe that this is the right decision to be detached in any way from someone else's experiences, especially from those who are so far from us, and bad moments, so as not to have any attachment, hope and faith, so that it does not hurt us later. But I am certainly an emotional person and my heart just bursts with pain when I see that many people strongly bring down themselves and suffer from the fact that there was some kind of non-related to them co-ordinal change, although this is not the end of the world, and therefore I consider it my duty to try to somehow distract some of you and calm down on this account, as once I was helped by others and my own search for the right attitude.

[daesungfmd]

playlist 1.

seven songs describing different stages of daesung’s life so far.

lights, up we go  /  2008  ―  2012.

here, in a familiar place. we got our heads down and we pretend it’s ‘cause the night is dark and running out of space for us to run around, but it’s a dead end and money’s tight. it’s been a long time of this  ―  something has got to give. everyone here is ready to go, it’s been a hard year with nothing to show. from down this road, it’s only on we go. everyone here is ready to go, it’s been a hard year and i only know from down this low, it’s only up we go.

2008 is the earliest year of daesung’s life that he vividly remembers. before 2008, his life definitely had downsides, but he didn’t have much that he could rightfully complain about; at the end of even the hardest day, things were still… good. but 2008 brought more hardships than daesung was equipped to handle  &  saw his relationship with his mother deteriorating. they were both struggling, but instead of coming together to support each other, they frequently lashed out and simply made things worse. in the three years that followed, daesung became better at supporting his mother, but he rarely felt supported in return  ―  internally bitter with the idea that he was having to act as a parent, but in reality, she was so caught up in keeping their family afloat that she often fell short on the emotional side. they were also beginning to struggle financially (which only got worse and worse over the months, with his mom falling far enough behind that it didn’t seem like she’d ever catch up), which added a feeling of helplessness to the loneliness that daesung was (poorly) dealing with. generally a bad time all around, but they both continued to pretend that they weren’t struggling so no one around them would pity them, even though they definitely could’ve used some assistance. this was around the time that daesung became extremely ambitious (surprisingly). set high goals in his personal life, his school life  &  for his future career because……. life can not suck like this forever!!! it’s gotta be up from here, right?

john the ghost, red house  /  2008  —  present.

if you’re not everything, you’re nothing ‘til you try to be. nobody needs saving, just a little bit of empathy. you can’t save the ones you love, but who would really want to? who would really want to?

i touched on daesung’s relationship with his mom in the explanation for the previous track, but it goes a lot deeper than a few sentences could ever explain. before 2008, she was outwardly happy and very, very loving — after 2008, she hardly seemed like the same woman. she and daesung endured the same pain, but neither of them coped healthily. neither got counseling, either, so they often took their sadness and pain out on each other in the form of harsh words and accusations. more often than not, they were fighting. the only time they got along was when they were in daesung’s mom’s salon, and even then, they still argued quite a lot, just with softer voices. after the first year, they started to build back the relationship they’d had prior to 2008, but it was a slow process and often involved daesung taking blame for things that (usually) weren’t his fault & having to calm his mom down when she got too angry or sad. things never did fully go back to how they once were and even now, twelve years later, daesung’s still bitter over how things turned out. how he so often had to take on responsibility that he was too young to deserve and how she failed to emotionally support him like he supported her. he realizes that having to provide financial support took almost all of her energy, but still — it doesn’t change the fact that he felt like he was lacking parental love at that time and even feels like he’s still lacking it now. if you get them alone, a fight is almost always sure to occur, even if it’s a passive one that only ends with secretly hurt feelings rather than outwardly hurt ones. they both acknowledge the other’s suffering, but they’re both too clumsy and ashamed to apologize for the past twelve years or even give reminders that they love each other. most of their meetings are confined to her salon; a semi-public place where they can be semi-vulnerable without necessarily viewing it as a bad thing. they spend a lot of time together there, but rarely have conversations of substance and, as a result, they’ve both begun to feel a lot like strangers rather than family.

jimmy eat world, 555  /  2012   —   2014.

i keep my focus on the simple things, trying to find some peace along the way. i wish i knew how long i’m supposed to wait. holding on, but just barely. got the feeling i’ve been talking to a dead, dead line. there’s always a reason to let it change. is there anyone there listening while you cry, cry, cry? there’s always a reason for the pain. i’m doing the things that i’m told every day, every day, every day. then why does it feel like i’m moving in place?

training, in daesung’s opinion, simply sucked. he went into training completely blind, considering he didn’t even fully realize what he was auditioning for — just that it may or may not lead to him being a musician. the competitiveness was what hit him the hardest. he’s not a particularly competitive person, so he was more interested in making friends and having a good time (😔), but he didn’t encounter a whole lot of people who were as nonchalant as he was. he struggled to adjust to the trainee life and harsh criticism from trainers/supervisors hit him hard, being some of the first real criticism he’d ever received. he spent his two years as a trainee feeling really lonely, but he didn’t have anyone outside of the company that he could reasonably turn to — his lack of time meant that most of his friendships had vanished and he cut off all contact with his mom during this time, as well, so he couldn’t turn to her. he tried very hard to stay focused and optimistic, but his strength was wavering. especially because he frequently got scolded for doing things that he didn’t even realize he wasn’t supposed to do. felt like he was getting pushed around by life & the people around him, even though half of that was undoubtedly just self-pity amplified by his loneliness.

blackbear, i feel bad  /  2014  —  2016.

you’re so good at making me feel bad, at making me feel terrible about myself, good. you’re so good at making others hurt with only just your words, with only just your words and i feel bad. i don’t feel good.

daesung has a heart made of glass  &  his tendency to take things personal was a whole lot stronger when he was seventeen. sure, he was supposed to be the ~funny guy~, but constantly being the subject of jokes took a huge toll on his mental health in the beginning. he felt like no one acknowledged the fact that he’s an actual human being with actual feelings and, consequentially, felt like he wasn’t good for much aside from evoking laughter, even at his own expense. it didn’t help that inpulses hadn’t gotten the chance to know him on a more substantial level yet, so they, too, chose to make him into a joke. most comments or interactions at fansigns were ~playful teasing~ but enough ~playful teasing~ loses its humor, as he learned firsthand. eventually, he mastered the art of either initiating the jokes about himself so that they didn’t catch him off guard or swiftly changing the subject to something equally funny but not confidence-crushing. by 2016, he’d matured enough that he realized that’s just variety, baby! sometimes you gotta suck it up and get made fun of a little. learned to laugh at himself  &  fire back — nowadays, it’s virtually impossible to hurt his feelings with a joke and fans know him well enough to know that he’s more than just a jester.

glass animals, dreamland  /  2015  —  present.

you’ve had too much of the digital love, you want everything live, you want things you can touch. make it feel like a movie you saw in your youth, make it feel like that song that just unopened you. 

less than a year after debuting, daesung had already become bored of idol life. of course, it’s not like the industry itself is boring — it’s an eventful life with seemingly never-ending work hours, but all in all, it lacks the enthusiasm, color and realism that daesung has always, always craved. as a child and teenager, he already knew how big the world was beyond his own day to day life. half the reason he wanted to be a rockstar wasn’t because of his passion for rock music itself, but because of how rock ‘n’ roll is portrayed in the media. you can think whatever you want, but to daesung, their lively and borderline reckless lives appealed to him like nothing else ever had. to live like that — throwing caution to the wind, living for yourself and having fun was something he couldn’t fathom, but he wanted to experience it so bad. skip a few years in the future and he is a musician, but not the kind he wants to be. and nowhere near as free as he’d dreamt of being. his first complaint was backtracks on music shows; thoughts of how rock musicians would be called posers if they dared to perform without… well, actually performing. his second complaint was how strict the rules were. he learned to accept that there are extreme differences between idols and “real musicians” (as daesung himself would put it), but he still isn’t happy about it. you could say that he feels like his life is lacking something and possibly always will be lacking that something, but he tries to live as freely as he can while still avoiding ~controversies~.

grayscale, diamond  /  2016  ―  2018.

i know it took some time, but i got my footing right. feeling, i’m feeling so good tonight. can’t stop me from dancing, can’t keep me from blooming. welcome to my, welcome to my — this world is my diamond. 

as a public figure, it took some time before daesung was able to earn widespread approval. it’s not like he’s ever done anything controversial, it’s just that the rumors of him bring arrogant from next: origin story stuck around for a hot minute  &  his loud, impossible to ignore persona after debuting rubbed some folks the wrong way. by 2016, he’d managed to escape the negative opinions almost entirely and was able to ignore any lingering hate comments with ease. although he’s always had a happy and energetic demeanor publicly, any long-term fans could confirm in a heartbeat that he was the happiest from 2016 to 2018. during these two years, daesung felt like he was conquering the world — in retrospect, maybe this is really just the time when fame had him feeling the most invincible. but by 2019, there were other things factoring into his overall outlook, including his strong desire to break into acting versus gold star’s refusal to let him do so. he’s still pretty happy and grateful for where he’s at in life, but the elevated sense of self was left in 2018.

waterparks, lowkey as hell  /  2016  ―  present.

if you need me now, i’ll be there somehow. i’ll pick you up, we can ride. i’ll fly away like i bought my own airline, i’ll take you with me, we can ride. i’m highkey and lowkey as hell your diva, just wanna see ya. i’m highkey and lowkey as hell your sweetheart, don’t wanna be apart.

as a result from reading far too many hate comments about himself from next: origin story and promoting with songs that really, really embarrassed daesung, it took him a hot minute to fully adjust to idol life. he wasn’t sure what people thought of him (and as much as he tries to come off like he doesn’t care what people think, he definitely does), so he tried to shrink his presence as much as he possibly could. if for no other reason, then to at least get rid of the general public’s idea that he was arrogant. but by 2016, impulse had started making music that only slightly embarrassed daesung  &  he became more comfortable with the amount of attention that was on him. moreover, he become more comfortable with the love that his fans so readily gave him. he wanted to give them just as much of himself, even though the expected distance between idols and their fans made it hard to do so. since 2016, he’s been walking along a thin line more often than not, trying to get as close to his fans as he possibly can without ~breaking the illusion~ as his managers have so elegantly put it, even though daesung will argue that he’s not a magic trick and there shouldn’t be an illusion to begin with. he loves inpulses very, very dearly and constantly dishes out reminders in any way he can. he wants to be his best self for them  ―  not because that’s part of his job, but because he genuinely cares about who they are beyond a view count and nameless comments. their love and support is what keeps his spirits up and he wants to give them the same strength, no matter what. (aka daesung will never understand why he has to play a character instead of jus bein able to ACTUALLY be there for his fans)

[ohblessit]

So I could not, for the life of me, get this idea out of my head. There’s no explicit smut (sorry), I guess it’s more cute than anything. I think I was intrigued by the idea that changing sexes wouldn’t really change Jaskier’s personality or his general dynamic with Geralt at all, but I also couldn’t help but use it as an excuse to get them together. Summary: A mage accidentally turns Jaskier into a woman. Geralt finds that it offers him a new perspective on his longtime companion.

“Are you fondling yourself?” Geralt asked incredulously.

Jaskier flushed and guiltily brought her face out of the cloak she was covered in. It settled back over her newly feminine body, draping more normally over the breasts she’d clearly just been examining with her hands.

“Well you can hardly blame me,” she proclaimed. “I’ve never been a woman before! It’s a very… novel experience. And they’re very nice breasts!”

She seemed quite pleased by that, and Geralt could hardly disagree. He’d seen them. After the drunken mage had accidentally hit Jaskier with a rogue spell, Jaskier had ripped his shirt to pieces in agony during the transformation.

Geralt’s heart had been in his throat, watching Jaskier scream and writhe on the ground, clawing at himself as his body morphed and shifted. There had been nothing he could do. He’d threatened the mage at swordpoint, demanding he fix whatever he’d just done, willing to commit any atrocity to make Jaskier’s pain stop. But the mage had stammered horrified apologies, stutteringly explaining that Jaskier would come to no harm, that the transformation was painful but reversible. 

His words had proven true enough as Jaskier’s cries began to fade into breathless sobs, body wracked by residual spasms, but the bard had been whole and conscious.

He’d also become perfectly female.

Geralt had quickly gone to his-- her side, helping her sit up as she got ahold of herself and began to take stock of what had happened.

She was smaller, her hair long and her shirt in tatters, revealing breasts that were indeed pert and shapely. Her trousers were gaping at the waist but uncomfortably tight around her hips, and her boots nearly dragged right off her feet as she shifted her legs beneath her.

Geralt hadn’t hesitated to throw his cloak around her to protect her modesty, whether or not Jaskier would ever actually consider developing some.

The mage had offered to reverse the spell then and there, but Jaskier had shuddered, her fingers digging into Geralt’s arm, obviously unwilling to go through such an ordeal again so quickly. Geralt had snarled at the drunkard and shielded Jaskier bodily. Even if Jaskier had been willing to endure it, Geralt wasn’t willing to trust a mage so clearly off his senses with Jaskier’s wellbeing.

But the mage’s bumbling but sincere apologies won a strained smile from Jaskier, and the bard had forgiven the idiot for his mishap, reassuring him that being female for a while wasn’t such a terrible burden, and that the mage really ought to go home and sleep it off. Geralt had still rather wanted to geld the man, but had gritted his teeth and silently conceded to Jaskier’s good graces.

After that, he hadn’t wasted any time lifting Jaskier onto Roach and getting them out of there. She’d sputtered a little about the manhandling, but settled quickly. She was still shaking and couldn’t walk in her oversized boots, which Geralt had slipped off her feet and stowed in a saddle bag.

Now they were camped out in a clearing, watered and fed, and Jaskier was looking much better. She was feeling better too, if her curiosity about her new body had finally taken precedence.

“What do I look like, by the way?” she asked suddenly, fingers prodding at her cheeks. “I wish we had a mirror.”

Geralt took a moment to consider the question.

“You still look like yourself. I’d be able to recognize you even if I hadn’t seen you transform. Your features are the same, only… softer. Your jaw is smaller and rounder. Your lips are bigger, not as thin as they were. Your eyes are the same.”

It wasn’t poetry, but it was descriptive enough. Jaskier seemed to think so too, for she seemed encouraged and nodded.

“That’s good. I don’t think I’d like looking completely different. I’m shorter, aren’t I? I feel shorter. Felt a little off-balance getting off of Roach and I keep misjudging distances with my arms. That’ll take some getting used to.”

Jaskier was starting to chatter again, a good sign that left Geralt feeling relieved.

“Yes. Your center of gravity is in your hips now, not your shoulders.” Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long for Jaskier to fully adjust, but it would take them some time to reach Temeria in any case. Geralt trusted that Triss would be able to reverse the spell, hopefully with the aid of some herbs that would leave Jaskier unconscious for the whole experience. Jaskier had seemed buoyed by that idea.

She was wiggling now, testing the hips Geralt had just mentioned. Though she was covered by the shapeless cloak, the movement stirred a familiar heat in Geralt, much to his surprise.

Geralt had never thought of Jaskier as a potential bed partner, and yet now the thought blindsided him without so much as a by-your-leave. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. It was true that he went in for women more often than men, but Jaskier had been attractive as a man too, even well-suited to Geralt’s personal tastes. Then again, Jaskier had been young when they met, far too young for Geralt to have considered bedding in good conscience, and once Jaskier was of a more suitable age they’d already fallen into the settled rhythms of their friendship, unspoken terms and boundaries long since established. Certain things had changed over the years, but Geralt had never revisited the implications of Jaskier’s clumsy flirting during their early days. Perhaps seeing Jaskier as a woman was simply offering him a fresh perspective on the matter.

It was something to think about.

“Sing something,” he said.

Jaskier looked surprised at the request, but began to sing the chorus to Toss a Coin. She only got through a few words before she cut off with a startled, “Oh..!” her hand going to her throat.

Geralt nodded. “Your voice is higher, if still somewhat low for a woman. You’ll need to adjust for that too.”

Frowning, Jaskier cleared her throat and tried again, an octave higher. It worked better that time, and Jaskier continued, making adjustments here and there and repeating until it sounded clear and melodious as usual.

“Well,” she said eventually, “At least I can still sing for our supper. Although I’m going to need new clothes first.”

Geralt had considered that already.

“We’ve enough coin for new shoes and a dress in the next town if we share a bed.”

It was frankly an improper suggestion under the circumstances, but he didn’t give much of a damn and neither did Jaskier, if the way she brightened and agreed to his proposed solution was any indication. They’d known each other for too long to suddenly be self-conscious of such things, no matter if one of them had just changed sexes.

Jaskier brought out her lute and practiced for a time, adjusting to her smaller hands and fingers, while Geralt tended the fire and allowed the music to lull him into a relaxed state.

At length, Jaskier stopped and shifted uncomfortably, then cleared her throat.

“I, uh. I have to relieve myself,” she announced, frowning down at her cloak-covered body.

“Oh,” Geralt replied, somewhat awkward. “Do you need help?”

Jaskier looked embarrassed about it but nodded, getting unsteadily to her feet. Geralt quickly rose to assist her.

The lack of shoes was a problem, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that Jaskier was still uncoordinated in her movements. She walked well enough in the grassy clearing without much support, but once they got to the trees she had to step gingerly on leaves and over branches so as not to cut her bare feet, wobbling a little before Geralt reached out to support her. But they made it without incident, and Geralt turned his back to give Jaskier some privacy once she was squatted beside a tree, one hand on its trunk.

For a minute, everything proceeded as normal. But then the time began to stretch on and Jaskier was suspiciously quiet. Geralt couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder when Jaskier made a soft little noise, then had to double-take when he realized what she was doing, even with her back turned.

“Jaskier,” he said severely. Jaskier jumped guiltily. “Are you fingering yourself?!”

“Sorry!” Jaskier squeaked. “Only it’s right there and this is my first good look at it, and then I got curious how things are from the other side, so to speak…”

Curious, she said. With Geralt standing three feet from her. If there was ever a thought in Geralt’s mind that Jaskier might not be interested in having Geralt in her bed, it was expelled then and there. Not if she was both bold enough and comfortable enough to do these things in his presence.

Decided, he approached Jaskier as she began to rise, abashed, and threw her over his shoulder. She shrieked in surprise, wriggling in his grasp as he stalked back to camp. He ignored her shouted protests and smacked her firmly on the bottom, making her gasp and still. He could smell her sudden arousal. Though she couldn’t see it, he smirked in anticipation.

“If you’re so curious,” he purred, “allow me to help you out.”

“Oh,” she breathed, and made no further protest.

Some time later they lay together on Geralt’s bedroll, sweaty and sated in the warm night air.

“Gods above, Geralt,” Jaskier uttered huskily, catching her breath. Geralt’s lips twitched up contentedly, quite proud of himself. He’d made Jaskier come twice, after all.

“I should write an ode to your cock.”

“Don’t you dare,” Geralt growled.

Jaskier beamed at him mischievously and retorted, “I’ll only sing it to you. How about…

“Oh Geralt, he has such a cock, Built like a prize bully ox, He set me to howling, Gave me such a plowing, He launched away both of my socks!”

For all that he tried, Geralt couldn’t hold his disapproving glare and snorted with mirth. Jaskier giggled victoriously and the next thing Geralt knew, they were dissolved into helpless laughter.

“So help me, if you ever sing that in public…” But Geralt had a feeling his threat was not as effective as he would have liked, considering he was still smiling.

“No?” Jaskier giggled with false innocence. “Maybe something a bit more subtle?

“A quiet man, one might surmise, Possesses a tongue with few gifts, But that’s a conclusion so very unwise, For his talents can send me to fits--”

In a desperate attempt to save his dignity, Geralt dug his fingers into Jaskier’s sides and began to tickle her without mercy.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Hearts Like Ours

Had a chance to sit down and write out some Pearl Feelings, shoutout to @jeejyboard for the enabling encouragement.

Contains pearls cuddling and having important and long-needed discussions. Incipient VolleyPearl, with vagueish mentions of Pearl/Rose, Pearl/Bismuth, Pearl/every wlw in the tri-state area. Post-Volleyball and spoilers for same. No warnings. ~3200 words.

---

Hearts Like Ours

With the understanding comes an entirely novel type of relief. 

Pearl remembers - will vividly remember for as long as her gem endures - how it felt, years ago now, to finally work around that one last order and tell Steven, tell all of them, what they should have known for so long. The immense unburdening of the last, biggest secret just being gone, and the feeling of her gravity adjustment being just a tad off, a new lightness and ease to every step and every move she made.

This is new, and different. So much finally makes sense, and somehow, somehow, it makes everything just that last bit easier to deal with. The whys mattered a fair bit more than Pearl would have thought, perhaps.

The awkward silences in the Moon base, and the odd looks she could never parse despite being made for whim-fulfilment, and the hiding, the near-desperate burying, the secrets, the hands over her mouth, pressing, holding in--

The baby, wiggling in her arms, and the snow outside, and the mist catching on the windows of the van, and the bitter, bitter tears, and--

“She wanted this so much...”

Well.

A soft, satisfied hum comes from her right, in that voice that’s so much like hers while sounding nothing like her at all, and ah, this blithe, oddly endearing little puzzle piece she has found at long last, busy snuggling into the side of her neck as they sit overlooking the beach, soaking in another remarkably calm evening.

(A fascinating, if passing, thought: that pearls of all gems served as the impetus for so much.)

It is a tad strange, to have someone’s head on her shoulder while they are side by side like this. For the other to not have to bend down, or be kneeling next to Pearl standing, or any special arrangement needing to be made at all.

Not better, or worse in any way Pearl can begin to quantify. Just different. And how oddly wonderful, to still be discovering something after so many years and so many experiences.

The other pearl is pressed comfortably close. It’s nothing like the rich, vast softness, just made (dreamt up) for Pearl to get lost in like in a relentless storm of lush, rosy petals… or like the overflowing lava-heat radiating off arms and work-roughened hands both unspeakably strong and unspeakably gentle… or like the wide variety of textures and sensations and the odd complexity and fragility and endurance and fascinating inherent contradictions of the very human women she has had flit in and out of her life in recent times.

This is something new, again. Something Pearl has so far never really had. Made as she was just a tad too late - oh, bad timing is certainly part of it, but a part of it, too, is that that’s just how it was for pearls. The specific sort of loneliness. 

Well, she supposes Yellow and Blue were… colleagues and acquaintances, for as much as their paths happened to cross, but the Moon base came so quickly, and with it the Earth, and then… all the ages of isolation after that.

Despite Pearl’s best efforts, only a few pearls had ever joined the rebellion, and their stays had been tragically short. And much to her continued dismay and even after thousands of years of searching, none of them have surfaced among the corrupted.

Not yet, she amends internally. Not yet, is all.

It causes an odd twisting deep where her stomach might be, if she ever bothered to form one. Once, all of these pearls would have been considered too precious - or at least too inconvenient - to shatter. Repair and rejuvenation, as many times as was needed. But at least they’d still be, and not in… in the Cluster, or some horrible experiment, or who even knew where...

Pearl shakes her head, tries to shake the heaviness off altogether. Comparing fates like this is… difficult. And ultimately pointless.

It was their choice to come, Pearl recites to herself again and again and again, and finds that she always needs the reminder. Her encouragement had not been coercion. Ever. After all, so many had looked her in the eye and outright rejected the very idea of abandoning their posts, owners - lives, such as they were. And it was only some deeply ingrained pearl-loyalty and strange sympathy that made them reluctant to report and denounce her trouble-stirring outright.

“What are you thinking about?” Oh, how does she always sound so impeccably sweet? Where Pearl would surely be termed shrill and inappropriate and lesser according to yet another one of the labyrinthine, nonsensical sets of pearl standards. And- ah, there is a hand curling gently over hers now. “Seems serious.”

“Us,” Pearl replies without a second thought, then feels the blue rush to her face as she realises what she made it sound like.

“Oh?” Hopeful, almost, and the head lifts gently off Pearl’s shoulder, turning to face her better. Moonlight plays over the edges of the webbing cracks, and Pearl entertains an odd little thought about the inappropriateness of calling it her ‘bad side’ when, really, all sides of her were very good, if Pearl had any say in the matter--

“Us - all of us,” she stumbles to correct, “Pearls.”

It might just be her imagination, but there is a slight downturn to that mouth now, usually so stubbornly bent on smiling.

It’s far too early to classify their relationship properly, no matter how excellent Pearl is at sorting and categorising things. But there is clearly something behind the insistence on closeness with a very noticeable eagerness, something about the timing of her (rosy, rosy) blushes and fluttery gazes, the singling out of Pearl in particular…

Hm.

There is something to be said, too, for the comparisons Pearl’s own mind insists on making, the contexts she finds herself placing it all in near-constantly. And Volley - Pearl has, with her approval, shortened the nickname to a rather interestingly martial-sounding variant, significantly easier to wrap her mind and mouth about - insists on holding on to some part of Pearl at every moment available. It is certainly incredibly endearing. And perhaps it is something more, too.

“Do you have a type?”

One of those silly human concepts, perhaps, but, oh, does she ever. A few swipes through her cellular phone, a quick look through the lovely ‘selfie’ images provided by the various equally lovely human women over the past couple of years... the pattern is immediately, glaringly obvious. It is not something to be concerned with or ashamed of, she’s learned - Sheena, who has been a gift in so many ways, reinforced that in her usual teasing manner several times, and so have a few since--

Well. The unbubbled rose quartzes were certainly a terrible challenge in a myriad of ways.

“Do you have a type?”

Certainly. And this is nothing like it.

(Well, there is pink, of course, in abundance.)

A type.

All gems of the same type are… more or less… the same, in many significant ways. Are certainly considered the same. And all the accessories and appearance modifiers available, all the vast, varied selections and whimsical seasonal rotations, cannot really mask this, the essential sameness of pearls. The narrow shoulders and barely-there hips, a wisp-thin figure, bony, in human terms, though of course their forms contain nothing of the sort. The long, long limbs, prominent pointed noses, inherent floaty grace and almost exaggerated elegance, the array of shared mannerisms...

Pearl hasn’t felt this aware of her own self and her own projection in eons. Maybe ever. But here she is--

And here is another pearl. Just like her. But nothing like her at all.

She has learned, for example, that Volley loves when Pearl very chivalrously puts her jacket around her shoulders under the pretense of helping her keep warm - though naturally Gems do not feel the cold at all. She also seems to be quite fond of the casual arm slung around those same shoulders, and Pearl finds herself all too happy to oblige.

Something about the other pearl seems to prompt a spike of almost ridiculous protectiveness. Pearl wants so badly to protect and shelter and she doesn’t even know what from, but she does know that though she might not need to, not really, it feels… right. Good, even.

It occurs to her, as she lifts her right hand and traces her fingers lazily down a bare segment of a pale pink back - not actually bare, of course, or any different from any other part of a Gem’s projection, but Earth has its way of sneaking into your thinking - that she is affording another, this other pearl, this other Pearl, a level of gentleness and consideration she has never quite managed to afford herself.

An odd avenue for something like... self-love? Strong word, perhaps. Oh, but Bismuth would adore it, would joyfully crow about what a wonderful and utterly radical concept in the eyes of Homeworld it is, and what a terribly renegade-suited thing it would be, for Pearl to master it.

Perhaps? Again, it’s all still very new.

“Well I don’t see any other pearls around right now,” comes an almost-chirp from her side, jarring Pearl from her increasingly convoluted musings and into a chuckle.

Oh, Volley, always ready to fire one! A witty little thing she’s shown herself to be in the past few days - though of course the ‘little’ part is simply a very human term of endearment, as they are of exactly the same size in any dimension considered. Of course.

Look at that smirk, though, intolerable! Such quiet audacity, it’s utterly… charming.

Pearl draws little circles on the long palm, barely touching, and feels her own mouth pull irresistibly into a smile. “Hah! You got me there.”

Volley doesn’t comment, but winds her arm around Pearl’s in return, and Pearl for her part finds herself considering… sharing.

She traces another circle, then a more elaborate spiral branching out, as their hands rest gently against her thigh. Volley doesn’t seem to mind - seems to be quite content just following the lightly dancing fingers and imaginary shapes with a soft gaze. It’s a comfortable silence, one Pearl feels slightly reluctant to interrupt. The growing desire to share and maybe, just maybe, connect a bit more wins out.

“You asked me what she got me.”

The Oh? she gets in reply sounds mildly uncertain, but also curious.

Pearl clears her throat, very unnecessarily. “She didn’t-- well. Pink Diamond never wanted too much to do with me, back when- when I was her pearl and when we were still- erm, behaving like it? Except she didn’t want to - behave like it, that is. But not like later,” Pearl rushes to amend and clarify, “with Rose, not that kind of, er, non-behaving. I mean--” 

She huffs. Stars, always so damnably difficult to put into words, all of it! Even without any… restrictions in place.

“I mean... she never wanted me, really, not the way she was supposed to - me, the replacement. It’s quite clear to me now, in retrospect.” Especially after the- after our fusion. But that still seems oddly difficult to talk about with mere words, when the experience had been so… much. “She never changed any customisation settings, she never picked out any accessories…” 

“Oh no, that sounds awful!”

And Volley sounds so sincere and filled with such concern, and her arm tightens around Pearl’s in what is clearly an attempt at reassurance, but... 

In the end it was a very particular and peculiar sort of… relief, or unburdening, almost, to have not been wanted like that. Oh, it was terrifying at first - failing at her very purpose, an unwanted pearl - may as well have been a shattering sentence! But then the Earth with its wonders, and the rising, yearning chorus of I’m not yours, I’m not yours, I’m not yours after that day in the clearing, the daily struggle of becoming (and of wanting so very badly to be) the Terrifying Renegade, right-hand Gem and indispensable confidante of Rose Quartz, while still routinely playing Pink Diamond’s Dutiful Pearl whenever needed--

Stars, it’s no wonder she still has a giant mess of things to work through!

“You know, the only time I ever saw the Reef, aside from when they came to pick me up in the first place, was this one incident where I got damaged in a battle with a topaz, and we, the Crystal Gems, took over the spire we’d been besieging, but we - that is, Pink and I - were already late for a meeting with Blue and Yellow Diamond, when we were still supposed to keep up appearances, and, ah--”

She stops herself, and glances to her right. Volley is gazing at her, unblinking and unreadable.

“I’m sorry! I do tend to… ramble on.”

“I don’t mind.”

It’s a simple enough statement. Now, as Pearl looks up to meet Volley’s eye once more, she thinks about how very funny it is, how things end up happening, how fates work out -  could she have been the one cracked, bleached under millennia of direct control? Would Volley have risen to the occasion of an interplanetary war, with all the confusing subterfuge piled on top?

Pearl hums thoughtfully, and tucks a stray strand of hair neatly into a pink bun, slightly dishevelled due to its bearer’s recent insistence on cuddling into Pearl’s side, or under her chin, or anywhere within reach, really.

Sure, Volley may seem as unassuming and frivolous as a pearl can be to the casual outside observer, but Pearl finds she has very little doubt. And she finds she doesn’t begrudge her insistence on some rather sensitive lines of questioning, either, back at the Reef.

“I’m sorry I was… abrasive towards you, when we were going to the repair centre. Or demeaning towards things that clearly meant a lot to you. These are all difficult subjects for me still, as, ha,” Pearl leans in conspiratorially, “you’ve no doubt noticed by now.”

“I have,” Volley agrees with a tiny nod that almost makes her cheek brush against Pearl’s. Almost. “And I’m sorry I was trying to make you feel like you were... less important somehow. It was a very silly competition, wasn’t it?”

“I’m certain by now that competition between pearls serves nothing,” Pearl huffs disdainfully, “except to reinforce insidious Homeworld ideas and drive us away from each other when what we should be doing is drawing closer together.”

“I agree! That sounds just like what Bismuth and I ended up concluding!” Volley sounds increasingly enthusiastic, and her free hand comes up to gesture excitedly. “It was a very interesting and lively discussion. I enjoyed it a lot!”

Pearl blinks. “You’ve been talking to Bismuth?”

“I have! She’s very nice. Very passionate, and very thoughtful, too.”

Pearl raises an eyebrow at that. Not a disapproving one, she’d have to admit. “Yes, yes she is.”

She files her entirely-not-disapproving line of thought away for another time, and looks down. Their fingers have become entwined without Pearl even truly noticing. 

“Oh, all this talk, when I just wanted to say that no, I don’t have any ribbon wands or fans or hoops to show you. But I do have a great many souvenirs of… a different nature. Ones I very happily personally prefer, and treasure a great deal.”

She doesn’t doubt she’s already shared some of it, in their hasty, desperate, utterly amazing fusion - hard to be completely certain when that part is still a bit of a blur of sensation. But there would have been at least some quick thoughts of a few favoured sabres, rapiers, and spears while settling on a weapon best suited to their dramatic escape, with some flashes of feeling and memory tied to each.

“I can show you-- I would very much like to show you some of the things that mean a lot to me.”

“I would be honoured!” Volley blurts out with almost a squeak of delight and a little bounce, and the sincerity with which she clearly means it makes Pearl feel all fluttery again. “I-I mean… I would like that very much.”

“It took some time to figure out some of the more complex feelings involved, I can tell you!” Pearl waves a hand, trying to somehow encompass the entire contradictory tangle. “Receiving things - gifts, or weapons - or, well, both at the same time, usually, with what utter works of art Bismuth’s always insisted on making. All useful items, absolutely nothing like the decorative accessories one would associate with… things I was so, so eager to distance myself from. And yet!”

And oh, there it is, another novelty - sharing this with someone who is very uniquely poised to understand. Of course Garnet is an excellent listener, and always ready with her brand of steady reassurance. And Bismuth has always been the best person in the universe to vent to, and a great proponent of the benefits of the old frustration- and anger-releasing sparring match. There is empathy among all of them, parallels to draw from between all their varied experiences and doubts and struggles, and a tight-knit solidarity that’s had years and years to develop.

This is a very… particular thing, though. And Pearl is, er, pushing it a bit, perhaps - the last thing she wants is to inadvertently shut Volley down in some way by being overbearing.

“Oh, look at me going on and on and on, again! Do feel free to stop me. You can’t get a word in edgewise, poor thing.”

She tries to laugh it up and laugh it off - but Volley is oddly sombre at her side, looking into the distance, seeming lost in thought.

“You sound like you’ve done a lot of it, though,” Volley says. “Figuring out.”

The cracks on her face have stopped growing. Have receded a bit, even - not that Pearl is too ready to admit careful study of said face. Not quite yet.

“I have quite a bit to do myself, don’t I?”

“Probably,” Pearl agrees, all feigned casualness, “but you have all the time in the world to do it. Trust me when I say it can... take a while. And you’re welcome here, of course, for as long as you like.” 

“Thank you,” Volley murmurs, barely audible over the sea breeze and lapping waves. “You’ve already been such a help.”

“So have you!” Pearl replies, voice softened to match, taking her hand between both of hers. Enveloping, but not stifling. “I’m glad. I hope I can continue to be.”

Volley doesn’t say anything to that, but somehow manages to squirm even closer, head coming to rest against what is clearly shaping up to be her favourite spot on Pearl’s shoulder. They’re both tangled up in Volley’s diaphanous skirts like this, and it feels like, oh - yes, that was definitely some gentle and oddly delightful burrowing into the side of Pearl’s neck just then.

Pearl lets her own cheek press lightly against a pink bun. When she starts to hum, nonspecific and soothing, she hears a light counterpoint slowly weave in.

[yodawgiherd]

Mindfuck

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Rating: M Setting: Post-canon, inspired by the current manga chapter (121) Obviously, spoilers below, proceed at your own risk.

Prompt: some fluff/smut Eremika with no angst plz

Hey I did my best :D

The meeting was boring.

And who could have predicted that winning a war, facing and surviving an invasion, and least but not last literally stopping the end of the world would have such incredibly dull consequences. One day there is fire and death everywhere, bombs are raining from the sky, and the next morning there’s suddenly a pressing need for new tax policy. It’s been months since the battle, yet there was always something else to discuss. Damn politics.

Adjusting his position on the chair, Eren did his best not to look too out of it, as he certainly should not. It was a privilege that he was even allowed on these meetings, a courtesy of now speaking queen Historia, who was one of the very few people who still believed in him, even after everything that he’s done. And Eren understood it. He understood the looks, the gossips, the way people avoided him, if they could, he did betray them after all. Sure, he had ulterior motives that saved them all in the end, but people needed someone to blame for the suffering and deaths that happened in a direct consequence of his actions, and he was the logical target of their scorn. In a way he welcomed it. He was used to it, the hate, and putting up with it was a small price to pay when the people he really cared about understood his motives and found it in their hearts to forgive him. That’s what mattered.

In an effort to prevent himself from falling asleep, which would be very, very inappropriate, Eren let his eyes wander over his fellow council members, trying to decipher what kind of trick they were using to manage to look this focused. Armin, sitting next to Eren, didn’t let his gaze falter from intently hanging on every word the queen said, most likely already making plans in his head. He was like that. Jean, the newly promoted leader of survey corps after Hange’s voluntarily resignation, was also watching the queen, to Eren’s slight surprise. He changed so much in the last years, matured, in a way Eren would never predict. The only one who was not completely taken by the speech seemed to be Levi, with his explosion-scarred face and permanently closed one eye, who had his remaining one trained on the tabletop, frowning at a patch of dirt that somehow found a way into the otherwise pristine room. Eren didn’t know who oversaw the cleaning of the meeting room, but whoever it was, he was about to get it. Finishing his little inspection circle, Eren’s vision finally came to rest on the person sitting next to him. His best friend, and recently also something more, albeit only in secret.

Mikasa was dutiful as ever, her face focused while listening to Historia, the only sign of her slightly wandering mind being the one hand that was playing with the end of her scarf. The old thing looked even more ragged than before, in contrast to the pristine new uniform with the flashy badges, the symbols of her recent promotion. She was a captain now, taking Levi’s old place, as the old soldier was no longer in any condition to fight. It was a miracle that he was still alive, Hange told Eren, the injuries he sustained should have killed him on the spot, yet he somehow survived. When the dust settled, Eren found the scarf back in the now half-demolished building sitting on the table, untouched by the explosions. Not surprised in the least that Mikasa had left it behind because if their places had been reversed, he would most likely burn it on the spot, Eren gave it back to her with a heartfelt apology after the battle, hoping that she would forgive him. She accepted both the scarf and his words, warily, a notion which he understood, and they both went on with their lives, separately. For a time at least.

After everything that happened Eren really did his best to give Mikasa space. To think about what happened. To decide if she even wants to be friends with him anymore. Immersing himself in the work given to him by Historia, who came back after giving birth to her son somehow rejuvenated by the whole ordeal, Eren had his hands full most of the time. But in those rare moments when he didn’t, he found himself thinking about her. Dreading the possibility that she would perhaps decide that he was not worth her time anymore. That the whole secret plan thing was cool and all, but he still hurt her too much to go on. And most of all, fearing that he would just wake up one day to discover that she’s gone, taking Kiyomi’s offer to return with her to Hizuru and leave everything and everyone, Eren included, behind. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. And slowly, carefully, in measured steps and small gestures, Eren and Mikasa found their way back to each other. As the city and nation around them slowly rebuilt itself from the ground, so did the two of them worked on their relationship, laying new foundations, creating the very thing that burned to the ground, same, but somehow different. They were different people now, both of them, changed by the war, their experiences, the pain, and suffering they endured, but even those two new individuals found themselves drawn to each other. The childish fondness was gone, replaced by something else, something that made Eren question what it was, unable to truly name it, until one evening when one thing led to another and he found himself spending the night in Mikasa’s room. In her bed, to be specific, with her, doing things of questionable morals but feeling so incredibly good that neither of them cared.  They didn’t really talk about it after, the subject rather difficult to discuss, but as actions speak louder than words, more and more often Eren would spend the night in the newly promoted captain’s quarters, as her bed was much more comfortable than his, a perk of her rank, no doubt.

Between his day-work on rebuilding the city and the night shifts of relationship rebuilding, Eren did his best to explore and understand his new abilities. Ymir was gone, meaning that the full potential of the founding titan was his, and the possibilities seemed endless. There was so much more to it then any other of the titans, the deep connection to the whole Eldian race, Paths and everything about those, Eren didn’t understand almost any of it. But he was trying. Hard enough to get at least some measure of control over them, allowing him to remove that stupid time limit from shifters lives, that made him sleep easier at night. Another thing he practices was entering the Paths at will, and right now, to escape this meeting, that was just the thing he needed. Casually, Eren leaned forward, slowly creeping his left hand closer and closer to Mikasa’s, as he needed a direct skin to skin contact for his plan to work. Checking to see if no one was watching him, he was pleased to notice that everyone, save for Levi, was still paying their full attention to the queen, so proceeding with his desired intention, Eren continued. Mikasa finally seemed to notice the way he reached for her, turning her head slightly to raise an eyebrow at him, but luckily she didn’t move away, and he was finally able to reach her, pressing one fingertip against the warm skin of her wrist. That was enough.

Entering the Paths was always an experience of its own, the way reality disappeared around you and was replaced with an endless plain of sand, with a massive glowing crystal tree in the middle of it all, so titanic that the branches disappeared into the sky. It was not a scenery that one could forget, and it must have been even more impressive for Mikasa since she was here for the first time. And rudely abducted without any warning, mind you.

“Eren? Where are we?”, grey eyes darting left and right, she was taking the whole thing in at once, and he could only guess what was going on behind those orbs.

“Don’t panic.”, reaching out, Eren put a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her, “We are in the…”

“Paths.”, she finished for him, “I see. Impressive.”

“How did you know?”

“A guess. You described it pretty well when you were being interrogated.”, Mikasa moved, slowly coming over to the tree, eyes full of its magnificent light. “It’s beautiful here.”

As she was out of his grasp now, Eren put his hands in his pocket, following her at a leisurely pace, feeling a bit as a kid showing off his new toy to a friend. She was the first one he took here, and maybe even the only one because there was something intimate about this as if the Paths were a part of him now, and Eren wasn’t sure if he was ready to share it with anyone else but her.

“So the founder was here?”, she asked, eyes still trained on the shining column.

“Ymir? Yes.”

“And where is she now?”

“Gone. After I took her power her body simply…dissolved into the sand.”, Eren sighed, remembering the moment, “It wasn’t her anyway, not really, the girl’s mind was long gone, what was left behind was the body and power, fueled by will. Nothing more.”

By will and Zeke’s commands, he could add, but it wasn’t easy to talk about his brother. When his plan failed, Zeke just sort of shut down, became crestfallen and wouldn’t talk to anyone. He was detained right now, somewhere below ground, and Eren was not allowed to see him, a ban that made perfect sense.

“Since the founder is here no longer, does that mean that all this is yours?”, Mikasa asked, finally tearing her gaze away from the tree to look at him.

Eren shrugged.

“I guess. No one else has come to claim it.”

“And what can you do?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.”, coming to stand next to her, he put a hand on the tree, feeling the warm rush of energy inside it, “I can travel through memories, but that’s not all. When I’m here, touching the crystal like this, I can alter things, things about us, Eldians.”

“Like removing the titan time limit?”, she suggested.

“Yes, but that’s not all. When Zeke was here, he wanted the founder to take away our ability to have children. Now when I have the power, does that mean that I can do things like that too? Make us immortal? Immune to disease? Make everyone sprout wings?”, with a laugh, Eren shook his head, taking a step back away from the crystal tree and its temptations, “I’d never guess that those would be the questions I’d be asking myself in the future. Those are things that god is supposed to be solving not me.”

Looking away from the lights, he focused his eyes on Mikasa.

“I’m no god, I’m just Eren.”

Smiling, she mirrored him, coming to stand next to him in front of the giant structure.

“So, just Eren, why did you bring me here in the first place?”

“I…uh… wanted to talk?”

“Talk?”, it was kind of obvious that she didn’t buy that, the smile that curved her lips rather mocking, “That’s it?”

“That, and the meeting was boring, so I figured we could pass the time in some other way.”

“How does it work anyway, the time here.”

“It’s irrelevant as long as we are in the Paths. I can make it flow as fast or slow as I want to for us. Or stop it entirely.”, he grinned, “Right now, it’s the same speed that the normal world, which means that every second here is a second that I won’t have to sit on that meeting.”

“You rudely pull me out of an important meeting into your own private dimension just so we can have a chat.”, Mikasa shook her head, “Sounds like someone is developing quite a god complex, no matter what he says.”

“Is that so…”, taking her hand into his, Eren pulled her closer until their bodies were pressed right against each other, looking down at her from his taller perspective, “What if I told you that maybe I had something else in mind when I brought you here.”

“Well that would be even worse,”, smirking up at him, Mikasa didn’t seem shaken by his sudden aggressiveness, “and as your direct superior I must remind you that it is fully within my power to have you punished for such indiscretion.”

“What kind of punishment do you have in mind?”

“I’ll think of something.”, she whispered, head tilting back almost automatically as the distance between their faces kept growing smaller and smaller.

“If you think that bringing you here was rude,”, Eren muttered, going in for the kill, “you’re going to hate this.”

And he kissed her.

Scarf, uniform, pants, everything was falling from them in irregular intervals, littering the endless sands of the Paths. She was so beautiful, in the ethereal light of the crystal, and when Eren told her so the blush that spread across Mikasa’s cheeks made her perfect pale skin stand out even more, although he wasn’t given much time to admire it, as she pulled him back down for another kiss. She tried to have more control over what was happening, but Eren was like a storm, and before she realized it they were both completely naked with Mikasa’s back pressed against the smooth warm crystal tree, Eren hoisting her up so she can wrap her legs around his hips. When he entered her, the moan that the penetration tore from her throat was shameful, enough that she covered her mouth with a hand, but he wouldn’t let that stand. Holding her up with one hand, a proof of his impressive strength, he gently pulled her improvised cover away, breathing heavily.

“Don’t need to be silent. We are alone here.”, his eyes were like green embers, burning into her just as his touch seemed to burn her skin, “I want to hear you.”

“Okay… Okay…”, putting her hands to work elsewhere then, she wrapped them around his neck, bringing their bodies as close together as possible, and hissing into his ear, “You want to hear me? Move then.”

And he did, he moved in slow and powerful thrusts, making her increasingly more sweaty back glide up and down on the crystal, which was pulsing with energy in sync with Eren’s movements. Somehow, the Paths were now connected to his mind and seemed to react to whatever he did. With the pulsing growing stronger and stronger, more frequent, the sky above their heads darkening, Mikasa could clearly deduce that he was close, but still her world was the first one that went white, and she rewarded Eren’s efforts with as many sounds as she could produce, since he was so keen on hearing them. And after they were both done and spent, he gently lowered her to the ground, but Mikasa’s legs gave out from under her and they ended up laying on the sand, watching the sky that was slowly brightening again. The crystal tree was also looking as tired as a tree made of crystal can look, the light inside it dim.

“You know what?”, Eren finally said, turning his head to look at her, “I don’t mind this kind of punishment.”

She grinned, swatting his shoulder, but he caught her hand, kissing the tattoo in her wrist instead.

“I feel like we horribly misused this place.”, she pointed out, “Using Paths as a safe place to fuck ..…”

Mikasa usually didn’t talk dirty, so this easy use of swearword suggested that she was still riding high on the afterglow.

“Got to say, I still prefer the bed in your quarters. I don't like sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."

“Good thing that we are not here physically then.”, Eren offered, “Don’t have to deal with it when we get out.”

“I guess then it's about time we head out?”

“Yeah.”, squeezing her hand, Eren offered her a last grin, “Good talk.”

Returning into your body from the Paths was a bit less pleasurable. Sure, the sand didn’t carry over, but the products of her body, both sweat and the mess that she now had in her pants, did, making the last few minutes of Historia’s closing speech rather interesting. Not mentioning that Mikasa felt like she ran a few miles, and her legs were still weak. Next to her, Eren must have also arrived at a similar conclusion, but all he could offer was an apologetic shrug.

“We are not doing this again.”, she hissed his way, when the queen ended the meeting and everyone was standing up, masking her voice with the sound of scraping chairs.

“Never?”, he asked, all innocent all of a sudden.

And when she thought about it…. Yes, she had to get a change of underwear and yes, her skin was clammy, but hell, it was so worth it. So, making a decision, she leaned closer, whispering right into Eren’s ear.

“Only until the next boring meeting.”

[lovehotelreservation]

Give Me Your Fior Di Latte - Seniority

Summary: Being the affluent heir to a flourishing pharmaceutical company, it was easy to say that he had access to anything and everything he could possibly ask for.

Except for what he desired most, so close within his grasp yet still so far away. His superior at work: You.

And he just couldn’t endure this any longer. [Business AU]

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Reader/Fugo

HELLO

HI

SO

THIS IS BACK

I THOUGHT IT'D BE BEST TO PAIR THIS IDEA WITH MISTA'S AND I BLAME THIS PIECE ENTIRELY ON THE LEWDIE SENPAI-KOUHAI DRAMA CD THAT ENOJUN (FUGO'S VA) DID

IDK AT THIS TIME IF THIS WILL MAKE THIS WORK OVERALL A SERIES BUT ALAS IF THE TIME 4 FIOR DI MILKING ARISES

THEN SO IT SHALL

A R I S E

ANYHOW I HOPE U ENJOY!!!

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

Another day, another country, another meeting.

And yet Fugo was experiencing an all too familiar bout of anger.

He was sure to read up on Japanese cultural etiquette prior to this business trip to Japan--as the heir to one of Italy's most prosperous pharmaceutical companies ought to do--but he still could not contain the admonishing hiss of his voice while his hands seized hold of a wrinkled, lilac-colored collar.

"What the hell are you wearing?! Where the fuck is your suit jacket, you idiot?!"

Having shuffled away to an empty business room, Fugo was not holding back his anger in the slightest while he shook away at a flailing and whiny Narancia, who served as the company's hapless intern while also being his closest friends from college. While Fugo excelled in his studies to be able to graduate in less than 4 years, Narancia was crawling through his 5th year and was in need of an internship to meet the prerequisites for graduation.

Lazy, stubborn, ever and easily distracted--friendship or not, this was the makings of an ever volatile working relationship between the two.

Such was the advice to never do business with one's best friends.

And now, here Fugo was, having to prepare and close an extremely crucial deal between Rinnovo Inc. and the board of one of Tokyo's most prestigious psychology medical group. The meeting was in 15 minutes. Rehearsal was supposed to occur an hour earlier, were it not for Narancia sleeping in after partying it up in Kabukicho the night before with other members of the team and having just now rolled in the same suit clothes he passed out in.

It was clear that Narancia forgot his portion of the presentation.

It was also clear that Fugo was about ready to slam his best friend face first onto the sleek, wooden conference table right beside them.

At least, just until he was reminded of the third presence in the room by the hand that gently rested on his shoulder.

"Panacotta, please--calm down."

It wasn't instantaneous, but the sound of your voice and the weight of your hand was enough to clear away the burning, hot red fury that was obscuring his narrowed pink eyes.

Though Fugo was meant to be an heir to the company, there was still much that he had to learn and experience on his own, even to just work alongside his father. The knowledge he needed would be taught by you, the senior manager he was currently shadowing at work. In a sense, he was on the same page as Narancia, the both of them following after your footsteps to better themselves as businessmen.

The first time he made your acquaintance was during his first year of college, having passed by the office to collect research material for a paper he had to write. You were sitting in the lobby, looking so nervous as you awaited to be called in for your job interview. Having just graduated college a few years ago, your beauty left him entranced, along with the bubbly warmth you exuded, one that was so foreign to what he was accustomed to in face of the cold and corporate atmosphere both at the office and at home.

His paper forgotten, he opted to instead stay with you, wishing to ease your nerves as best as he could while also wanting to get to know you better.

Truly, he hoped for nothing more than for you to get hired, now feeling inspired to take up an internship at the office as opposed to begrudgingly doing so.

Even when he happened to notice the golden band around your ring finger when you adjusted your portfolio one last time before offering your thanks and following the secretary to meet for the interview.

That same hand was on his shoulder now.

Sans one wedding ring.

"Captain..."

Those deep inhales you always advised him during bouts of anger were necessary.

Even if you never failed to leave him breathless.

His grip on Narancia's collar loosened as he turned to towards you, his expression beginning to soften while he faced you fully.

Your demeanor was calm, soothing, added with a small but sweet smile on your face. "What's done is done, so let's focus on how we can fix what's going right now, alright?"

Fugo took in another breath.

There was another matter that he needed immediate assistance with, something only you could fix, one that tore at him from within upon each passing day he was left to silently endure it.

He exhaled. "Yes, captain..."

"Still..." You peeked around him, a sigh released from your lips as your expression turned exasperated. "Narancia, you should really take more care, especially with important meetings like this."

The hard thud of Narancia falling to the floor on all fours followed, his head lowered. "Captaaain! I'm sorry I fucked up! I promise I'll do better next time! I'll drink margaritas instead of vodka when I go out!"

While Fugo found reason to forget finding peace and instead seize back his rage, you studied Narancia's physique while you considered what would be the best course of action.

Thankfully, the answer was simple as it was effective.

"Just be glad I decided to dress for comfort today, Narancia. Here...this should fit you since I sized up on it."

Fugo stiffened, his eyes immediately directing away from Narancia towards you, watching as you shrugged off your blazer before offering it his befallen friend. While your top was modest in presentation--not too much skin exposed--the material was form-fitting, made more apparent now that your blazer was gone.

While any moment spent watching you was pleasure at its peak, all Fugo could feel was the vicious sting of jealousy as his best friend eagerly seized hold of your blazer.

"Wahh! You're a lifesaver, captain!" Narancia cried out while rubbing his face against the fine material of your blazer. "I won't let this happen again! You can count on me!"

You began to giggle, reaching down to pat and stroke his head with delicate pressure before playfully tugging at his hair. "You better!"

And so Fugo had to take in another breath.

"Now," you remarked while smoothing down the front of your top. "I'm going to make sure the powerpoint is running properly." Taking a step ahead, you brought your hand to Fugo's shoulder, your expression warm and trusting. "Panacotta, please make sure Narancia's ready!"

He refrained from glancing at your ringless finger, his eyes wishing to never break contact from yours. "You can count on me, captain."

Your hand retracted.

Your feet stepped aside.

You left the room.

Though your scent lingered.

And Fugo felt cold.

It was an icy chill--an achingly familiar one.

He wasn't sure why of all times, but he was getting a sense of deja vu to when you had to take leave for a few months. The only difference between now and before was back then, your stomach was much rounder.

"I never wanna take this off. It smells exactly like captain!"

With no time to be bitter, Fugo was yanked out of his reverie, his head sharply turning to see Narancia still on the floor, moaning dreamily while nuzzling his face against one of the blazer's sleeve.

You weren't around any longer, and thus returned his vision of crimson.

"Fine, since you like it so much, I'll staple it onto your skin if you'd like," he snapped under gritted teeth, taking a few hard stomps ahead to drag his friend up to his feet by the hair.

Narancia let out a yelp, his violet eyes immediately narrowing in defiance before swatting away Fugo's hand with a grunt. He brought his hands up to his hair, quickly patting and smoothing down any disturbed locks. His tongue immediately shot out as he tsked, "Hmph, whatever, Fugo! Your younger age really shows you know!"

Holding up a finger, he proceeded to wag it while an all-too knowing smirk slid onto his lips "It's a good thing captain's already a mom and knows how to take care of brats like you--!"

Fugo immediately lunged to grab the stapler on the conference table.

It was nothing short of a miracle that the two of them managed to get ready on time.

But while Narancia was more or less prepared at last, Fugo's mind was elsewhere, having followed the trail of his eyes with every glance sent your way. Despite the composed expression on your features, he could tell you were cold from the air conditioner in the conference room. Your hand would reach up to rub over your arm every now and then, and he was ready to simply offer you his jacket.

Both for your comfort and to cover you up in face of all the other businessmen in the room.

After all, with the snugness of your top, the definition of your curves were outlined as was how profoundly supple your breasts were, looking still so full and big, as he was aware that you were still nursing your baby.

His attentiveness of you, however, was what caused him to be caught off guard by a question made by one of the board members. He was truly at a loss for what was said--context, his place in the presentation, everything. His eyes shifted to yours for a moment, seeing the confused, if not concerned look in your gaze.

A heat was beginning to crawl up his neck, one of embarrassment, of shame, and of frustration.

But before things turned disastrous, all it took was a quick intervention by Narancia, who was able to answer in Fugo's place, doing so to segue things over for you to explain instead.

Though there was relief, especially as Fugo scolded himself inwardly while returning his focus to the presentation at hand, there was still a lingering, burdensome feeling that he was in dire need of relieving in some way.

Much was presented, business cards were exchanged, hands were shook.

The meeting wrapped up to a seeming success, with the board wishing to hold a follow-up conference call next week to discuss moving forward on a joint venture with Rinnovo. From an utterly stressful, nerve-wracking morning to a lively and raucous dinner at a warm, smokey izakaya bar in a crowded Shinjuku alleyway, your team was in a celebratory mood.

Platters of grilled and fried delicacies covered the low wooden table that you and the rest of the Rinnovo's representatives were knelt before, all while each of you mugs of beer and cups of sake raised in yet another toast.

"Everyone did so well!" You chirped towards your colleagues, holding up your glass of water just before your gaze lowered down to your lap, your smile becoming amused as you continued, "...especially you Narancia! Your improvisational skills really helped us there!"

Having found much comfort in resting his head upon your lap, a flushed and grinning Narancia smiled up at you dreamily at your praise, snuggling into the blanket that was your blazer before responding with a slurred, "'Schank you, captain! Above all elsh, I din' wanna dishappoint yoo~"

"Well you're certainly being a nuisance to her."

Snorting right beside you was Fugo, who only rolled his eyes while he sipped his beer. For as celebratory at you and the team were, there was a standoffish, sour mood that he exuded, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to be elsewhere than here. It made you concerned, as you were certain that something was bothering him, of which you anticipated needing to speak to him about as a superior should.

Still, that was a matter for tomorrow.

In the mean time, you were about ready to depart. The hour was getting late and you wanted to return to the hotel, as you had plans to call back home before you turned in for bed. Wih you out of the country, your child was left in the care of your mother, who had been your main supporter in light of your current situation.

Fugo, having had enough with dealing with the drunken antics of Narancia and the others, offered to escort you back to the hotel. It was for the better any how, as the departure for the both of you was delayed by Narancia whining and begging for you to stay as his pillow, of which Fugo was quick to reprimand him for.

However, aside from that, he was quiet on the taxi ride back. You attempted to probe into what was bothering him, but he assured you that all was well and that he was simply ready for bed after a long day.

Feeling that it was better to give him space at this time, you did just that, wishing him goodbye at the elevators before he hopped off for his floor. Though you hoped that whatever was burdening him wasn't too serious, you anticipated getting to call back home and see how things were going with your child and your mother.

And so you stood before your room, reaching into your purse to take out your room key.

But it didn't take long for the realization to dawn on you that your room key was missing.

You searched through your purse over and over to no avail. Recounting your steps, thinking of all the places you could have possibly left your room key behind. The idea to call your colleagues came to mind, but you thought to do just one more thing before doing so.

It was why you were approaching Fugo's door.

It was why you raised your hand to knock.

You were here to find the whereabouts of your key.

But as the door swung open just before you were quickly yanked inside by the wrist, it would seem that Fugo had a much different plan in mind for you.

As this was going on, a blurry-eyed Narancia was trying to sift through a thick karaoke booklet, katakana and English letters melding together as he tried to find the track number for Snoop Dogg's "Sensual Seduction". With dinner finished, he and the rest of the presentation team decided to party it up even more than they did the night before, making their first stop at a nearby karaoke bar.

"Oi Ghirga, choose a song already!" One of his colleagues grumbled, waving his half-full bottle of Asahi around.

Scowling, Narancia shot him a look of pure annoyance, emphasized by his middle finger raising up in return. "Yer gonna make time for Snoop, orrr elshh!" Still, with nothing but moody blue lighting and a spinning disco ball, trying to make sense of the karaoke booklet was proving to be difficult.

Deciding to use his phone as a flashlight, he reached into the pocket of his blazer to retrieve it, only to come to a hard realization once his fingers touched over something far too thin.

Not only was he wearing a blazer that did not belong to him, he also realized something even far more important as he proceeded to yelp out, "Ahh I have captain's room key! I need to call her!" Drunk as he was, he remembered his promises to you mid-grovel during the morning--him swearing he would do better for your sake.

And him accidentally keeping you locked out of your room when you were ready to relax and make a check in back home was the exact opposite of doing such.

However, as he stumbled outside the room to make the call, you didn't pick up.

And neither was Fugo when Narancia called him afterwards.

His eyebrows slowly furrowed together. Usually, the two of you were quite responsive when it came to answering calls.

And if the both of you--now back at the hotel, with you lacking a key card--weren't picking up your phones, it could only mean one thing.

By his drunken deductions, you and Fugo realized how much fun you were missing out by turning in early and decided to go out and have your own karaoke night together.

Narancia smiled, proceeding to slip his phone back into your blazer before returning back to the room.

The two of you deserved some joy.

However, back at the hotel, joy was interpreted and experienced in different ways between you and Fugo.

"Pana...cotta!"

As your wrists strained within the binds of a deep purple Versace tie, you continued to squirm upon the king size bed of his suite, your face flushed and your voice quivering. Though the temperature of the room was kept to a chill, you still felt overwhelmed with heat.

Your business attire was once kept in pristine condition leading up to and all throughout this day. Now, your top was torn in half at the front, your bra and skirt tossed to the floor without a care, and your stockings barely clinging to your legs after being torn at the crotch. The flawless state of your make-up was left in ruins as well, most notably your lipstick, having been smeared after your lips have been subjected to so many needy, messy kisses.

The disarray of your clothing made you just so accessible.

And just for Fugo.

As heir to the company, he had to learn how to carry himself with confidence, to declare his presence just by walking into a room. And as he loomed above you, not a shred of clothing on his skin, there was a daunting aura that he exuded, one so powerful yet still so fragile. Despite the relentless and pounding pace of his thrusts, he still couldn't quite hold back the tender side that you knew quite well.

"You baby him too much, bella mia," Fugo hissed out with a ragged breath. "Why does Narancia always get your attention?! Why him?! Why always him?!"

Your mouth parted to speak, to try to sift through all the discord that ringing through his sense of mind, but with the tight grip he possessed your hips with while sinking the long length of his cock in and out of you, you couldn't get a proper word out.

His violet gaze bore straight into yours as he growled out, "I hate this goddamn company--I hate this future that's been locked in place for me. But you..." He trailed off, a glimpse of his yearning for you revealing itself. "You still are the only thing that keeps me happy and sane--even if it killed me every time you brought up your husband." The last part was near spat out with absolute vehemence.

You bit your lip. There was always some tension during the times when your former husband would be around, whether to pick you up at work, or to escort you to company parties. Fugo would always become a lot more reluctant to hang around you with your husband around, but for when he did stay, he was always trying to find a way to direct your attention towards him and him alone.

It all made sense now.

Fugo's hand relinquished one of your hips, the temptation to grope your full and supple breasts irresistible, having yet to satisfy his desire to toy with them from when he was stripping you down. Feeling the soft and heavy weight in his palm while the tip of your nipple gleamed with a drop of milk made his mouth water, even while he was still finally opening up about his feelings.

"When you were away for maternity leave, it was the absolute worst. So boring, so dull, so lonely! God, I hated it so much!" Unable to resist and further, he brought his head down to bury and nuzzle his face into your chest, his mouth eager to seek out your milk, a taste he had longed to savor.

Though he took his time with wrapping his lips around your nipples to draw out your creaminess as a selfish indulgence, he did not relent whatsoever with pummeling into you. In fact, in-between gulping down mouthfuls of your milk as he could, he continued, "But when you came back, I had reason to not hate my life as much--"

Your hips were released completely, now weighed down by his body while an arm hugged around your waist, "--especially when I found out that you and your husband separated--he's a moronic bastard for hurting you, but I guess there was some good out of that."

His index finger hooked beneath your chin, having you gaze directly up into him, keeping your face still as he spoke, his expression that of conviction and ever so longing, his voice shaky with desperation, "It's tough being a single mother, isn't it? It doesn't have to be that way, you know. If we just get married, you'd never have to work a day in your life, and I'd be more than happy to provide for our family."

If nothing was going to get you to finally speak out, those words would. Gasping in astonishment, you stared right up into his eyes. "Panacotta, please...! Think about what you're saying! This is--!"

"--everything I could ever want! If you ever end up pregnant again, it'll be because of me!"

A breathless roar.

Now both arms were locked tightly around your waist, just before he ravaged your core with a merciless rhythm that left you shrieking too much to say or do anything else, save for the walls of your core squeezing around his cock and coaxing him to orgasm, to spill all that he could inside of you.

This was impulsive.

This was a long time coming.

This was something he craved to do for so long.

He was far from done with you, by how he was still kissing over your lips and breasts in reverence while his hand furiously stroked his half-erect cock to entangle his body with yours once more.

And as he admired the mewls and moans you let out, the gradual silence of any attempts to get him to reconsider and think things through, the expectant and even needy look that revealed itself on your face as the night went on, he looked forward to when he would convince you to reciprocate the same feelings to his earnest murmured declaration of,

"I love you, captain."

[wafflewarriors]

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

3. PTSD

John was never sure of the extent of what the war had done to his mental health. At first, his therapist pinned it as post-traumatic stress disorder. After the battlefields and his scarring injuries, it seemed realistic. But then, John met the Holmes brothers, and they turned the soldier 180 degrees away from his therapist's claim. They told him that he missed the war and adrenaline. He was addicted to the action and the race.

John had no doubt both were true to an extent, yet he questioned both theories. As a doctor, self-diagnosis was his natural go-to. Perhaps that was how he coped, and maybe it helped to see himself as a client and not as a victim.

He had always been dependent on the adrenaline rushes. It's what had drawn him to the rank of an army doctor. He'd been in the medical field at the time, and the army seemed like a reasonable position. He definitely missed the war for the thrill and action.

But there was also another side of John. The side of John whose leg limped when he walked, or whose arm throbbed sorely when recalling the battlefield. The John who woke up nearly crying after a sickening nightmare of recalling a bullet lodging within his skin. The John whose eyes darkened at a mere reminder of those days.

John was a complicated man, no matter what others informed him. Even through all the suffering of war, John could still fire a gun with a steady hand and he could overlook his psychosomatic limp in an intense chase. This was possible simply because Sherlock influenced him, manipulated him. He was a genius, after all. Real life was a game to Sherlock Holmes, so he dissociated easily from most emotions linked to particular cases. He presented John with the facts, so that's what John hung onto.

In fact, Sherlock had managed to mend most of John's war trauma just by busying his life with awkward situations and perplexing cases to focus on. John almost forgot his past life when he began to revolve around his new role in participating in crime solving and holding the title of Sherlock's only best friend.

And although John thrived upon a good adrenaline kick, he couldn't ignore the signs of PTSD, however slight. Because there was only one thing Sherlock would never cure, and that was his inevitable negative mental reaction to the sound of fireworks.

Fireworks had always been a trigger point to John, which utterly confused him. He’d had bombs strapped onto him by the psychopath Moriarty, watched a landmine go off in the Hounds of Baskerville case, and had a gun to his head in the Scandal of Bulgaria. Yet fireworks set him off. John loathed the crackling of colors that lined the sky.

John was at edge on New Year's Eve. As the hours crept up to midnight, something within him grumbled sickly. His anxiety reigned him inside.

The first time John had learned of this trigger was before he had ever met Sherlock Holmes. There had been a fireworks show with a new date, standing in the dew of the grass patiently. Before John even had time to process the cracks of the fireworks above, he was back in the battlefield.

The experience was not one John wanted to recall, so he focused and assigned himself a simple task: making tea. Making tea had always managed to calm John's nerves. The light, fresh, orchid fragrance soothed the night air. It never failed to wash away his worries as the warm aromas melted into the flat.

It was only a few hours before midnight struck, so the flat was asleep. Only the streetlight that filtered through the windows allowed moonlight to illuminate the corners of the flat. John sipped his tea and tiptoed to the living room and he let memory guide him down the hall.

John froze when he noticed Sherlock's unmoving silhouette on the couch; his hands were praying under his chin with his feet propped up onto the armrest. It was unlikely he was asleep, though his eyes were closed. John considered retiring to his bedroom, but he continued his way to his chair and taste his tea.

“You're up late.” Sherlock hummed.

John shifted in his seat, “Yes.”

Sherlock peeked an eye open, observing John. He was rather tense, gripping his tea close to his chest. Usually, John's default stance was his soldier posture, and not so… slouchy. “Something on your mind?” Sherlock inquired.

John took another drink of his tea, forcing a passive expression. He failed. “New years spirit.” John offered tautly.

Sherlock gave a wary glance. Something about the way John replied didn't settle with the detective. Perhaps he could relieve John of this with a case. He cleared his throat. “Well, Lestrade suggested I observe the town before midnight. Fireworks tend to cover gunshots, and we will need to watch for potential shootouts. We might even get ourselves a case. Care to accompany me?”

John was surprised, to say vaguely, though not pleasantly. The pit of his stomach folded in dread. “Oh, sure,” was his strenuous response.

As Sherlock left the living room with narrowed his eyes, contemplating what was bothering John. Although nothing registered as potentially bothersome. Sherlock would need to dig into the topic further, though preferably not now. Sherlock was determined to distract John. After all, Sherlock owed him immensely for past experiences he'd endured.

John left to the kitchen. He steeled himself as he discarded the rest of his tea. There was nothing to fear about fireworks. He had encountered much worse is his life, so he wasn't going to allow a little explosion to handicap him. He was a soldier.

John had always suspected his reason for dreading fireworks was for the random timing. John had never fancied storms for this reason, as well. The thunder got to his head. With a gun, you knew where it was. You knew who fired it. You knew you were under attack, or at least, in John's mind.

It was a messy concept.

Sherlock was wrapping his scarf securely around his neck and proceeded to pull up his collar. He was still uncertain to the cause of John's tension, and it annoyed him endlessly.

John was failing to ignore Sherlock's prying eyes, constantly shifting his stance. He adjusted his posture and straightened his ever-failing mask.

Sherlock saw right through it.

“Prepare yourself John, keep your eyes peeled for suspicious movement. The firework show should be in a matter of minutes.”

Don’t remind me, John thought dizzily. His breathing was stressed now, with each respiration as a slight panic and a wish that he’d outright refused the case. Regret bubbled in his gut. He felt rather faint, favoring his heels as he braced himself for the distress to come. His eyes darted about, and he found himself searching for future exits. Just in case something went wrong. No harm in that knowledge, right?

Sherlock could practically feel the waves of anxiety rolling off of the soldier. He turned to him, and for the first time in his life, he was hesitant. “John? You're… you're beginning to hyperventilate.”

John swallowed thickly and blinked up at Sherlock in detachment, not registering what the detective had told him. “Hm?” He inhaled through his nostrils suddenly. “No no, I'm good.” He cleared his throat, though his breathing was still shallow and heavy. John strived for a viable reason for his breathing patterns.“Just, ah, smells nice, you know? Midnight air.” He wheezed. It was extremely unconvincing.

Sherlock stated in exasperation, “You're not a bloodhound, John. You're breathing is labored. Are you… panicking? You are. You're panicking.” Sherlock stared at John.

John was getting antsier by the minute and was now avoiding eye contact. He could get through this. He could. He just needed rational thoughts. “No.” He replied sharply.

“Yes, you are. You're a terrible liar. What's troubling you?” Sherlock was baffled.

John’s tone was snappy, “Nothing.” He rested his hands on his knees, and forced even, deep breaths. “I just need to… catch… my breath.”

Sherlock watched as John attempted to regain his composure. “John?” Concern seeped into the question.

John glanced up at Sherlock, who was lingering in clear discomfort and although he would never admit it, hovering in worry. John hesitated to state the truth. Lord knew Sherlock would have a fit once he learned John's cause for anxiety.

And, God, he was a grown man! John Watson could handle fireworks. It was irrational to fear them. He had never once had a bad experience with fireworks, but now that war blended with its loud sounds, he was crippled to suffering panic attacks beneath their harmless wrath. It was ridiculous and humiliating.

Sherlock reached out a hand, “John, it's-”

And suddenly, the sky was cracking with an enemy bomb. John nearly keeled over flinching. He grit his teeth at the overwhelming fear.

There was a shredding of shrapnel at his face. Blasts of dust made him want to cough as his lungs itched. As he touched the ground his senses reminded him where he was. The sand was like smooth concrete; there was no grainy texture. The Afghanistan sun wasn't beaming down in scalding waves, but the moon simmered in the night sky. John remembered where he was for a moment, but the memory was ingrained into his eyelids. The momentary flashes burning into his London surroundings.

And Lord, Sherlock was probably wondering what was going on. John licked his lips in unease and he battled his anxiety, “It's the fireworks. I’m… I'm afraid of fireworks. I can't- I thought I could fight it.” He was sweating beads.

Sherlock instantly moved beside him, though there was a shuffling and adjusting of something John could not see. He was too busy mentally readying for the next launch.

Another blast went off, and John slammed his hands over his ears, now prepared for the noise to come. He stumbled a bit, with waves of Afghanistan desert rolling in and enveloping his mind like a constricting python. He squeezed his eyes to avoid seeing it, but his mind reminded him exactly what a bullet wound felt like. His leg and arm suddenly ached terribly with a sharp buzz.

Sherlock was removing John’s clasped hands away from his ears and pushed them aside. Before he could protest, a cloth was wound tightly over John's ears like a thick headband, and John stared in astonishment at the detective. His shock of Sherlock's thoughtfulness shooed away any other thought of war as if it had never been a part of him. Had Sherlock just given up his scarf for John to have earmuffs? He had, hadn't he? What-

Sherlock clutched John by the shoulders and began pushing him to move. “How do you ever tolerate storms?”

John winced as a muffled boom erupted behind him. “They're not as bad. Storms rumble different than bombs or fireworks, and we never had many world-shaking storms down in Afghanistan. It is a desert, you know.”

Sherlock blocked John's view of the fireworks, even though it wasn't the color that triggered John. If anything, it kept him grounded and stable. Color was one thing he rarely saw back in the war. It had always been dusty browns and tans, and the occasional, unfortunate blood red.

John poked at the scarf and admired the fabric. Blue. There was never blue in Afghanistan. Just a pale, milky sky.

Sherlock flashed John a look of fond incredulity. “You’re alright, then?”

When John nodded, the flaps of the scarf waved at Sherlock. “Yeah, I think I might have a cup of tea, you?”

Sherlock bit back his comment for a moment. He debated whether if he should mention John's shaking hands, but he thought less of it. “Yes, that sounds... nice. Thank you.”

[craniumculverin]

Precipitate Withdrawal

The final installment of Ripper!AU’s intro and the conclusion to Alfred’s drunken outburst. Life made this take a while to finish, but hey I did it! Percy is left waiting in his clinic after a no-show and decides he’d like to find out why.

Alfred has been late to his appointments only twice. The first was due to exceptionally poor weather even by New Pthumerian standards, and the second to having to take an unexpected detour due to an overturned cart. He was deeply apologetic after both instances, despite being a scant five minutes behind schedule, at most. So for him to leave Dr. Percival Hewlett waiting a half hour is quite out of the norm.

Not that Percy really minds - this was meant to be another of their "discussion sessions", none of which have gone particularly well given Alfred's reluctance to discuss anything of a deeper nature concerning himself. Not his likes or interests or what has happened to him, but himself. The man could verbally dissect a long dead religion for hours on end, but ask him to describe the most basic of thoughts concerning the reasons behind his actions and suddenly he's nothing to say. He's the first person the doctor has studied that seems to lack absolutely any desire to understand himself, and frankly he's uncertain what to make of it.

As Percy utilizes the time to tidy the already immaculate office, he thinks of what course of action to take. This had been scheduled to be his last appointment of the day what with its usually taxing nature, so without a patient present there was no need for him to stay. However if Alfred does show only to be greeted with a locked door and darkened windows, the surprisingly sensitive man would likely take it as a personal affront, which in itself would be quite taxing in nature. "It's so unlike him to be late to a meeting, let alone miss it entirely… He's made every single appointment and session until today, even when he's complained about it beforehand… I wonder…" Setting aside the well-polished saw he'd been cleaning, the physician returns to his desk and opens the file he'd left there to scan through his notes.

Alfred had certainly acted very oddly the last time he was in. By the time he'd abruptly taken his leave, his manner had become so erratic that Percy actually had the ridiculous notion he should arm himself.

Could whatever had been the catalyst then be the cause of his absence now? If so, what was it? They'd discussed a good number of topics, what with the purpose of the appointment being to update his records… Perhaps outright addressing his alcohol addiction is what did it? That was the first time Percy had spoken so openly about it, and in such a negative light... Alfred first started to appear antsy when their previous conversation concerning the topic was mentioned, then there were his apprehensions over possibly harming others should he completely stop drinking… Or maybe he's simply hungover again, and doesn't want to face his physician after the reality of his situation had been so thoroughly laid out.

Percy closes the file and leans back with a sigh, unsatisfied. None of these conclusions feel right…

…Were it not for the fact nary a peep has been heard from Alfred about his libidinous outburst last month, Percy would consider that as a possibility. But he hasn't said a single thing about it - and Alfred would say something, likely in the form of a longwinded and excessively dramatic display of repentance. All evidence and prior experiences point to him doing so immediately when he feels he's wronged someone. Well, at least for those on the very short list of people he cares about, which Percy knows for a fact he's on.

No, it must be that his initial impression was correct - Alfred's apparent alcohol-induced amnesia has kept him from recalling anything of the incident. Refraining from informing the younger man of his own actions appears to have been not only the preferred route of action, but also the correct one. Percy is still convinced it would've ruined Alfred had he forced him to confront what he'd done - especially directly after, what with how distraught he'd been solely over getting so drunk. And it wasn't like Percy was in the role of the man's doctor when it all happened; he was simply being a friend by escorting him home! If Alfred really wants to have him as both doctor and friend, he can't expect everything that happens between them to be dealt with in a strictly professional manner.

Really though, Percy thinks he did well to act so kindly toward Alfred despite his own slight hangover at the time - that, a substantial lack of sleep, and the various bruises he'd had to cover up made the meager amount of enmity he'd still been harboring all the harder to ignore. Luckily the other man had been so miserable, a pang of sympathy had overridden whatever annoyance Percy felt over the previous night's manhandling. It also helped to remind himself how easily it could've been him drunkenly instigating something of a similarly intimate nature, not too long ago… But regardless, the whole thing has truly turned out for the best. Percy didn't have to endure an emotionally distraught and nonsensical Alfred the day after the assault, nor will he ever. Handling such hassles are simply not his forte; he'd rather have to start treating "hysterical" old housewives again than attempt to console an illogically upset, temperamental patient!

A contemplative frown creases Percy's brow as he laces his fingers behind his head. "Come to think of it, Alfred's overall 'condition' would likely improve were he to receive such 'treatments' - though preferably in a self-administered fashion. He may very well cooperate if it's under the guise of a medical procedure… Ah no, he'd easily see it for what it is and refuse…"

At least the drunken fiasco has given him a rare opportunity he otherwise never would have witnessed in a clinical setting. A glimpse into how Alfred manages his impulses when uninhibited has proven quite helpful, particularly in understanding how he's fairing with his bizarrely intense aversion to anything of a sexual nature. Which is, of course, very badly.

The doctor ponders his current special case a while longer before drifting to previous ones, leant back in his seat to stare at the high, shadowed supports of the ceiling. Everyone that chooses to cross his threshold as a patient has something to offer him, be it potential research or simply funds, but sometimes he really has to curse his curiosity. If someone ends up too interesting they tend to become far more of an undertaking than he can ever predict. Still, these particular patients always make for engrossing study subjects - in very, very different ways.

A hint of a grin twitches at the corner of his mouth as he retrieves the most recent bundle of letters he's received from London. For a while Percy forgoes his immediate dilemma to reread the tight, neat script therein, his smile turning fond on occasion. After rereading a few parts he switches to another pair of papers within a similarly addressed envelope, covered in quick, fluid writing. It's always such a pleasure when Rosalind sends a letter along with Wesley's. As glad as he is for the correspondence, the dear man's delightfully fretful manner never translates well to his written word - at least through Rosa's lively descriptions he can catch glimpses of it. Plus she's so refreshingly forthwith about life, comfortable speaking about all manner of ridiculously taboo topics. Other than their still not being pregnant ("Goodness Wesley, surely it isn't that difficult without my presence.") the only other news is of Rosa's preparations for a piano recital and Wesley's friend Harold dragging him into his latest antics.

Percy sighs and replaces the papers into their respective top drawer, already bored with this as well. The evening of reading and research he'd planned just wasn't alluring at the moment, but neither was remaining in the clinic, and he hadn't finished planning his next letter to begin writing. His fingers tap out a rhythm - Bach's sonata for violin and piano in… C minor, was it? - as he thinks. The weather has been holding out today. He could head to the market before it gets too busy, but he already has what's needed for tonight's supper from his morning run… Maybe look through that old bookstore near Old Yharnam again? The shopkeep's assistant had been quite obvious about her interest in him last he stopped by; perhaps he could charm the girl into letting him peruse the backroom stock? No, he wasn't in the mood for such games… He's wanted to visit Lumenwood Garden again before the flowers are covered for the season, but it won't be dark enough for viewing for some hours yet… Perhaps he should just stay home and outline a few of the experiments he's thought up since last he did so, for when he can finally begin his work in earnest… No, best not - his recent ideas are of a nature too risky to have lying around should Iosefka drop by unannounced…

The doctor sighs yet again as he closes his eyes. It wasn't like him to succumb to ennui, especially when there's so much to be done. Reports to pen, papers to file, chores to do, superiors to ignore, experiments to plan, unexplored topics to delve into - of course it's when he finds himself with much-desired free time that nothing seems fit to fill it! "I suppose this is much like any other abrupt cancellation or absent patient, in that regard… It's more of a nuisance when I don't get to know why they don't show up. I always have to wait until they come in again to satisfy my questions…"

His eyes snap open. "…There's really no reason not to actively seek out a missing patient, should I want answers badly enough. If they were to accuse me of violating their privacy I could easily wave off my snooping as concern, or some such - just being a caring, professional practitioner." He sits up quick enough for his chair to let out a squeak, adjusting his waistcoat as he returns his attention to his desk. "Now, where did I put that…"

The patient file is quickly splayed open to make rifling through the backmost papers easier. He soon finds what he's looking for and pulls out the small slip he'd neatly copied from one of his journals - the address of the boarding house where Alfred resides. Who knows at what point the information had been shared, but he'd immediately made note should the need arise to utilize it. Boredom seems as worthy a need as any, especially considering the young man is at its source for neglecting to make his appointment.

Quickly glancing out the towering windows to see if an umbrella is in order, Percy pockets the scrap of paper and sets about preparing the black leather bag he brings to all house visits. After ensuring he has everything in order, the clinic is closed and locked up before he makes his way through the underground hallway to his residence. The foyer is somewhat dim as he dons a heavy coat and scarf, the tall windows above a poor substitute for lit sconces.

The air is wonderfully crisp when he opens the front door, a slight breeze playing with his hair as he locks up and begins his impromptu walk. The sky is aglow with wispy early Winter clouds and his street's walking paths pleasantly devoid of activity save for the agreeable elderly couple that lives across the way. As Percy draws closer to the ladies in their garden he doesn't slow but is sure to smile and nod in lieu of a proper hello, earning him the same in return. With the address fresh in his mind, he mentally plots out his course as close to where his knowledge of the city would indicate he's going, and musters the patience and wherewithal he'll need to find the rest of his way.

----------

Though only on the edge of the Old Yharnam district, the area in which Alfred resides certainly shares many of its less desirable characteristics. Cramped, dingy streets with very few lamp posts, residences and businesses crammed around and on top of each other - even a few derelict buildings that have yet to be torn down, this long after the war. People are everywhere, some obviously homeless while others are mongering or shopping or just milling about; and still others, a much smaller number, advertising themselves on street corners.

In other words a lot like London. Enough to cause a sense of nostalgia in Percy as he drifts out of the foot traffic and comes to a halt in front of an old manor house nestled among the indistinguishable buildings. The heavy wooden door is unlocked when he tries it so he lets himself in, only to be immediately greeted by loud snoring on crossing the threshold. An old man sitting against the adjacent wall is the obvious culprit, so soundly asleep not even a shriek from the door's hinges nor slam of it closing can stir him. The foyer area is surprisingly cramped for such a large estate, yet the ceiling is so high it's lost in the shadows. Noticeably newer walls and stairs are to blame for the strange layout, likely put in when the place was restored and renovated into a boarding house. Across the cavernous entryway near the furthest wall is an old woman, the rocking of her chair having halted as soon as he opened the door. She's still in her nightcap despite the hour and has a good deal of knitting in her lap, her craft momentarily paused to glare at him.

"Good afternoon ma'am," Percy says, a pleasant warmth added to his words as he dips his head in greeting. The elderly woman leans forward to squint through the dim of the place, causing a litany of protest from her chair. "My name is Dr. Percival Hewlett. Are you aware if Alfred is in?"

"Alfred who- Oh, him. Yes," she says as she slowly and creakily leans back, "he and that dog of his, yes. He's in. Hewlett you said? You're his doctor then?"

"Yes I am. I've come to check on him. Could you direct me to his room?"

"He's not left all day - only took the beast out once, poor thing. Good you've come," the old landlady says as she slowly cracks and pops into standing, the knitting piling at her feet as she snatches a cane from somewhere to hobble closer. "The boy's been unwell the last few days, I think. Very odd for him to stay in so much, hasn't been finishing his meals like usual. Missed dinner yesterday, come to think of it… Oi, old man! Wake up, you!" She gives the elderly man's stool a sound whack, startling him awake with a loud snort. "I'm going up! Stay awake to keep watch for once, you old git!"

The man's angry complaints go ignored as the old woman leads Percy to one of the many sets of stairs. They ascend to what is probably the third floor - multiple flights, angles, and landings make it hard to keep track - on which the landing juts off into a long, windowless hallway of many doors. They stop in front of one of the closest doors, much like the others save for the number "39" painted in fading white, a little off of center. Expecting the old woman to take her leave, Percy stands close to a wall, his bag held off to the side to let her pass. She merely scowls and waves him toward the door. "Knock already, will you? I don't want to have to come all the way back up here should he not answer, just to let you in!"

"He's been that bad off?" he softly asks, pointedly ignoring her rudeness. The doctor  gives the door a few knocks and waits. When nothing happens he calls out and tries again, a little louder. It's only after the third round of knocking that a quiet, inhuman whine can be heard as something shifts to block the faint light spilling out from under the door.

The landlady huffs and pulls a large ring of keys from under her apron, expertly picking one out with nary a look. She shoves past him to the door and unlocks it before stashing it away as she turns to glare at him. "Lock up before you go, and don't rile the beast into making a racket." With that she pushes past once more to take her leave. Percy arches a brow at her retreating form before returning to the matter at hand. The door sticks a little when he tries to open it a crack, but once he manages a strange rumbling suddenly starts from inside. Only when it's nearly fully open and too late does he realize it's not so much a rumble as it is a growl.

Directly in front of him, stood in the middle of the tiny room, is the largest dog he's ever seen.

The physician stops in his tracks, hand still on the doorknob as he swallows back his surprise. He knew Alfred owned a dog, but had neglected to ever ask what kind - in hindsight, a giant of a mastiff seems a rather obvious choice. "Alfred?" He calls gently, so as not to startle the enormous hound. From the corner of his vision he sees movement from beyond a bed's footboard. "Alfred, are you awake?"

A groan comes from under the covers, which lower to reveal a mop of messy blond hair. The growling quiets momentarily as the animal's ears perk toward its master, but otherwise is intent on fending off the unknown intruder. Another groan turns to low mumbling before a scruffy-looking Alfred emerges to blindly face the large, well-worn cushion across from him, no doubt where the dog lays. "Sig, you're fine. Quiet down…" That at least stops the growling for the time being, leaving the now confused behemoth unsure of what to do. After a few seconds it softly whines its discontent, finally prompting Alfred to somewhat prop himself up, eyes shut tight against the meager amount of light. "Ugh, what's wrong now…?"

"Only an intruder in your domicile, by all means stay in bed."

Alfred bolts upright with wide, wild eyes as he whips the covers away, his hand instantly at the gap between mattress and wall to grasp what looks like the end of a previously hidden handle. He pauses to blink rapidly at his unexpected guest, both men and dog tense after his flurry of motion. The energy in the room suddenly dissipates as he slumps back and groans again. The handle is left to sink back into its hiding place as he presses both palms into his eye sockets, exhaustion gracing every aspect of his being. His hands drop into his lap when he stares at the physician, as though he's unsure of what he's seeing. "Percy…?"

"Yes, though right now I believe 'Dr. Hewlett' is more fitting," he stiffly motions with his bag toward the still-aggressive animal standing between them, "could you, ah…?"

Alfred sluggishly blinks before understanding dawns. Whatever he says next is apparently a command, as the dog immediately relaxes and starts to pant, tail lazily wagging as it cants its head and approaches to sniff at the visitor. Another oddly familiar assortment of syllables and it returns to its corner of the room, circling before laying down on the old cushion. The younger man cracks a tired smile at his pet before tensely looking back to Percy, wariness etched across his features as he replaces his blankets. "What are you doing here Dr. Hewlett?"

"Checking in, as it were," Percy says as he shuts the door behind him. Now that there isn't a snarling beast glaring at him he can take a more thorough look around as he strips off his outer layers. There's a coat stand directly in front of the entry against the stained and cracking wall, beside which is a heavily-laden, tiny desk with a mismatched stool, a dented waste bin wedged between the two. On the other side of the desk is the dog's bed and bowls, situated below the tiny room's equally tiny window, too high to be anything other than a minor source of ventilation and light. A narrow bed piled with patchwork blankets and knit quilts sits against the wall in the corner, next to which is a nightstand barely big enough to hold the lamp atop it. At the foot of the bed sits an enormous, ancient, and very heavy-looking trunk, its padlocks left undone. Above it, a few shelves and a fair number of hooks along the walls are home to what little else Alfred apparently owns, along with differing lengths of dog leads. The most notable thing in the room besides the trunk is a painting hung in an elaborate frame, above the head of the bed - a detailed portrait of an aged, pale man with a full beard, long hair, and piercing eyes.

All in all a miserably cozy little setup, far from comfortable and fulfilling only life's barest necessities. Percy hides his dismay at the state of Alfred's living quarters as he hangs his coat and scarf on the stand. No wonder he's out and about so much, walking the streets more than the Church militia; this place is hardly large enough for a grown man, let alone a grown man and a more than grown animal!

"I thought it best to drop by, seeing as you've never neglected to show for an appointment before," the physician says whilst turning around, one hand smoothing the front of his jacket, the other holding his black bag. "I believed something might be amiss. It appears my suspicions were correct."

"An appointment…?" Alfred's face scrunches up in confusion before it breaks into panicked realization. He bolts upright to scramble out from under his covers. "The session! How could I forget, I should have-!"

"Relax Alfred."

The blond freezes before he can further tangle himself in his sheets. Now that he's properly facing him, Percy can see just how bad a condition the man is in. His usually styled hair hangs limp and unwashed, and the typically well-kept sideburns are on their way to being consumed by unshaven stubble. Pale, clammy skin, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a sheen of sweat on his forehead - this wasn't just a hangover. He'd either managed to become very ill in the two days since they'd last spoken, or… Percy sighs.

He pulls the stool out and sits, setting the bag at his feet as he does. Alfred still appears somewhat ready to fling himself out of bed, but his manic energy has been somewhat replaced by the same wariness from before. He won't meet the doctor's gaze, looking anywhere but his direction, and his hands can't seem to stay still. How curious… "Now that I see your state, I'll forego the lecture of how to properly cancel an appointment the day of. Missing was obviously not a conscious decision."

The younger man kneads at the topmost quilt, managing to look even guiltier. "I'm sorry. Had I- if I'd- …I haven't been well."

"I can see that. You've stopped drinking, haven't you?"

Alfred tenses, gaze immediately snapping to his hands. "I, uh… how…?"

"Because you were perfectly fine two days ago, and aren't one to let anything less than severe pain or injury keep you from being active," Percy doesn't bother keeping the displeasure from his voice as he gets straight to the point. "If you'd consulted me before blindly charging into this, you would know that stopping such an addiction shouldn't be done alone. Especially if one decides to do it all at once - the shock and resulting symptoms can lead to death if not under proper supervision!"

The blond huddles further against the headboard at the chastisement, hands anxiously fidgeting in his lap as he keeps his head down and chews at his bottom lip. From this angle his eyes look to be rapidly darting every which way, glossed over and even teary as the sweat falls from his brow. Taking a slow breath, Percy decides to change tactics. Having to deal with an unnecessarily emotional patient is such a task, and Alfred has proven he is very capable of being just that. The doctor pauses a moment to consider his next move, unconsciously leaning forward to better observe whatever reaction he'll receive. His voice is kept as quiet and calm as can be.

"…What changed your mind? You went from 'considering' to 'doing' rather quickly, no further convincing required. Am I really that good?" He chuckles, "perhaps I'm simply too familiar with handling you-"

Alfred's breathing suddenly hitches, followed by a series of hiccups as it grows faster, more erratic. Tears immediately begin to stream down his pallid cheeks, as though they'd been building up for some time. His eyes screw shut as he quickly hides his face behind hands that end up tangled into his hair. A tightly clenched jaw is visible behind shaking forearms as he sucks air in between his teeth, rapidly hissing as he tries to keep himself quiet. He stays upright for only a moment longer before he buries himself under the covers to curl into a fetal position. His heaving form, now wracked by outright sobs, haphazardly rocks beneath the knit- and patchwork.

Percy remains silent and motionless as he stares.

He hasn't a clue of what to do.

The unease Alfred causes him on occasion is back in full force, bearing down on him, making it extraordinarily difficult to sort through his thoughts. It's obvious he's done something to set him off, but what? Why was he so upset in the first place? Was he really feeling that guilty over foregoing the doctor's assistance? Is it the withdrawal causing him to act out due to heightened chemical imbalances of some sort? Has he, personally, done something? The dog stands only to eventually sit back down and whine in its master's direction. Percy pays it no mind as he watches the shaking mass of covers, frown deepening the more he ponders.

He's done everything a personal physician should when trying to help a patient face their addiction; not even his former peers in England could argue he's been too "morally lax" with this case! So why is seeing a man in the throes of withdrawal breaking down in front of him- Why does he feel guilty?! Lost in his bewilderment, it takes him far too long to realize the incoherent sounds emanating from the bed are peppered with words.

"-rry I'm sorry I'm so sorry I'm s-sorry I- I'm-"

Percy sits at attention. "Sorry for what? Alfred, you've done nothing wrong."

The sobs turn to fast wheezes as the mass of quilts curls further in on itself. Fearing the younger man might pass out from lack of air the doctor swiftly stands and comes closer, ignoring the worried whines of the animal at his feet. He goes to lay a hand on what was likely a shoulder only for it to flinch away, sobs catching for a moment before continuing. Percy stifles a frustrated sigh as he straightens, still unsure of how to proceed. He brings the stool to sit closer, resting his chin in a hand as he considers the problematic patient before him. "…Alfred, please. I can't do my job unless I'm aware of what the problem is. What's happened to upset you so-"

"I assaulted you!"

Alfred's head pops out from under the covers, hair sticking to his reddened face where tears and snot have caught it. His eyes are clenched shut, fists balled into the fabric under his chin as he practically shouts, "I-I assaulted you, forced myself on you like an animal! I've done everything wrong! I don't deserve forgiveness, I don't deser- deserve-! I'd never- let alone to you! God, I don't know why I-! You're the only bloody friend I've got and I just, just-! Treated you l-like some common-"

"…Oh," utters Percy, too quiet to be heard. A hand presses over his mouth as his gaze falls to the floor, Alfred's rambling fading into background noise.

All of his observations from the recent past topple to the forefront of his mind, aligning to form a glaringly obvious truth with disconcerting ease. The atypical lack of communication and unannounced visits this last month, how Alfred's odd manner during his last appointment only began after Percy brought up their talk, which occurred the day after his outburst - even during the day after itself! How he'd so uncharacteristically neglected to finish his meal, or even pocket the biscuits for his walk home! It all makes terrible sense when connected by the common thread of his remembering his actions from the very start. "I was a fool to think I could ever forego the ridiculous mess of addressing what happened. If he just didn't get so overly-!" The doctor purses his lips in a tight frown as he rubs the bridge of his nose. "…No, no this is squarely on my shoulders now. I didn't deserve the torture of Alfred's dramatics, but now that I've made the situation so much worse… Plenty of contrary evidence to my decision and I was still blind to it all! Too content in thinking I'd avoided an overemotional bullet! Verdammt noch mal, I hate making mistakes!"

"-nothing but patient and kind, and I repay that with, with trying to rape you! Oh God! I-I'm such a wretched, disgusting, vile-"

Hardly aware of Alfred's self-loathsome sobbing, Percy barely moves his hand to blandly reply, "You didn't try to rape me Alfred, don't be ridiculous."

"-ing but revulsion! You shouldn't even want to look at me, let alone treat me! I shouldn't be anywhere near you after I-I did such a thing, but I still-"

The physician finally looks up at him as his hand drops away, focus no longer divided. "Refusing you treatment is the furthest thi-"

"Another man! That I force anyone against their will for my own lewd selfishness is- But a man?! How could I do something s-so-! To someone who, who'd never even think that anyone would want to-"

"I am quite familiar with homosexual acts, Alfred."

"-odd and perversely unnah…tur…"

The muffled words trail off. Alfred slowly turns from where he'd buried his face into the now sodden pillow, finally looking at his visitor for longer than a glance. "…You are…?"

"Quite."

"…Oh…" He stares for a moment before his eyes drift to the wall, expression oddly blank.

For a short time silence hangs in the small room, and Percy is too relieved for a break from the wailing to question it. However, the longer it goes on the more he notices the other's expression shift into something more… thoughtful. An immense amount of discomfort overtakes the physician, driving what little of his tension that had dissipated to return tenfold. He loudly clears his throat to interrupt whatever disagreeable ideas the other might be having. "However, I've… someone to whom a significant amount of time and energy has been dedicated. And, that being the case, I've no interest in such a relationship at this time."

"Oh." Alfred's expression falls as flat as his tone.

His brow furrows as his gaze drifts to his dog, still sitting nearby with its nose on the edge of the mattress. A hand comes out from under the covers to give the animal a scratch behind an ear, eliciting a steady thumping as its tail wags against the floorboards. Percy lets out the shallow breath he didn't know he was holding, glad to finally not be the other's sole focus. It has to stay a short-lived reprieve, however - he still has to set this mess right somehow.

"…For clarity's sake, receiving another man's advances isn't something I find odd or distressing. What was of an offensive nature pertaining to your actions that night was being thoroughly manhandled-" the doctor pauses, his expression turning pensive before bordering on sheepish, "-…in such a… an indifferent fashion. That is, without consent."

Alfred's already pallid complexion pales beneath the flush of upset, self-disgust practically oozing off him as he hiccups on the threat of miraculously unspent tears. Percy quickens his pace in the hope of cutting them off before any more can fall. "But! I know you never would have carried out such actions if you were in any way able to comprehend them at the time. As such, I consider the entire affair as something to be analyzed and understood, similar to any other aspect of your overall case. And I'd like to make one thing very clear-" he pointedly pauses and stares, gently smiling when the younger man finally looks up,"-what I said the following day was and remains true, Alfred. Apology accepted."

The blond's breath hitches and for a terrible moment he appears alarmingly close to all-out sobbing again, which causes the older man's smile to prematurely wane. Instead the offending tears are ignored as he two-handedly rubs at his faces and sniffles in an attempt to hold them back. "But I hurt you..."

Percy raises a brow and sits straighter to spread his arms wide. "Do I look hurt to you?"

"There were- you have bruises…"

"Which have faded - or are very well on their way, if you've managed to pick them out. Wait," Percy arches a brow questioningly as he lays his hands on his thighs to lean forward, "is that what set you off during your last appointment? You saw what's left of the mark on my neck? Honestly, I've gotten worse from badly-stacked book shelves…"

His patient simply nods and bites his bottom lip, eyes anxiously dancing across the room. If anything he looks hesitant now, as if he's unsure he should accept that he's already been so readily forgiven. They sit quietly as Percy tries to hash out how best to convince him so they can move on to the matter at hand - his withdrawal. He sighs as he comes to a conclusion that should act as a much-needed segue into what he'll have to do so he can finally be free of this ridiculous affair. "Think of it like this - were I still upset with you concerning what happened, wouldn't I have said something by now? The day after, or any time after that? Or right now for that matter?"

Alfred goes stock still, averted eyes widening as he rapidly blushes a new shade of red and rubs at his mouth. "…Uuuhh I- uhh…Hmmooh…" His muttering grows more and more muffled as he sinks lower and lower until he's reclined once more, pressing himself into the mattress as if in the hopes it'll swallow him whole. The doctor pretends not to notice his obvious embarrassment, instead focused on trying to look remorseful or even anxious instead of annoyed over his current situation. Evidently not a single thought about Percy's reaction, or lack thereof, has crossed Alfred's mind in all of his panic and self-loathing. The physician would even posit a guess no real concern over how he may have faired has occurred to him either.

Good. Incredibly self-centered and ignorant, but good; hopefully it'll stay that way, at least for long enough to make easier what must come next. Percy turns away for a moment to gather himself. "…For that I owe you an apology."

The blond opens his mouth to question, but Percy silences him with a terse shake of his head before continuing. "The day after I retrieved you from that pub and the subsequent incident, you didn't appear to remember any of it. From that scant observation I decided, instead of forcing you to recall the ordeal while already upset over your getting drunk, I'd act as though your outburst never occurred. Knowing how you loathe wanton acts of any nature, I thought that line of action would be best for you to recover and move on from the blow getting drunk would have dealt to your mindset. I was very, very wrong. I never bothered to think that I may had been mistaken, that perhaps you did remember your actions from that night, or of how what I was doing may affect you. By acting as though nothing happened I waylaid your mental recovery and undoubtedly caused you an enormous amount of duress - questioning your memory, perhaps even your grip on reality. As a medical professional, your physician, and in an unofficial capacity your psychiatrist, my making assumptions and retaining information from you concerning your own actions was morally questionable at best. I apologize profusely."

The room is silent once Percy finishes with a penitent dip of his head. Alfred has shifted to laying on his side, mouth hanging open in obvious confusion just as it was while he listened. It snaps shut almost audibly when he realizes but the confusion remains, slowly morphing into a grimace as he struggles to understand, mind as sluggish and impaired as it is right now. His mouth opens and closes a few times before words finally begin to form. "I… uh. That- I wasn't expecting, for you to… I'm the one who- I don't- but you… You're, um… forgiven?"

Percy makes a show of letting go of a breath he hadn't been holding. "Thank you for forgiving me. And of course I owed you an apology - the turmoil my actions caused you must've been great. Deplorable on my part, as your doctor. Now!"

He swiftly ducks down to open the leather bag at his feet and pulls out a small notebook and pencil. As he returns the stool to sit at the desk he fishes out his spectacles from a breast pocket, depositing them on his nose before clearing a space for him to work. "On to business, yes? I have a few questions about how you've faired since going dry - I'm sorry, that's another assumption on my part. You have stopped your alcohol intake entirely? Likely starting directly after your last appointment?"

"I- yeah? …Yes," Alfred is immensely lost over the sudden change of topic as he pushes himself up. His eyes are still glossy and his voice hoarse from his earlier wailing, but now that the flush of embarrassment and upset has subsided he looks wanner than ever. Sweatier too, unless that's just residual tears and the dim lighting.

"Very well. You've been experiencing the usual withdrawal symptoms I suspect - headache, fever, stomach complaints, trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah… all of that…"

Percy hums as he jots this all down. "Have you experienced uncontrollable shaking?"

"A little, in my hands…"

"When you move do you feel unbalanced, disoriented?"

"If I'm standing or move too quickly, yeah…" Alfred sits upright again and clenches his eyes shut, frowning.

"And have you noticed anything… odd? Visual or auditory things that don't seem right?"

"You mean hallucinations? I don't- probably not…?"

"Good, good. Have you been able to keep down most-"

"Bin."

"-of what you've ea- beg pardon?" Percy looks over to see a very pale Alfred tensely clutching his covers. His mouth is a thin line as he harshly breathes out through his nose, his voice naught but a croak. "Bin!"

Without taking his eyes off him Percy deftly leans to grab the receptacle and is next to the bed so fast the dog startles to its feet. Before the blond can fully take it he's already retching. The doctor stands by with no discernable reaction as he passively watches, pencil and notebook poised to write. Once the successive coughing subsides and Alfred wearily retracts his head with a moan, Percy returns to his task as though nothing had happened. "I'll take that as a 'no'."

----------

"What are you reading?"

Percy turns to glance up from where he sits at the room's cramped though slightly more organized desk. "Alfred, you're up! So sorry if I managed to wake you, it was not my intention," he moves to fully face the bedbound man, bringing the book he'd been focused on to display the cover. "Nothing pertaining to any of my current cases, but of interest nonetheless. The Ward's libraries cover so many fascinating topics."

"Mmhm," Alfred hums, already closing his eyes once more. The doctor watches him as he uses the interruption as an opportunity to stretch some, before adjusting his spectacles to find where he left off.

Three days have passed since Percy first came to check on Alfred. Thanks to the schedule they'd quickly set up the physician has been back to the little room often - sometimes thrice a day if the weather and his other appointments cooperate. It's surprisingly… alright, having to come out to see to the miserable man. Though the trip takes him near less than desirable parts of town, Percy enjoys the excuse for walks and exploring routes he'd otherwise never take, as well as the occasional bonus of receiving baked goods from the elderly sapphic couple, now that he passes by so regularly. The boarding house's old landlady had opted to give Percy a spare key to Alfred's room on hearing he'd be back so often, making the act of getting in nowhere near as unpleasant as his first visit. And with Alfred so firmly in the midst of his withdrawal, he's nowhere near as talkative and irritating as his usual self. In fact, other than giving an update on his condition, the blond primarily spends his time silent and in bed, trying to get some semblance of sleep. It makes for a quiet, somber sort of environment - not unlike a library really, save for the dog smell and occasional sounds of retching.

Percy began bringing his reading along during the second day, when Alfred told him he seems to sleep better with someone nearby. "I don't think I've ever slept completely alone in a room of my own, before living in Yharnam," he'd shared as his reasoning on the matter. Of course Percy had only acquiesced after seeing first hand why his further prolonged presence was indeed needed; when the blond suffered a brief bout of falling sickness as he slept. If not for the physician's quick intervention he would have likely given himself a mild concussion with how he'd been convulsing against the wall. Instead he ended up with only a scrape on his forehead, while the wall gained a few fresh cracks in its plaster.

So, other than occasionally having to walk Alfred's mastiff Siegward - which to its owner's credit is surprisingly docile and well-behaved for those that know a few choice words in Old Pthumerian - Percy finds himself enjoying the time technically spent tending to a needy patient, and actually spent recreationally reading. It's not his own home of course, but the lack of comfort just keeps him from drifting off between paragraphs as he's become wont to do more in recent years.

"Is it about eastern folk medicine?"

Percy looks up in surprise to see Alfred intently squinting at him, or rather the book. It's still very strange to hear him forego his newer, more refined manner of speech in lieu of the accent he had when they first met. Yet another sign of how awful a state he's in, and of the trust he must have in the physician. "Why yes, it is. How did you- have you read it?"

"…You could say that," he settles back to lay down after having propped himself up. Once he sees the doctor's obvious curiosity he groggily continues. "Transcribed by Logärius from its original Chinese, right?"

Realization comes to Percy on hearing the name aloud. He flips to the front to be certain and, sure enough, there is the late man's name in solid script under the title and intricate characters of the original authors. "Yes it is. Did he work on this during your mentorship?"

Alfred doesn't respond. Enough time passes that Percy considers dropping the matter. Talk of his mentor was a touchy subject, and he doesn't want to overstep any boundaries or cause an upset when it could so easily affect the man's health. He'll just have to make a note of this to bring up at a later time.

"…On the back page, if it's the original printing - it's signed by Logärius at the bottom," Alfred suddenly says, almost too low and gravelly to be heard clearly, "the 'A' is in a circle instead of with an umlaut…"

The physician quickly turns to the back page. There at the bottom, much smaller than he'd expected, is a simple anglicized signature, perfectly centered with a curiously large "A", missing its umlaut in lieu of a perfect circle. His interest fully piqued, Percy looks to the younger man expecting further explanation, apparently in an amusing fashion as he dryly chuckles in response. "He transcribed everything by hand originally, since printing wasn't… present most of his life - it wasn't really used in Pthumeru. His hands caused him a lot of pain by his later years, so he never learned how to type. I learned instead, when he took me on."

"You transcribed this book into print?"

Alfred nods as he looks at nothing in particular. "I did a good number of his first transcripts. Some of the papers were damaged or beginning to fade; we needed to salvage them in the midst of our travels…"

Percy raises his brows, genuinely impressed - who'd of thought the ever-impatient Alfred capable of such a thing? But something bothers him as he considers this new information. "Of all the works gathered by Logärius that I've read, I've never seen a single credit for the transcriptions go to anyone but him. Surely you deserve-"

"I don't want it."

The doctor pauses, his confusion plain. Alfred sighs. "Pecking at a typewriter is nothing compared to the actual work my mentor dedicated himself to near the end of his life. He'd already traveled much of Asia and Europe by the time we met, was more than halfway done all on his own. Adding my name would only diminish the importance of his efforts, his dedication. I didn't - still don't - want to take away from the recognition that's rightfully his."

Remaining silent, Percy adds this revelation to what he already knows of Alfred's relationship with the mysterious Old Pthumerian that had been Logärius. It was evident from the start that he highly reveres the man - which makes perfect sense, considering how he'd vastly improved Alfred's life practically over night. From education to etiquette, Logärius reshaped and guided a spirited no-name brute into a relatively decent gentleman of… some amount of academic prowess. During one of their discussion sessions, he'd even let slip he considered the man as a sort of father figure, the first he could ever recall in a positive light. But this degree of humility is completely new. Alfred is a prideful man; proud of his academic work, proud of his physical abilities, proud of his status of being Logärius' sole surviving protégé, and proud of how he's successfully reshaped himself to blend with those of a higher social standing. So to learn he willfully, adamantly refuses rightful credit for his work in a well-known collection of literature, which would most certainly force his peers at Byrgenwerth to reconsider him… Perhaps it's less reverence for Logärius, and more a strange sort of glorification…

Percy shakes his head as he's nudged out of his thoughts. Siegward has come to lean against he and the stool, panting slightly as he slobbers near one of his pant legs. With a frown the doctor shifts away from the impending mess of a particularly viscous line of drool. Alfred interrupts his dozing to crack an eye open at the movement before he settles in further, prompting Percy to ask one final question. "…What does the circled 'A' entail?"

"Hm?" Alfred turns toward the doctor's voice but doesn't open his eyes.

"You mentioned this book's signature having a circled 'A', as if it were unique. Why is that?"

Now it's Alfred's turn to frown. "He was of the same mindset as you, that I should receive credit. He didn't push the matter, but made sure to sign everything I'd typed like that, without my knowing - the 'A' capitalized and circled, for 'Alfred.' Ridiculous old man… he just laughed when I confronted him…" The last handful of words are muttered, but his frown sleepily inverts to a fond smile.

Percy hums in response but says nothing. Glancing at the back page again before flipping to where he'd left off, he decides to make note of which books he might happen to read that bare the same unique signature. For curiosity's sake, as well as to see just how much credit and fame Alfred is willing to part with in the name of elevating his mentor's image.

As soft snoring quietly pervades the little room the physician shifts to sit properly at the desk once more, but only after casting a glance at the portrait, the ancient man's intense gaze meeting his own as if in challenge. Percy hums and returns to his reading. What a bizarre study subject he's managed to find…