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cressidagrey · 3 days ago

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The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 3

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes:

Mention of epilepsy, seizures and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lizzie’s books were doorstoppers. Literally. So thick that Lando just about managed to shove all three of them into his backpack…and nearly broke the zipper while doing that.

He just hoped that him buying these books wasn’t gonna show up on social media any time soon but he didn’t have much trust in that.

He could already imagine the field day that people would have with seeing him of all people buying romance and fantasy books. (Or romantasy as Lizzie had called them…)

The cashier at the bookstore had checked him out with a slightly puzzled look, and she almost seemed to be holding back a grin.

And it wasn’t like Lando hadn’t already started listening to the dramatised audiobook version either…he just figured he should have options, y‘know?

Especially when that Ciaran guy with the wings was voiced by some Scottish bloke with a voice like gravel. Meanwhile, Astrid had the lilting accent of Wales in her voice… and then there was the fact that some of the…scenes sounded rather… they were definitely not appropriate for…company.

Still he thought that he could probably listen to another few hours of that on the flight…or he would just like…skip…the…some of the stuff that Lizzie had apparently written and that made him think about things that he probably shouldn’t be thinking about…especially not with a Race coming up and the fact that the girl he had gone on two dates with was an ocean away.

Still, thank god for private flights. It was just gonna be him and Oscar and Max, who would come along to Miami.

Maybe Lando should have known that it was a bad idea. He had imagined it so easily. Put on head phones, put on the audiobook and zone out for a little while…

Instead Lando managed to not actually pair his headphones with his phone… And seconds later his phone was blaring “A Spring of Secrets and Thorns” for Oscar and Max to hear, including a particular… intimate scene he had reached…

His wings spread wide as he pulled her closer, the heat of his body enveloping hers as they shared a heated kiss. Ciaran’s hand traced the curve of Astrid’s back, his wings brushing her skin as the tension between them grew unbearable…

Oscar and Max simultaneously turned their heads toward Lando, eyes wide, their expressions somewhere between shock and amusement.

Oscar's eyebrows were raised so high, they almost touched his hairline. He looked like he was barely holding back a fit of laughter. Even Max looked amused.

Lando just slumped back in his seat, feeling his face grow hot. He didn't need a mirror to know that he was turning bright red. He fumbled with his phone, desperately trying to turn it off.

“What the hell is that?” Max finally choked out.

“Are you listening to racy audiobooks now?” Oscar demanded.

Lando's fingers finally closed around the power button on his phone, cutting off the sound. He avoided their eyes, knowing he looked guilty as hell.

"It's nothing," he mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant.

Oscar just burst out laughing. "Oh yeah? Sounded like it was definitely something, mate."

Lando felt like he could melt into the seat, his face practically glowing.

“Wait,” Oscar said suddenly. “I think I know that book. Is that the Astrid and Ciaran book? Lily’s been going on about it for months. That’s her favorite series. I didn’t know you were a romance guy, Lando.”

Lando's eyes widened in horror. Of course, Oscar would know what book it was. There nearly never ended a day without Oscar being texted by his girlfriend about whatever new book Lily was currently reading.

"I am definitely not a romance guy," he protested, trying to save what little dignity he had left.

But Max was grinning now, clearly enjoying the situation. "Oh, so you just happen to have a romance/fantasy book on your phone for... for what reason, exactly?" his best friend asked him, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s Lizzie’s favourite,” he blurted out. “I just wanted to see what the fuss is about.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was..well. He wasn’t about to tell Oscar and Max that Lizzie was the actual author of that book series…he would probably neer live down the teasing for reasding her books then…though now that Lando was thinking about it, he wasn’t quite sure that telling them that he was reading her favourite books was much better.

“Lizzie?” Oscar asked curiously.

“Hasn’t Lando told you? He finally managed to ask out the cafe girl,"Max said drily. “You know the one he has been crushing on for months.”

Max's words hung in the air for a moment, and Lando shot him a poisonous look. Max just smirked back like the cocky bastard he was, clearly enjoying throwing Lando under the bus.

Oscar looked surprised, eyes wide as he turned his gaze to Lando. "Wait, seriously? You managed to ask her out?"

Lando sighed, knowing there was no going back now. He should’ve known better than to let Max in on his relationship with Lizzie in the first place. And now, of course he would go and blurt it out in front of Oscar. “Yeah, I did, okay?” he admitted, though his tone was defensive.

“Finally,” Oscar said with a shake of his head. “It was getting depressing.”

Lando shot him a glare but didn’t argue.

Max was, predictably, trying not laugh. “It was kind of pathetic,” he said with a grin.

“Piss off, both of you,” Lando grumbled. “I didn’t know what to say to her, alright? It’s complicated.” Lando defended himself.

“Mate, you spent three months buying pastries you didn’t even like in a cafe so you could stare at a random girl. That’s not complicated, that’s obsessive. And then you pawned off said pastries to every poor unsuspecting McLaren engineer you could find,” Oscar said with a laugh.

“Lando, please tell me you didn’t actually do that?” Max asked, sounding like he was holding back a laugh.

Lando felt his face grow hotter. He’d hoped Oscar wouldn’t mention that particular fact.

“I mean …” he hedged, but a look from Oscar shut him up real fast. “Okay, yeah, maybe I did,” he admitted, reluctantly. “But it’s not that big a deal, alright?”

“How did you even finally manage to ask her out?” Oscar asked with an unbelieving laugh. “You did ask her out, right? You didn’t like…stalk her and found out her favourite book some other way?”

“Of course, I asked her out, you jerk,” Lando shot back, feeling his embarrassment turn into irritation. “And no, I didn’t stalk her. I just asked her.”

Max laughed, clearly still finding this whole thing highly amusing. “Her dog finally took pity of him,” he quipped to Oscar. “She got a service dog that alerted to Lando, then he somehow managed to get her number. How was that dinner by the way?”

He could feel his cheeks heating up again as Max reminded him of that part.

“It was…nice,” he muttered, hoping they would move on from the topic.

Oscar was watching him with an amused gleam in his eyes. “And now you are trying to impress her even further by reading books you would normally never touch?” he teased.

Lando huffed. “It’s not like that,” he said defensively. “I’m just…trying new things. Broadening my horizons.”

“Reading romance books is broadening your horizons?” Max asked, clearly trying not to laugh again. “That’s a new one.”

Lando gritted his teeth, his temper flaring. He knew they were just winding him up, but it was starting to get annoying. “You know what, forget it,” he snapped.

“Fine by me,” Oscar said, still grinning like the bastard he was. “But I’ve got a feeling that you’re gonna get hooked on those books.”

Lando rolled his eyes but didn't respond. He had no intention of telling them that he was already a fourth of the way into the first book…and that actually, he really wanted to know what happened between Ciaran and Astrid. And what the heck was going on with Quinn? He didn’t trust that guy at all…

“And who knows,” Oscar continued. “Maybe reading all those romance books will help you woo your cafe girl. You know when the dog needed to help you ask her out…”

“Don’t you dare say a thing about Mara,” Lando snapped. “She’s a wonder dog! Do you know how important service dogs are for people with epilepsy?”

Oscar stared at him, blinking twice, clearly surprised by his outburst.

“No need to be so touchy about it,” Max said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But still, you’re a world-class racing driver, and a Labrador had more game than you,” he teased, clearly enjoying Lando’s increasing irritation.

“She has epilepsy?” Oscar asked curiously. “One of my mates from boarding school has that.”

Lando nodded, his irritation easing slightly. “Yeah,” he said, trying to rein in his earlier irritation. “She can have seizures without warning. They can be really bad, so the dog is trained to let her know when one is coming...She had another seizure a day before we were supposed to go out to dinner, so we had dinner at her home instead."

Oscar grimaced in sympathy. "That sucks, man," he said sincerely. "Is she doing alright, though?"

Lando nodded. "Yeah, she's doing fine now," he said, his tone noticeably softer. "They just leave her feeling like garbage, but she's mostly fine. It's just...it freaks me out, you know," he said with a grimace. "She can't control her seizures obviously, but they leave her feeling so shitty and there is nothing that I or anybody else can do to make her feel better."

“Sounds pretty rough,” Max said, now sounding sincere as well. “But it’s nice that she has a service dog,” he added, nodding at Lando. “That’s gotta help.”

Oscar watched him with an unreadable expression on his face. "Don't bite off my head, alright?" He said carefully. "But...have you thought about what that is going to mean in your relationship going forward? She will always have epilepsy, Lando. That's not going to be an illness she will ever grow out of or get healed from. Even when they find a medication that makes her mostly seizure free...she will still always have it. Will you be able to deal with that?"

Lando tensed at the question. He had thought about it before, of course, how could he not? "It's not like I'm going to dump her because she has epilepsy," he snapped, though there was a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "I'm not an arsehole."

"That's not what I meant," Oscar said drily. "I mean, that she is probably not going to come along with you on one of your night clubs night outs, with flashing lights and plenty of alcohol. She's also not one of the random super model girlfriends that you date for three weeks and then dump and never talk to again."

Lando bristled at the mention of his "supermodel girlfriends", but he knew there was truth to what Oscar was saying. Lizzie was different, and he had known that from the start.

"I know that," he said, his tone a little bit more defensive than he intended it to be. "I'm not an idiot. I know this is different than what I'm used to. But it's not like she can't go anywhere just because of her epilepsy. She can still have fun."

"Yeah, she totally can," Max agreed. "And I'm pretty sure no one is saying that she can't, man."

Oscar nodded in agreement. "Of course she can, I'm not questioning that. But what I'm trying to say is...if this is going to become serious, do you think that you can deal with it? It's not just going to be the epilepsy, I know that. She's going to have other issues and problems and things that are going to affect both of you. Are you going to be alright with that?"

Lando exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. He knew they weren't trying to be assholes, but they were throwing a lot of hard questions at him.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I've never had anything like this before. But...I like her, alright? Like, a lot. And it feels different...and like...like it's going to be worth it. Nothing that is worth fighting for is going to come to you easy," he said seriously. "I am not afraid of a challenge."

Oscar and Max were quiet for a moment, both of them looking at him with expressions of surprise and respect respectively. They clearly hadn’t expected him to express himself in that way.

“Damn, mate,” Oscar said finally. “Who are you and what have you done with Lando Norris?”

Lando rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the hint of a smile that curled at the corners of his lips. “Piss off, the both of you,” he said, though his words lacked any real heat.

Max snickered a little. “Okay, we’re going to let you continue listening to your racy audiobooks now.”

"Maybe I should actually read them too," Oscar said thoughtfully. "I mean, Lily loves them."

"Want the hardcovers?" Lando asked, rummaging through his backpack to throw them in Oscar's direction. "Knock yourself out."

Oscar caught the books and looked at them with a look of amusement. Then he gave Lando a smirk. "You sure you are not secretly a fangirl, Norris?"

Lando rolled his eyes again. "Shut up."

"It's even the special edition with sprayed edges," Oscar teased.

"The internet would just love a picture of the two of you reading romance books," Max said drily.

"Go and text Pietra and I bet you that she has heard of these books as well," Oscar said drily. "Seasons of Fate is seemingly what every women between the ages of 20 and 30 is reading right now."

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ckret2 · 1 day ago

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Chapter 85 of human Bill Cipher getting a ✨💅 makeover 💇‍♀️✨ so he can seduce a government agent into not arresting him and/or the Mystery Shack gang: a flashback to Scalene & Euclid on Bill's birthday, Pacifica receiving the world's most inept lesson about fatphobia, and the continued adventures of the Pines family attempting to get a flash drive out of a goat's guts.

####

Scalene braced one shaking hand with the other as she reapplied her lipstick—a red so bright it was nearly orange, all the better to make her look a little less sickly than she felt.

She tried to pretend she didn't notice Euclid glaring daggers at her.

She'd come out of her swoon as she was being helped outside by several shapes, including Euclid supporting her with one arm and carrying Bill in the other. Once they were outdoors, someone had shoved the trophy and knives Bill had won into Euclid's hands, and then they'd been left outside as everyone else's attention turned to dealing with the mysterious fire that had spontaneously ignited inside; and for the past few minutes, Scalene had been putting herself back together while Euclid tried to soothe Bill.

Finally, once she deemed herself sufficiently presentable, she held out her arms to Euclid and their still-whimpering child. "All right, I can take him."

Euclid didn't move.

"Come on! You're not gonna hold a grudge against me for fainting, are you?"

Euclid said, "What did I tell you?"

"I brought my cane," Scalene said indignantly.

"Well, where was it?"

There was a long silence.

"Lene..."

"Oh, don't give me that look, it was just behind the curtain! I wasn't about to bring it on stage, I had to make sure Billy looked good!"

"What does your cane have to do with how good he looks?!"

"And the mayor didn't hand over the trophy fast enough," she said, ignoring Euclid's question. "If he had, I could have leaned on that. But no, he just kept yammering on..."

Euclid's copper blue eye had the most piercing glare in town. The fact that he also had the worst eyesight in town did nothing to dispel its power. Scalene much preferred when it was aimed at other people.

But then Bill wiggled his tiny hands toward Scalene with a displeased coo; and with a warning, "Careful," Euclid finally handed him over. "So. He didn't do too bad for his first outing. We've got a winner on our hands?"

Scalene was off the hook. She relaxed. "I think we do. The judges were very impressed he showed up to his first contest on his birthday."

"You'll only be able to do that once," Euclid pointed out.

"Sure, but for the rest of his life he can tell judges he went to his first pageant on the day he was born—can't you?" She directed the question to Bill. "Yes you can! That shows real ambition!" She poked one of his sides just beneath his eye. "And they were impressed by his good looks and how calm he is."

That was well deserved. Bill had entered the world with eye wide open—rather than face scrunched up and eye retracted to cry like most infants—and looking around for his parents, as though he were already used to the light and recognized his surroundings.

"Glad the judges didn't find it creepy, at least," Euclid said.

Scalene waved him off. "What did those nurses know? They should've been grateful to get a kid that isn't wailing in their faces! They couldn't appreciate how adorable he is—but look at him. From the front you'd think he's an oval." It was true: his corners were soft and rounded, and his angles were so flexible that his top angle squashed down toward his feet, making it look more like a right angle than acute. On top of that, his bright, shining pupil was so wide it took up half his face. "One of the judges said he looks downright cherubic. That's going on your resumé, young triangle."

Bill blinked sweetly up at his mother. He would never in his life need to write a resumé, for all the worst reasons.

"And—" Euclid lowered his voice, "—none of them realized how many birth defects he has?"

She swatted his arm. "Shh! No. Everything we've got is too obscure. As far as the pageant circuit is concerned, they're birth assets. My corners were still round when I started competing, and the judges thought I was adorable, too. As long as he goes on stage without braces on, they'll think he looks unique instead of deformed—just like I did."

"If he keeps going on stage without braces, he'll need a cane before he's middle-aged, just like you do."

"Not until his best pageant years are behind him," Scalene said icily. "Besides, we'll do better by him than my mother did for me. We already know what he has—"

"—we think we do, you left before the doctors could examine him—"

"—and I've already got appointments lined up for him with the best orthopedic doctor in the county and your and Euler's optometrist. We'll make sure his face stays pretty, his angles sharpen up, and his organs don't collapse in on themselves. He's just lucky he's got a mother that knows how to make that big eye of his look cute instead of bulgy." She pointed at the trophy, "As long as his good looks keep winning prizes, he'll be able to pay off his own medical bills and bring home a few bonuses."

For the first time, Euclid turned his attention to the trophy and the Knifeco gift box, and he laughed sharply. "Knifeco's still got the myor convinced that the next sample set he gives away for free will get everybody excited to order a full set from him, huh?"

Scalene scoffed. "I don't know why anybody would bother to order one. If they wait long enough and show up to a few city events, eventually they'll win a full set. How much of his own money has he spent on knife sample sets by now?"

"Last I heard? 30, 40k? We probably won't find out how much he's embezzled from city funds 'til next election."

"Otto's an idiot," Scalene said. "After all these years, you'd think he'd figure out the only way to make money at that company is to recruit more salesmen and get a cut of the profits from the kits they sell."

"You'd think." Euclid shrugged impassively. "But as long as I'm still getting 5% from each of his sales to himself, I'm not about to tell him that." He rubbed a thumb on one of Scalene's corners, rubbing off a bit of waxy red side liner to expose the duller pink underneath. "We probably wouldn't be able to afford your makeup habit without him."

Scalene swatted Euclid's hand away. "Well, we can throw away your old chipped set." She patted the dark wood box. "From now on, we're using the set Billy won for us��isn't that right, Billy?" She bounced Bill lightly by her side. He was staring at the box, transfixed. "I think he likes it! That's right, these are your birthday knives, sweetheart."

When his parents looked at the box, they only saw the dark wood; but Bill saw through the wood—over the wood—to the silvery needlelike knives within. They gleamed with starlight shining down from a higher dimension. And then Bill looked up at the stars, glittering far above. He wiggled in Scalene's arm, but couldn't figure out how to move his limbs in the direction he saw above.

Euclid looked at the wiggling child, and tensed up. "Lene. Look at his eye."

She did, and sucked in a sharp breath. "What happened to him?"

"If this is because you dropped him..."

Bill's pupil had disappeared, leaving his eye looking empty and bloodshot silver. But at the change in the tone of his parents' voices, he blinked and focused on them curiously, his pupil back where it belonged like it had never disappeared.

They stared speechlessly at him.

"Did you and Euler's eyes ever do that?" Scalene asked. "Before those surgeries you got as kids?"

"Not—not that I remember. But I could ask Mom and Dad," he said, already knowing the answer would be no.

She stared at Bill's eye a moment longer; but when he didn't do anything but stare back innocently, she sighed. "Well, that's something else we can ask your optometrist. Maybe he'll have a fix for it."

####

While Pacifica was in the bathroom cleaning up after their makeup experimentation, Goldie stood from his folding chair to lean on the desk next to Mabel, staring with a look of intense concentration into the air over the chair about where his head had been.

"What's up?" Pacifica asked, leaning out of the bathroom.

Distractedly, Goldie said, "Nothing, just watching you do my face."

Pacifica frowned. "What? I'm over here?"

Mabel leaned between them, laughing nervously. "What he means is, he does this thing where he, uhh, imagines that he can see what happened around him in the past, so he's... pretending he's watching you put makeup on his face a few minutes ago." At Pacifica's skeptical look, Mabel hastily added, "It's not like a psychic thing or anything! It's just a... um..."

Goldie mumbled, "Mindfulness visualization exercise."

"Yeah! It helps him memorize stuff! Right?"

"You bet. All the best venture capitalists are doing it."

Pacifica said, "Oh, I think a CEO my dad invited over was talking about that. Is it like a meditation thing? You think about what you want to get it?"

"Say it until you believe it, believe it until it's true!" Mabel said.

Goldie elbowed her. "Look who's been paying attention." She beamed at him.

Pacifica packed the makeup, brushes, and spare hair ties and pins he'd need in a bag, and handed it over. "Okay, that should take care of your face. When you shower tonight, remember to wash all the makeup off, you do not want this messing with your pores; remember to moisturize or your skin will crack apart like a mummy's"—one of her mother's favorite threats—"get Mabel to help pin your curls tomorrow, and just do what I showed you for the rest. Now we just have to worry about clothing." She sized up his hair color, his skin color—couldn't quite bring herself to look at his eye color, though. "I think you're a spring. You can probably pull off some autumn colors too. But usually springs are supposed to tan easier than they burn..."

"I do!" He gestured at himself, sunburns and all, and said proudly, "This took hard work!"

That answered a question she'd been asking herself all day, and brought up half a dozen more. "Not going to ask. So, you want to go for bright, clear, warm colors. And you'll look better in gold accessories."

"I know," he said smugly.

Colors were the easy part. She wished she'd had time to call up her personal tailor to bring by some dresses that could be adjusted. Goldie had such a weird body shape—narrow shoulders, sticklike arms, slender calves, and then a wide waist and even wider hips. There couldn't be much clothing that fit him, masculine or feminine. "Do you have any cute clothes in colors that flatter you? Feminine clothes?"

"What's feminine? Dresses?" Goldie turned to Mabel. "Everything else is hit-or-miss, but dresses and skirts are still universally feminine around here, right?" Pacifica was dying to know what Goldie's life had been like.

"Yeah," Mabel said, "I think we managed to get that yellow summer dress at the mall."

Pacifica winced. "Is a summer dress all you've got?" Not the worse choice, depending on the cut, but it probably wouldn't do his figure any favors.

"It's either that or Jesús's grandma's skirts," Goldie said, shrugging. "Did we manage to snag that sparkly dress with all the pink peacock feathers?"

"That's more of a third date dress. You don't want him to think you're out of his league," Mabel said. "It's too bad we didn't get that galaxy print skirt."

"You know what I could really use? Halter top trapeze dress. Maybe stick a petticoat under the skirt for extra volume. They've gotta make trapeze dresses with petticoats somewhere."

"I could probably make one," said Mabel (who wasn't even sure what a trapeze dress was but was over the moon to see him voluntarily express an interest in human clothing).

Pacifica's face twisted in a grimace. Pityingly, she said, "Oh, you really don't know your body type at all."

He gave her an unimpressed look. "Don't I?"

The thing was, a trapeze dress in and of itself wasn't a bad idea: it was tight around the bust, flared out like a tent underneath, and stopped before the knees; so it could highlight his slim shoulders and arms, let him show off his thin calves, and do at least a bit to conceal those thunder thighs and flabby waistline. But... "A halter top would make your shoulders look way too narrow; and a petticoat would completely undermine the flattering effects of a trapeze dress, and—where would you even position the petticoat? Trapeze dresses doesn't have a waistline."

"About where the skirt starts," Goldie said, drawing a line in the air around bust height.

He couldn't be serious. "Absolutely not. You'd look like a walking triangle."

A smile of near maniacal glee stretched across Goldie's face. Before he could say anything, Mabel grabbed his arm and said, "I think you should just go with what Pacifica says! Pacifica, what do you think?"

"Just—stick with the dress you already have." Between a triangle trapeze dress, the threat of pink feathers, and galaxy print, suddenly Pacifica was grateful for the yellow summer dress. "It's great. Summer dresses are flirty. Do you have shoes that match it?"

Goldie pointed at his fish slippers. "It's these, black oxfords, or foam clogs."

"No," Pacifica said. "Sandals, flats, or open toe heels. And throw away the fish slippers."

"Never."

Mabel said, "You could reuse the sandals you borrowed from Dipper for your Summerween costume?"

"Please don't tell me what they look like," Pacifica said. "Okay, dress, shoes—accessories... just, get something nice but understated. And classy. Do I need to explain what 'classy' looks like?"

"Relax, I used to have a collection of gold that put Albion Art to shame," Goldie said. "I know how to do 'classy.'"

"I'm going to pretend I trust you," Pacifica said. "Okay, underwear—got to wear a bra unless the dress has built-in support; and if you hurry, it's probably not too late to go wherever poor people shop and grab some shapewear for your..." she gestured vaguely toward Goldie's abdomen, "problem area..."

"No," Goldie said flatly. "I'm drawing the line at shapewear. I look fine."

Ooh, not good. His attitude toward everything else about his looks ranged from "apathy" to "disgust," why was flaunting his not-flauntworthy curves the point where he chose to push back? She should've been more direct with him. "Hon, I love the confidence, but..." Pacifica grimaced apologetically. "You're fat. Like, really fat. And you're not gonna win this guy if he thinks you've let yourself go."

Mabel shot from slouching to sitting straight up. "Pacifica!"

"What, it's true! He probably thinks having skinny arms hides it, but back me up here—it is not subtle."

"Don't say that, he's beautiful!!"

Pacifica had been braced for Goldie to be outraged, embarrassed, ashamed, go into denial, something—just about anything except snort with laughter. He waved them off when they looked at him. Pacifica wondered whether he'd misunderstood the conversation. "Listen to you two! You're letting the subtext do so much of the heavy lifting that you don't even realize half the things you're saying." His gaze on them was cold and faintly amused; and for a moment Pacifica felt like a bug whose behavior was being studied by some immense alien being, and who had been judged inferior.

"Anyway, I'm not trying to hide anything—and I'd make it less subtle if I could. I love my shape!" He pantomimed his shape with his hands—although, where most people would sort of draw an hourglass shape if they wanted to their body's curves, the shape he drew in the air looked more like a triangle. Which, admittedly, was more true to his actual appearance. "And you're changing it over my dead bo—" He winced, muttering, "Maybe not the best way to put that."

Now Pacifica wondered if she'd misunderstood him. "What."

"Look, kid..." Goldie stood straighter, put a hand on Pacifica's shoulder, and adopted the most patronizing tone she'd ever heard. "I know your parents taught you the only things contributing to your personal worth are how rich you are and how attractive other people find you, so let's agree that's all that really matters, right?"

"Um," said Pacifica, who was pretty sure she was about to receive some twee lesson about 'inner beauty' but had never heard one that started with the lecturer agreeing that wealth and looks were the most important things.

"And I know Missy Priscy's got you convinced that your beauty and your weight are engaged in a battle to the death over the right to terraform your flesh. So this might blow your mind—but you've been lied to! The sight of a human female over size 4 doesn't cause the contents of a human male's gonads to curdle! Fat chicks have been successfully getting hitched and passing the genetic baton to their offspring for all of human history—and reproduction is the only objective benchmark evolution has to measure who's hot and who's not, so you can rate that higher than the opinion of a tarnished trophy who thinks enough botox will make her immortal. Hear what I'm saying, Alpaca. Absorb it. Incorporate it into your worldview."

She bristled at the description of her mother, but swallowed back the urge to lash out. He was bitter and taking it out on her. He was feeding her a load of sour grapes. This was just the kind of thing fat people told themselves to feel less bad about being fat. "Riiight."

Goldie's patronizing smirk curled down at one corner in irritation. "Ah, who'm I kidding! You're not gonna believe me! Your mom, your modeling job, the pageant world, the beauty industry—they've burrowed way too deep in your head, and there's no digging them back out without a lobotomy." He scoffed. "You're one snide jab at the wrong time away from an eating disorder."

"Hey! How dare you!" Pacifica thought that was way meaner than anything she'd said.

Mabel snapped, "B—Goldie! Be nice! What's gotten into you two!"

"Yeesh, touched a nerve! Excuse me!" He raised his hands apologetically, but he was grinning impishly. "Anyway—" he raised his voice as the girls attempted to scold him again, "Anyway! More to the point—our target looked me up and down in a bikini and asked if he could help slather sunscreen around my waist, so I think he thinks my body looks great in the shape it's already in. And getting the guy is the only important thing—right?"

If Goldie was telling the truth, Pacifica couldn't think of any other reason some guy would volunteer to rub sunscreen on him—even if she found it hard to believe. And if he was making it up, then whatever, he could sabotage himself if he wanted, she didn't care. She rolled her eyes, grit her teeth, and muttered, "Fine."

"Not fine! Both of you hold on!" Mabel stood, decided she wasn't tall enough, and climbed on the folding chair. "You two were just really mean to each other! That's terrible—especially after you were getting along so great! Apologize to each other!" She crossed her arms, glaring them down.

Pacifica stared at her in disbelief, brows raised. "I beg your pardon?"

But Goldie didn't look like this was odd to him at all. He just rolled his eyes—"All right, all right,"—and looked at Pacifica. "C'mon. You can't be that mad. You've heard worse."

She scowled at him, but she supposed she had. From her mom, her old pageant coach, her manager that got her modeling jobs—she was just more used to warnings about getting fat than she was to warnings about fearing getting fat. "So have you."

"Worse than you can imagine," Goldie said. "We're good?"

"We're good," Pacifica said.

Goldie looked at Mabel. "We're good!"

Mabel looked between the two of them suspiciously. "That was an apology?"

"Got the job done, didn't it?"

Mabel didn't look pleased, but she sat down on the folding chair and crossed her arms.

Pacifica said, "Okay, you're off the hook for shapewear—but if he thinks you look like a slob, it's on you."

He rolled his eyes. "Noted!"

"But you've got to wear a bra. What are the straps like on the summer dress, do you have a bra that'll fit under it okay?"

Goldie groaned. "We can reuse my bikini and pad the cups or something. We don't have time to go to the mall and figure out what size I am."

In horror, Pacifica quietly asked, "Do... do you not even own a bra."

"Why would I?" Goldie asked, like he couldn't imagine a single practical reason. Hard to tell his size through an oversized t-shirt; he was definitely small, but it wasn't like he was flat. "I've never really cared about local fashion outside of batiks, brocades, tie dyes, and sarcastic t-shirts, but now that it's affecting me personally? I cannot wait for that particular fad to die."

Since when were batiks local. And who calls bras a fad. That's like calling shoes a fad. "What is your life like," Pacifica asked.

Goldie grinned. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."

####

"That's it. That's all I can do for you," Pacifica said. "Good luck on... whatever it is you're doing. Because I'm pretty sure you're not actually into this guy?"

Mabel said, "Wooing a federal agent to avoid getting the whole family arrested!"

Pacifica nodded. "Oh, cool. Let me know how that goes."

Mabel stopped to hug Giorgio on the way out.

As they left Pacifica's barn, Bill turned to face Mabel. "Welp!" He pantomimed like he was playing a violin, "Ready to bow on some poor sucker's heartstrings until we yank out his aorta?"

"Ha ha. Yeah. Sure." Mabel tried to smile and it came out as a grimace. "Sounds great."

"Hey, don't give me that look!" He shoved Mabel's shoulder. "You've heard me say gorier things than that!" He flashed her a grin she could only describe as bloodthirsty, and bounced off toward the road back to town, so cheerful he was very nearly floating.

And she watched him go, biting her lip.

Something had been bothering her since his argument with Pacifica:

She couldn't figure out why he wasn't better.

####

Bill nudged Mabel. "Hey. Am I in trouble?"

"What?"

"You've been giving me the silent treatment since we left." That had been about fifteen minutes earlier. "Is it because of the eating disorder thing? Do I have to apologize to you for that? It's not like I was insulting her! If anything, I did her a favor by warning her—"

She gave him a sour look—that had been very rude, even if not Bill's typical existential horror cosmic nightmare level rudeness—but said, "No, it's not that. I'm just thinking about stuff."

"Are you gonna share it, or do I have to wait until I can crawl inside your head again to find out?"

Mabel was silent a moment. "Do you actually like tie-dye?"

"That's what's bothering you?" He pulled his eyepatch back on—Pacifica had told him putting it back on would probably mess up his makeup, but that didn't really matter until tomorrow. "Of course I do, who doesn't! It's chaos on a shirt." He shrugged. "I've never had any—but, y'know, it's nice to look at, anyway."

"Wait, never? We should do tie-dye together! I can get us some white shirts and we can dye them outside," Mabel said. "Maybe I can invite Grenda and Candy!"

"Sounds like a party! Let me know when, you know what my schedule looks like."

"Great!" She beamed at him.

But as they walked, her smile slowly faded as she drifted back into her own thoughts.

His ideas about flirting were very hit or miss, but Mabel thought they were probably hits more often with aliens that thought dead salmon smelled sexy. He'd had a girlfriend, at any rate.

And he'd gotten chummy with Abuelita (even after she tried to poison him), he'd charmed Gideon's mom in like ten seconds, Wendy thought he was cool and so did half her gang, Candy and Grenda said he was fun, Mabel was pretty sure Stan kinda liked him even if he wouldn't admit it... He'd even managed to develop a rapport with Pacifica—Pacifica!—which had taken Mabel like two-thirds of the summer!—and he'd done it even though they'd insulted each other!

He was charming, he was fun, he clearly got romance...

So how come he didn't have true love and best friends that weren't evil?

The question itched at her brain.

Mabel firmly believed that the only thing that made people bad was not getting enough love. Family love, friend love, romance love, adorable cuddly pet love, whatever. Put love in, get love out; put nothing in, get a swirling vortex of loneliness and hatred where the love should have been stored. Like Prickly Bee in Color Critters! Who during season one had been one of the color-hating bad guys, but in season two had inexplicably joined the good guys due to network executive meddling, and it wasn't until season three that they did a flashback episode showing that the critters had won her over by showing her the kindness and caring that her old boss Serpent Grey never had!

And at the beginning of summer, after Mabel helped Bill get his hair back, he'd said it had been a long time since anyone had been nice to him; and he'd been nice to her since then, so that seemed to support her theory. All it took was a little love!

She just couldn't figure out why he didn't already have enough.

He had all those monster friends he'd tried to conquer the world with last year, but maybe they were those "people who claim to be friends but are actually allies who hate each other" that you see amongst cartoon villains. (Like Serpent Grey's minions.) Was it because they were aliens? Were aliens not good at friendship? Had he been deprived until now?

She remembered how heavy even the smallest glimpse at his pain had been—listening to him grieve over his own death. It was clear that, whatever he'd had before, what he needed now was better love, more friends—enough to share that psychological weight without collapsing—but how much would be enough to untwist his crooked morality?

Mabel was running out of time. Summer was almost halfway over. She only had seven more weeks to reintegrate Bill into society—to help him make amends for everything he'd done last summer—or else... or else she'd failed. She'd failed him.

And she knew she was making progress with Bill, but she didn't know if it was enough. She wished he'd go faster. She wished summer would go slower. She wished she had more time.

She remembered what had happened the last time she'd wished for a little more summer.

So she'd just have to figure out how to save him in the time they had left. She couldn't just pick up a broken teacup, glue half the pieces together, then abandon it half-repaired to leak tea all over the floor. She was a problem solver, it was what she did. She had to solve this problem—or else everything she'd done this past year would be for nothing.

As they walked, she reached out to grab Bill's hand. He gave her a curious look, but he didn't pull it back.

"Was all that stuff true about you doing pageants as a kid?" (There must have been something in his past to explain why he didn't have enough love—maybe in his childhood.) "Or did you just make that up to make Pacifica relax?" (She guiltily remembered him accusing her of trying to "fix" him—how badly he'd been hurt by the thought.)

She felt his hand tense in her grip, but he shrugged dismissively. "They're not exactly identical to human beauty pageants—no real fashion component, for one thing—but, yeah. Did 'em as a kid. I went to my first pageant on the day I was born."

"So you lied when you told me you didn't do them yourself?"

"I did not," Bill said indignantly. "I just didn't correct you when you guessed wrong!"

At Mabel's sour look, Bill rolled his eye and said, "What, am I supposed to correct you every time you say something wrong? Because humans are wrong about just about everything—"

"Bill."

He huffed. "The specifics weren't any of your business, okay? It's—not something I talk about with humans. Or any other aliens, for that matter."

"Why not? Was it—"

"Because it's ancient history," he said sharply.

Mabel gave him a worried look. When he didn't elaborate, she said, "So, is it really as stressful as you and Pacifica made it sound?"

"Stressful!" Bill scoffed. "Name a part of life that isn't stressful. School, work, breeding a family, yadda yadda—better to learn how to handle it early, right? And it's only stressful if you're bad at it! I was good. I was very good."

"Good at what?" Mabel asked.

"Uh..." Bill had to grasp for a moment. "Being... cute. Charming the judges. Wowing 'em at the talent portion—when I wasn't starting fires. I really did play the piano! I mean—not a piano, but the closest equivalent my world had. There's nothing cuter than a kid playing an instrument he can hardly reach each end of." At Mabel's continued worried look, he said, "What! It was harmless. It was just a bunch of baby shapes bumbling around the stage looking adorable, that's all! It wasn't that bad!"

He was quiet for a moment; and then he repeated to himself, "It wasn't that bad."

####

"Don't get any closer," Stan said. "This place is about to be a toxic waste dump."

Bill and Mabel looked around Stan. In the middle of the clearing behind the Mystery Shack, a tent had been set up. Inside, a goat bleated in a plea for help.

Mabel asked, "Why?"

"Poindexter and your brother's plan to get that computer doohickey out of the goat the old-fashioned way didn't work. He wouldn't eat the concoction they mixed up. So they're getting it out of him the other old-fashioned way."

"Vivisection?" Bill asked hopefully.

"No—" Stan fell silent, squinted at Bill's face, and decided not to comment on his new look. "Vomit. You remember that witch's brew we used to chase off the flying eyeball that you—er—you knew?"

Mabel screwed up her face. "Oh, yuck, that was the worst thing I ever smelled."

Stan tipped his head toward the tent. "Well, they're about to detonate what's left of it."

"'Detonate'?"

Ford's voice came from the tent: "On the count of three! One... two..."

There was a muffled boom. The walls of the tent billowed outward and an orange ball of fire illuminated Ford, Dipper, and Gomper's silhouettes. Gompers let out a loud bleat of distress.

Voice strained, Dipper said, "Ugh, that smell—I think I'm gonna be—" He had to try a couple of times to unzip the tent, then stumbled out and landed on his hands and knees in the dirt, gasping for fresh air.

Ford—wearing a gas mask��ducked out of the tent. "I told you you'd want a mask."

"Smelling it in close quarters is way—" He clapped a hand over his mouth and gagged, "—way worse than I thought."

"Well?" Stan called. "Did anything come up?"

Ford peered back into the tent. "No."

Stan flung his hands up.

"Don't lose hope," Ford said. "I have a spell to induce vertigo somewhere. I don't remember all the words, but..."

Bill spent several seconds pretending he didn't notice Ford was staring directly at him before he said, "Can I help you?"

"You know the spell, don't you?"

"What, the Maximus Vertiginous? 'Course I do. Classic prank."

Ford stared at him expectantly. Bill said, "What?"

"How does it go?" Ford asked impatiently.

"Oh, you expect me to teach you?" Bill rolled his eye.

Mabel frowned up at him. "Come on, Bill, don't be a jerk."

The back of his neck started heating up as he realized the whole family was staring at him. He stood a little straighter. "Listen to you, ya little hypocrite! Aren't you the one who keeps showing me those cute cartoons telling me to be myself?" To Stanford, he said, "I don't tutor my dropouts. Go find your own notes, Stanford Pines."

Ford glowered at Bill, but then he left the tent, zipped it shut behind himself, and trudged toward the shack. His irritated muttering was muffled by the gas mask.

As soon as the door shut, Stan clapped his hands. "Okay! Ford's gone, now we're doing this my way." As he passed Dipper, he said, "C'mon, kid, chop chop. I need your help, your hands are smaller than mine."

Dipper groaned, but got back to his feet, pulled his shirt over his nose, and trudged back to the tent with Stan. "What are we doing?"

"The same thing you and Ford were—but more assertive! Sixer nixed my plan, but his obviously didn't work." Stan unzipped the tent's flap. "All right. I'll hold the goat's mouth open, you reach in."

"Ohhh no."

Bill's face lit up. "Heeey, that sounds fun! Let me try! My hands are small and I can actually see the flash drive!"

"Oh no you don't," Stan said. "We can't risk you picking up the eyeball repellant stink, you've gotta stay pretty until loverboy shows up!"

"What, so suddenly I'm too pretty to grope a goat's guts?" Bill stared at Mabel in disbelief, waiting for her to commiserate over this injustice.

Mabel—who was still a bit miffed about being called a hypocrite—said, "Let's just go in." As they walked to the porch, she said, "'Be yourself' doesn't mean be a jerk. It means 'don't hide your talents' and 'keep doing your hobbies even if other people think they're boring' and stuff."

"Yeah, well, what if one of my talents is being a jerk?"

Mabel groaned. "There's gotta be an episode that covers this."

As Stan entered the tent, he said, "Phew, that reeks! Hey, zip the tent when you come in."

Dipper hung back nervously, half in the tent and pinching his nose shut. "Grunkle Stan, I'm not sure about this idea."

"Come on, it—it can't be hard! Farmers do this. I think. Look, I'm doing the hard part, all you have to do is reach down his throat! Lemme just... get my fingers between his jaws...

Gompers bleated angrily. Stan hollered in pain.

"Oh, no!" Dipper dove for Gompers and landed in the dirt as the goat shot past. From the porch, Mabel and Bill could only watch as Gompers headed the other way.

Soos walked around the corner of the shack. "Hey, du—whoa!"

"Soos!" Dipper shouted. "Catch him!"

Soos dove to the side to get out of the way of the charging goat, watched him vanish into the forest, and said, "Aw—dude, I just did the opposite of what you asked me to do. That's totally my bad."

Ford opened the back door with a handful of papers and his gas mask pushed up on his forehead. "I heard shouting, what happened?"

"Uhhh," Soos said. "Gompers just escaped into the forest."

"What?! How?!"

Stan stumbled through the tent's flap, cradling a hand. "It was—it was totally unexpected. Just ran off for no reason. Completely unprompted," he said. "He also bit my hand. Don't ask why my hand was so close to his mouth."

Ford said, "Which way?! We have to follow him immediately! If the agents detect the drive's signal before we retrieve him—"

"Don't bother," Bill said. "As long as he's in the forest, if he doesn't want to be caught, he won't be. There's nothing you can do until he comes out."

Ford narrowed his eyes. "How are you so sure?"

"He ate some magic rocks."

"Ah. Well." He shrugged in defeat. Nothing they could do if he'd eaten magic rocks. "But what if he does want to be caught?"

Bill gestured toward the forest with a flourish. "If you think he's eager for more of the hors d'oeuvres and perfume you've been offering him today, go get 'im."

Stan cleared his throat. "Well—the good news is, when the agents get here, they won't find the thingamajig in the Mystery Shack! Eh? Ehhh?"

"Oh, yeah, that's what I was coming over to tell you guys," Soos said. "I was taking out the trash, and I saw this car parked just up the road, and it looked like the car the government dudes were in today, so, I think they're watching the shack now?"

There was a long silence as the group processed that.

"We can't be outside," Ford said. "If they see Stan they'll want to interrogate him, if they see Bill here after hours they'll know he's not a passing tourist, and if they see me they'll realize I'm not a superior officer from Washington—"

Bill slammed his fist on the back door. "Then stop rambling and let me in!"

Ford opened the door and ushered everyone inside. "Hurry!"

"But what about Gompers?" Dipper asked. "We've gotta at least try to find him before the agents do!"

"What if the agents follow you to Gompers?" Ford asked. Dipper hesitated.

Mabel said, "We can make disguises so they won't recognize us!" She took off her half of the enchanted friendship bracelets, chucked it toward the coat rack just inside the door, and ran upstairs. "Come on!"

Dipper shot one last worried look toward the forest, then followed her.

Ford shut the door and asked Stan in a low voice, "How long is Gompers usually gone when he wanders off?"

"No telling. Sometimes I don't see him for weeks at a time."

Soos said, "So if they're gonna keep looking until they find that drive, but we can't go looking because they're watching us, and Gompers doesn't come back, so we can't find the drive, and they can't find the drive... then, how do we get rid of them?"

"We don't," Stan said. "Unless they find something more interesting than the drive."

As Bill added his end of the bracelet to the coat rack, he was keenly aware of three sets of eyes on him. He could see the cold gray walls of his cell in the— of the surgical suite in Hangar 618. Oh, he was certainly a billion times more interesting than some lousy drive; and if the eagles figured that out...

"Distracting them for a few hours won't cut it, will it," Ford asked him.

Bill pushed away the phantom psychological weight of heavy ankle cuffs and cheap orange fabric. "Doesn't look like it. You'll need some other way to make them leave."

Grimly, Ford said, "It looks like your job just got a lot more important."

####

(Your "what was edited due to TBOB" roundup: as mentioned in an earlier chapter, some of the specifics of the pageant scene came from TBOB—the name of the "best baby ever" award and the mayor handing out free knives. But everything else was plotted well before TBOB—including Bill being born able to see the stars, having a condition that makes him unusually flexible (which lines up with Baby Bill's squishy look quite well), and his parents getting him medical treatment at a very young age due to, among other things, his weird eye. Most of the rest of the chapter was written pre-TBOB.

Although my god did i rewrite the conversation about Bill's weight a hundred times. This has been a high priority to work into the fic for some time! I wanted to make it clear that Bill's body shape isn't merely a cosmetic part of his character design but something with actual in-world impact, that for him it's a positive and not meant to be punitive or a joke, and that Pacifica's got issues and we're gonna be dealing with them. The hard part was doing all that while avoiding Bill sounding like an enlightened angel spreading the gospel of fat positivity to the ignorant masses, rather than what he actually is: a selfish alien who realizes humans are being stupid but whose only personally investment in this issue is convincing a 13-year-old not to make him wear spanx.

Next week, the agents are finally back, and Bill gets to put all that flirting practice into action! I'm sure he'll do a great job.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gompers #(<- for the art. i feel like gompers doesn't get much art so this is worth highlighting.)#pacifica northwest #scalene cipher #euclid cipher #(<- for the actual chapter)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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aquared46 · 2 days ago

Text

Happy ao3 downtime. Have a little andreil fic. As a treat.

It was only because Neil recognized the cadence of the footsteps downstairs that his pounding heart calmed. He untangled his legs from the blankets, but didn’t rise from the bed. He listened as Andrew locked the front door, the pounding in his head and the sickness swirling in his stomach indicating he only managed about an hour of sleep. Vague images clung to the backs of Neil’s eyelids, a nightmare that slipped from his waking mind. Something Andrew had saved him from before he was even in the room.

Andrew wasn’t supposed to be back in South Carolina for another two weeks, obligated to spend time training with his team between games. Neil himself should’ve been on campus, ready for practice in the morning. Instead, Coach took one look at him yesterday afternoon and sent him away with orders to get some sleep. To give his vice captain a chance to practice for the real thing once Neil graduated in a few short months.

Neil couldn’t get any sleep at the dorms, but his and Andrew’s bed in Columbia called to him. Neil made the trip and collapsed into it, his mind wandering to the countless firsts they shared there rather than the onslaught of memories March brought.

Neil had survived three Marches since the riot, since his father’s people had delivered him to the basement in Baltimore. His fourth March should’ve been no different.

Except there was one thing Neil hadn’t accounted for: Andrew wasn’t there.

Neil was in his final year, Andrew was playing on a professional team states away, and Neil had never realized exactly how much he leaned on him in times like this. How the shared cigarettes steadied his hands, how Andrew’s palm on the back of his neck halted the crawling beneath his skin.

Objectively, he knew Andrew helped, but it was also something Neil should’ve been able to do on his own. It wasn’t something he wanted to burden Andrew with, something that pulled him away from his responsibilities because Neil couldn’t manage to get through just a few fucking days without nearly falling apart.

And now Andrew was standing in the doorway of their bedroom in Columbia, the light from the hall flooding into the room and illuminating Neil in all his disgrace. The sweaty skin, the greasy hair, the circles under his eyes, the t-shirt Neil had bundled under his head.

Neil had found it wedged between the nightstand and the bedframe, undoubtedly tossed aside carelessly on a good day that involved lots of kissing and touching. It smelled a bit like old sweat, but Andrew’s scent also clung to it, and Neil was far beyond denying himself such a simple comfort.

Andrew kicked the bedroom door closed, and Neil listened to his footsteps as he approached in the dark. There was a click as Andrew tugged the chain of the small lamp on the nightstand. Andrew always hated how bright the overhead light was.

Andrew gestured to Neil’s entirety. “This is not fine.” He snagged the shirt from under Neil’s head, wrinkling his nose before tossing it aside.

Andrew had called him just two days earlier. They’d talked as they always did, exchanging stories and sometimes just sitting in silence, knowing the other was there and listening. Except this time Andrew had explicitly asked how Neil was holding up, and Neil had said he was fine.

“I meant what I said.” Neil mourned the loss of the shirt, but tucked his face closer to the pillow, where some of the smell had transferred.

Andrew’s jaw tensed. “I thought you weren’t going to lie to me anymore.”

“I’m not.”

“Then you’re lying to yourself.” Something settled in Andrew’s gaze as he examined Neil, the tension in his shoulders easing. “And you’re an idiot if you think I’d make you bear this on your own.”

Andrew emptied his pockets on the nightstand, and Neil felt something loosen in him as well. As Andrew peeled off his jeans, Neil scooched over to make enough room on the bed.

“There were no games scheduled, so I got cleared for this time off weeks ago,” Andrew said as he slipped under the covers.

The relief Neil felt from his proximity didn’t lessen the weight of his glare. “And you’re telling me this now?”

“You should’ve known I’d be here for your yearly mental breakdown. At least you keep a consistent schedule. I was curious whether you’d be honest with me, but now I have to ask: Was it a lack of self-awareness or sheer bullheaded stubbornness that kept you from telling the truth?” Andrew was close enough Neil could feel the warmth radiating off him. “I didn’t believe you then, and your current appearance only validates that assessment. If I asked again what would your answer be now?”

Neil ignored his first impulse, which was to say he was fine. Not only was it the answer Andrew didn’t want, but it certainly wasn’t true. Frustratingly, everything Andrew said was right. The way Andrew could peel back his layers and see what was underneath used to be unsettling, but nowadays Neil found it reassuring. Even if it pissed him off. Even if Andrew told him things he didn’t want to hear.

“That I can’t sleep,” Neil said through gritted teeth. “That he’s the only thing I see when I close my eyes, and that I wish you were here.”

“That’s better,” Andrew said. “Certainly more believable.”

Andrew reached for Neil, settling his arm over his waist and tugging him closer. Neil sagged into the contact, shuddering with relief as he tucked his head under Andrew’s.

Neil breathed him in. “I should be able to bear this on my own.”

“You don’t have to. I’d rather be here when you don’t need me than be away when you do.” Andrew tightened his arm, tangling Neil’s legs with his.

Neil had been holding himself together by threads for the past few days. In Andrew’s arms, he was safe enough to let himself fall apart. His chest was tight, and he gradually lost the steady breaths he forcibly maintained.

Andrew held him through it, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on Neil’s spine. It was something Neil could focus on, something he could latch onto to draw himself back into his own body. Exhaustion crashed into him as soon as he did, but not before he made Andrew a promise.

“I’ll do better next time.”

“I know.”

#aftg #andreil #It’s like 1am and I’m queuing this for when downtime starts #May it only last as long as they say it will #I’ll add this to ao3 later but then I actually have title it #hmmmmmm #I also still need to link my mixtapes here

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pricegouge · 12 hours ago

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the erotic pin up thought but imagine nikolai tattooing his favourite pic and surprising his lover with it :3

he's already been away for two weeks when you get a text from an unknown number. you don't need the contact to discern who it is, anyway. in istanbul. things are running long. don't expect me back so soon. you're not expecting a reply when you tell him not to worry, to just keep himself safe, but you're delighted when you get one anyway.

>>You too, milaya.

he messages you at least once a day, just to check in. you've never been able to contact him like this while he's been on mission before and you don't want to ruin it by being too needy but the temptation of your phone lays heavy in your pocket all week. you'd hate to interfere but he makes it hard when he keeps up a slow, steady means of communication. you wonder about the mission, don't dare ask. it seems unlikely that he'd let himself be so distracted if it were something high stakes, though. it's possible he's been relegated to glorified taxi while bigger pieces make their moves and you can't help but sympathize when you picture him waiting around, dining in the quaint kind of cafes he'd never really seemed to find an appreciation for - at least, not on his own. he was always happy enough to take you but it had always been very clear where his interest lied, dark eyes trained on you even as he ordered. observant, filing away each little reaction he could pull from you with savory dishes and select deserts. you flatter yourself, imagining his patience breaking, just a little more each day, just enough to text you, earlier and earlier each day until two weeks have come and gone and you've basically fallen into a constant rapport.

you ask for pictures of the city and he obliges, little peeks into the life he's living while away. yet more evidence this is some bizarrely political mission he doesn't really need to be present for. you note when he moves locales a few times but he tactfully avoids telling you his location again. he stops sending you pictures altogether when you start guessing correctly.

so you start sending him pictures instead. they start out innocent enough, testing the limits of what you're allowed to say on this line. he shows gives no intent to stop you when you show him the view from the summit of a local hike, nor even when you snap a picture outside a local restaurant, its logo left carelessly in frame. he only tells you to enjoy, doubles down when you send a selfie with your cheeks stuffed full of spanakopita.

you start to think he deserves a reward, being on the clock for nearly a month straight and still finding the time to check in with you.

his hangar is a sacred place, one you rarely enter without his accompaniment. too many expensive tools, machinery pulled apart with all its fragile bits exposed. you're always afraid to touch, afraid to break. nik had told you once that every item there was made of sterner stuff, that you couldn't hurt a swashplate if you climbed up on it. funny how you might be taking him up on the offer now.

(you wouldn't know really, the knowledge about what a swashplate even was having gone in one ear and right out the other. not your fault when he looked that good, jumpsuit folded down to reveal a sweaty, clingy tank top, wiry hair visible through the thin ribbed material.)

but you're getting ahead of yourself.

the tarp kicks up a mess when you pull it free, concrete dust having settled in nik's absence. it sends you into a sneezing fit and you curse, smudging your makeup as you try to wipe away the moisture collecting on your lash line. you decide to roll with it when you catch a glimpse of yourself in some nearby chrome, see the kind of effect it brings to your overall look.

your makeup is classic, a bright lip and exaggerated liner. even a painted on beauty mark to really knock it home. the outfit was harder to settle on, your every instinct telling you nik always appreciated when you looked your finest, all dolled up in expensive labels he'd bought for you. but ultimately you'd decided what was good for the goose was good for the gander, pilfering from his closet until you'd found what you were looking for, the exact same outfit which drove you mad.

nik's a big man, his jumpsuit made to reflect that. it drapes away from your waist when you let it hang but it's nothing that a clever safety pin corset can't fix, the top of the suit left to hang over it, hiding it away. long legs are easier to remedy, hems tucked into a pair of hiking boots you hadn't cared about in years, now painted to look the part with the same gear grease you'd smeared all over yourself, tasteful swipes meant to accentuate your soft curves, here on display under the dirty tank top you'd sworn you'd told him to get rid of, now tied tight around your waist to show off your chest. and now with your smudged makeup you think you've finally got it right, the look exactly what you'd been going for when you'd first got the notion in your head.

with the stage already set, the photoshoot goes easily enough. the poses are almost instinctual, the big wrench you wield almost natural in your hands as you lean provocatively over the engine block, tits to squished you doubt he'll ever even notice the size isn't right for the bolts in front of you. you try a couple of different styles, positions which are obviously designed with aesthetics in mind interspersed with more competent looking ones, even though it makes you feel ridiculous when you think of how obvious it will be to him that you don't know what you're doing.

you just have to remember how little he's going to mind it, all told.

editing isn't your strong suit. you're racked with doubt all the while, hyperfocused on every little flaw you spot. it gets easier when you remember the whole shoot is meant to be quite grimy and in the end you settle on a decent collection. you even remember to upload them to a file sharing site to avoid compression, sending him the link with a wink and a warning not to open in front of his comrades.

he calls you naughty immediately, but it's long hours before he can properly respond, a call that wakes you up in the middle of the night so he can pant and moan in your ear about how much he wants to bend you over that engine, peel his suit off of you and eat your cunt from the back. it's the first time you've heard his voice in weeks and the low rumble of it conspires with the slickness in your panties which never fully righted itself after your little photoshoot, the anticipation of his reaction keeping you primed for him. you come together before trading quiet reassurances. how much you miss each other, how you can't wait to see him again. he makes a vague promise to be home soon and you're still so sated that the twinge of loneliness feels like nothing really.

you think that's the end of it. that maybe he'll request more, at most. but then you wake up days later with a furnace at your back and a hairy arm draped over your side. it's still early, the sun not even up yet. you should let him sleep but you can't help rolling within the age of his arm and planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. even in the low light you can see how haggard and hollow he looks, run ragged for too long. his beard is overgrown, the short stubble he usually keeps filling out into a decent beard.

really it's unfair how handsome he looks even now.

"go back to sleep."

you huff a laugh and press another kiss to him. lower now that you know he's awake. above his cupid's bow, your own lips drawn tight with your smile. "but it's morning."

"can't be," he counters, voice thick with exhaustion. "i only just fell asleep."

you hum, distracted as you trace the wrinkles of his forehead. was that one always there? was it new? "maybe it's not wherever you were," you concede. "where were you, by the way?"

"where wasn't i?" he sighs as he rolls away, a great puff of air that cuts through the easiness of the morning, reminds you of what exactly he's likely returned from. the culmination of the mission, even the easy one it seemed to be. he was rarely ever trotted out for emissary visits, after all.

but you don't want to think about all that so you follow him as he rolls, laying yourself across his chest to keep him grounded as you rub against his far shoulder. "well you're home now and my vote's for sleeping in."

his chest rumbles beneath you, a quiet laugh you can feel more so than you can hear. he takes your hand in his and presses a kiss to your fingers before setting it back down in favor of reaching much lower to pull you more properly onto him. your grip shifts from his shoulder to his bicep and you pause when you feel the edge of a bandage there, worry settling low in your belly as you trace the edges of it. "you're hurt?" you demand, but you don't give him a chance to respond before sitting up and leaning across him to turn the lamp on.

it takes you a moment to make sense of what you're looking at, the bandage you'd felt before nothing more than four haphazard lines of tape holding a square of black plastic against his skin. he laughs at your confusion, thumbing the furrow between your brows away as he also sits up, pulling you onto his lap as he reassures you he's not hurt.

"what's that then?" you ask, afraid to peel the edges up and see for yourself.

he's chuckling as he does it for you, the wrap pulling away to reveal the neat black lines and bold color of a traditional tattoo, a plump little pinup in a barely-hanging-on mechanic's jumpsuit, her cartoonishly circular tits squeezed between her own arms as she leaned confidently over simplified engine block. it's good work from what you can tell. his bicep is a big canvas, the tattoo itself appropriately sized, leaving the artist enough room for minute details, smudges of brown oil accentuating your curves and a wry smile below demure lids.

still.

"you didn't," you scoff, too blown away to even know if you're actually mad or not. you don't think you are, but what if he -

what if -

"well it was either this or i get you airbrushed on the side of the blackhawk, but you are mine, and i do not want just anyone to see you like that."

#she probably shouldn't have worn his stuff if she didn't want him to think she would be his always *shrug emoji*#unedited sorry i have to put this down forever #or else i'll take an unexpected detour into in your web town because i love writing him + ldr i guess?#idk #something about the man screams at me to text him late at night and make a bunch of mistakes lol #also this is the softest i've ever written him???#felt weird but we're rolling with it #nikolai cod x reader #nik cod x reader #gouge answers

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rosiecosy · 3 days ago

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love potion no. 17˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

(dokyeom x reader)

"this is definitely not a real love potion," you say, holding up the tiny glass bottle filled with suspiciously pink liquid.

"of course it is," seokmin insists, tilting it toward the light like it’s some ancient relic. "i got it from a very reliable source."

"you mean soonyoung?"

he coughs. "what? No. Who said that?"

you cross your arms. "you’re not actually going to drink that, right?"

seokmin swirls the bottle between his fingers, grinning like a mad scientist about to conduct the most ridiculous experiment. "why not? it’s just for fun!"

you snatch the bottle from his hand and squint at the label. “love potion no. 17 – guaranteed to make hearts flutter!” the fine print underneath reads: “results may vary.”

"seok… i don’t think this is a good idea. maybe you should put it—"

but before you can finish, seokmin has already tipped the bottle back and swallowed the entire thing in one go.

"seokmin!" you nearly choke. "why are you like this?"

he smacks his lips. "huh. tastes kinda like strawberry."

a beat of silence passes.

he looks at you. you look at him.

"soonyoung is a fraud," you declare.

and then—

"wait." seokmin suddenly gasps, clutching his chest. his eyes widen dramatically as he stares at you like he’s seeing you for the very first time. "oh no. i think it’s working."

you narrow your eyes. "seokmin, no."

"your smile—"he breathes, stepping closer, hand over his heart. "it's so dazzling—"

"oh my god—"

"my heart! it’s beating so fast!" he staggers back like he’s about to faint, gripping the edge of the table for support.

"i’m leaving."

"wait, wait, wait—" he stumbles forward, reaching for your hand with the most lovesick expression you’ve ever seen. "come back! i think i’m falling in love all over again!"

you groan, turning away—but he catches your wrist before you can escape.

"look at me," he pleads, lower lip jutting out in the most unfairly adorable pout. "if you leave now, who’s going to take responsibility for this?"

"for what?" you deadpan, ignoring the way your heartbeat suddenly stutters.

"for making me fall for you all over again!" he whines, swaying on his feet like he’s dizzy with love.

"seokmin, you were already in love with me before drinking this stupid potion," you point out, rolling your eyes.

he beams. "exactly! and now it’s even worse!"

you want to be annoyed, you should be annoyed—but the way he's looking at you, all bright-eyed and smitten, makes your stomach flip. and when he suddenly leans in, voice dropping to a softer, more genuine tone—

"you know, even without the potion, my heart still races whenever I look at you."

#seventeen #seventeen x reader #svt dk #dk svt #dk seventeen #lee seokmin #lee seokmin x reader #lee seokmin x you #dokyeom x reader #dokyeom x you #dokyeom x y/n #lee seokmin svt #seventeen dk #seventeen fics #svt fic #svt fluff #fluff #svt imagines

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hufflepuffwritingstuff2 · 3 days ago

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Under Arrest

Hero dragged Villain into the precinct.

“We’re… here…” Hero panted.

Two officers came and took Villain to a power-suppressing holding cell. The police chief came up and gave Hero a clap on the shoulder.

“Nice going, He…ro?”

Hero had nearly collapsed under Chief’s touch. They sniffled, straightening back up as much as they could manage.

“S-sorry,” Hero said.

“Are you feeling okay?” Chief asked.

“Yeah, I’m- *cough*- I’m fine.”

“They’ve been coughing and sneezing all evening!” Villain called from the cell.

Chief gave Hero a stern look, like a parent that caught their child stealing from the cookie jar.

“Hero, go home. We’ve got it from here.”

Hero shook their head, turning to leave.

“I’m okay, Other Villain is still out and about and- *cough*- they aren’t gonna catch themselves so…”

Two officers blocked the doorway.

“Hero, last chance. Go home”, Chief warned.

Hero sighed, which turned into a string of coughs.

“Fine.”

…

Hero was caught half an hour later by the officer on duty.

“You were supposed to go home, you know,” Officer said, cuffing Hero’s hands behind their back and helping them into the police car.

“Did you have to cuff me?” Hero whined.

“Chief said if we caught you on the street to bring you in,” Partner said, “…doughnut?”

Hero gave them an incredulous look.

“Ah, yeah… right. I’ll save one for you.”

…

“I want a lawyer!” Hero coughed.

“How about some fever reducers instead?”

Chief handed Hero two pills and a paper cup of water. Hero begrudgingly took them and swallowed them.

“You gonna take that for prints?” Hero asked as Chief took the empty cup.

Chief crumpled it up and threw it in a trash can.

“Yeah, the mask kinda makes it hard to get I.D. on you,” Chief smirked.

Hero settled back down on the office couch. Officer came in, draping a blanket over Hero while Partner left a glazed doughnut with a napkin on the table.

“Ooh,” Chief said, wiggling their fingers.

“That’s for Hero,” Partner said.

“Oh…”

Hero groaned, their head swimming. They still had enough internal fortitude to take the doughnut Partner had left for them.

“If that fever doesn’t go down in a couple hours we’re giving you a police escort to the hospital,” Chief said.

“It’s just a cold,” Hero argued, their mouth full of doughnut.

“The thermometer read 102.6!” Chief said.

“I run hot.”

“Oh yeah, the ice powered Hero runs hot.”

Hero was going to argue some more, but it was starting to hurt their throat to talk. They settled for rolling their eyes and closing them. When they woke up next, they would be in another police car on their way to an urgent care facility. But on the bright side, there would be another doughnut waiting for them when they got back.

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Tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm@memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @electrons2006 @just-a-space-rabbit @telltaletoad @bacillusinfection @noseyowes @whump-till-ya-jump @writinglittlepains

#hero x villain #heroes and villains #hero whumpee #cop caretaker #hero x villain community #heroes and villains community #writeblr #writing #whump #creative writing #snippet #under arrest #restrained #fever #sickfic #sick hero #sick whumpee

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wingedhallows · 1 day ago

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— PRIDE AND SELF-SABOTAGING —

♡ CHAPTER ONE ♡ — ₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING ; 1.5k words vi!basketball jockey x reader!ballerina — ₊˚⊹♡ SYNOPSIS There was something there—something unspoken, something undeniable. But in one careless moment, it all fell apart. Words were said, pride got in the way, and now she’s left with nothing but regret. She wants to fix it. She has to. Now, Vi is determined to fix what she broke. She’ll do anything—everything—to prove she didn’t mean it. But pride is a stubborn thing, and second chances don’t come easy. Can she turn the tide before it’s too late? Or has she already lost what she never had the courage to claim?

♡ navigation ♡

¸.*☆*.¸⁭ CHAPTER INDEX ¸.*☆*.¸⁭

— ₊˚⊹♡ TAG, YOU'RE IT

let me know below or send me a message and i'll add you to the taglist! :)

It’s nearly eight by the time you finally trudge into your dorm, limbs aching and feet screaming in protest. Ballet practice had dragged on forever, each repetition chipping away at your already dwindling energy. You barely have the strength to drop your gym bag by the door, let alone deal with anything else. Your bed is still a tangled mess from this morning—an inviting sight, whispering promises of rest.

The door swings open behind you before you even have a chance to collapse.

“There you are! I have the dress you’ve been eyeing.”

Margot’s voice is as bright as ever, cutting through your exhaustion like a knife. You let out a long sigh, already cursing your past self for ever agreeing to that damn frat party. The idea of squeezing into some overpriced, barely-there dress and subjecting yourself to a room full of sweaty, drunken people sounds about as appealing as running another hour of drills. Your unmade bed is calling your name, and yet—

“Don’t give me that face. You promised.” Margot flops onto your bed with a smug grin, completely unbothered by the mess. She places the sleek black dress beside your gym bag, fingers smoothing over the fabric like it’s some kind of sacred offering.

“Shut it.” You mutter, grabbing the dress with wary fingers, holding it up as if it might bite. Your brows knit together. “Why is it so damn short?”

Margot gasps, placing a hand over her heart like you’ve mortally offended her. “My love, my light—just put the damn dress on.” Her voice drips with amusement, and for a brief moment, you consider using the dress to strangle her.

Instead, you exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “Let me take a shower first, you gremlin.” With a sigh, you toss the dress back onto the bed and grab a fresh set of underwear.

Margot waves a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll just watch Love Island in the meantime.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smirk that tugs at your lips. With that, you disappear into the bathroom, already savoring the thought of hot water washing away the exhaustion of the day.

Something tells you you’re going to need it—because whatever’s waiting for you at that party? It’s bound to be a disaster.

By the time you, Margot, and Flint arrive at the party, the night air has turned bitterly cold. The kind of cold that bites at your exposed skin and makes you question every life choice that led you here—especially the one where you let Margot convince you that a jacket was “so unnecessary.”

The house is alive with noise and movement. Music booms from inside, rattling the walls, and the wide-open door spills golden light onto the porch, where groups of people linger, red solo cups in hand, laughter and cigarette smoke curling into the night. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, seriously considering turning around and walking right back to the warmth of your dorm. But Margot’s grip on your wrist is vice-like, and you swear she’d dislocate your shoulder before letting you escape.

“I can already taste the cider,” Flint grins, brushing a strand of auburn hair from his face as he strides ahead, leading the three of you inside.

Margot wasn’t lying about the temperature—it’s suffocatingly hot. The air is thick with body heat, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable scent of spiked punch. The house itself is barebones, exactly what you’d expect from the basketball team’s party pad: a battered leather couch shoved against the back wall, a TV teetering precariously on an ancient stand, and an assortment of mismatched furniture that looks like it was either stolen or salvaged from the side of the road.

Margot wastes no time pulling you through the crowd, her greetings blending into the music as she waves at nearly everyone she passes. Flint does the same, flashing grins and tossing casual nods like he’s in his element. You, on the other hand, are starting to wonder just how much time these two spend with the basketball team.

Before you can even think about hunting down a drink—some liquid courage to make this night bearable—a muscular arm snakes around your shoulders. The scent of sharp cologne hits you before you even see her.

Abby.

“There’s my favorite ballerina,” she says, her voice rich with amusement as she presses a cold bottle of beer into your hand.

You offer a small smile, taking it without protest. You know how this goes—she’ll remember in about twenty minutes that you don’t actually like beer and take it back, but for now, it’s easier to just hold it.

“Come on, you gotta meet some people.” Abby doesn’t wait for a response before tugging you along, effortlessly sweeping Margot and Flint into her orbit as well.

She leads you toward the couch, where familiar faces come into view. Ellie—a close friend of Abby’s, someone you get along with well enough. Ekko—a mutual acquaintance, though the specifics blur in your mind. But then—

Your breath catches for just a second.

She’s there.

Perched on the couch like she owns the place, her signature confidence practically radiating from her posture. Legs spread wide, a silent declaration of presence, of dominance—like she has something to prove.

Violet.

Your throat tightens as Abby practically shoves you into an armchair, directly across from Vi. The room feels stifling now, thick with the scent of alcohol and weed, the air buzzing with laughter and conversation, but all of it fades into the background the moment Abby starts her introductions.

She gestures around with that smug grin of hers, name-dropping people you already know—Ellie, Dina—but then, with a teasing glint in her eye, she nods toward her.

“And that’s the star of the show, Violet, but don’t call her that.”

Your stomach clenches as your gaze flickers to Vi, and—oh.

She’s looking at you. Not just looking, devouring.

Lidded eyes, heavy from booze and whatever else is floating through this party, trace over you like she’s committing you to memory. And when her tongue flicks out to drag slowly across her lower lip, your breath stutters. Your pulse is a traitor, hammering wildly in your chest.

And Vi? Vi is trying so damn hard to play it cool.

Relax. Don’t be weird. Just—act normal.

She rakes a hand through her short pink hair, willing her heart to calm the fuck down, but—gods, you’re so fucking pretty.

“Nice to meet you,” Vi says, her voice low and smooth, the kind of rich, golden tone that makes something in your stomach twist.

Shit.

“Likewise.” Your own voice comes out softer than you’d like, barely above a breath. You internally curse yourself for sounding so meek.

A lazy grin pulls at Vi’s lips, and she looks away just long enough to take a slow sip from her cup—like she’s giving you a moment to catch your breath, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. And goddamn, does she.

"A pretty bird, mh?” Abby grins, her voice lilting with amusement, and your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hand. Suddenly, beer doesn’t seem so bad. You take a sip, hoping the alcohol will dull the way your heart is slamming against your ribs.

Vi lets out a low chuckle, slow and deliberate, and nods. “Pretty indeed.”

You swear you might combust on the spot.

“Interested?” Abby nudges Vi, her grin widening.

Vi scoffs, but her heart lurches violently in her chest. Fuck Abby. Fuck her teasing. And fuck the way you’re looking at her right now—like you’re actually waiting for her response, like the answer matters.

Her pride flares up. Her stupid, self-sabotaging brain jumps in before she can stop it. And before she can even think—

“Nope. Not my type.”

The words slip out, sharp and cold. The moment they leave her mouth, panic slams into her like a freight train.

What the fuck did she just say?

Your stomach drops. The sharp sting of humiliation settles deep in your chest, twisting tight like a blade.

She said it so easily. So carelessly. Like you weren’t sitting right there.

Vi swallows hard, but it’s too late to take it back. The damage is done.

And then she sees it—sees the way your eyes flicker away from hers, the way your fingers clench around the neck of the bottle like you’re grounding yourself against the sting.

Fuck.

She fucked up.

And judging by the way your expression hardens ever so slightly, the way you shut yourself off in an instant—Vi knows she might not get another chance to fix it.

The conversation grinds to a halt, the weight of Vi’s words settling over you like a lead blanket. Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your neck, burning with the kind of humiliation that makes your skin feel too tight. You force down another sip of beer, but it does nothing to drown out the sting, the way the rejection rings in your ears, sharp and merciless.

You flick your gaze to Margot—please. A silent, desperate plea to leave, to run, to just get the fuck out of here before the lump in your throat gives you away.

Fuck Abby. Fuck this party. And most of all—fuck Vi.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ TAGLIST *ੈ✩‧₊˚

( @foralltheprettygirls ; @sawaagyapong ; @jivimatcha ; @majuia ; @uhmidkmuch ; @savedforlaterr ; @baylegend6 ; @elle-girlylesbian @dazevi )

#vi arcane #arcane #vi x reader #vi x y/n #vi imagine #vi league of legends #vi arcane fluff #vi arcane imagine #vi angst #vi masterlist #vi arcane angst #vi arcane x reader #vi arcane fanfic #vi arcane x y/n #violet arcane #arcane vi #vi fanfic

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scoupsakakitty · 8 hours ago

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Beautiful | idol!Hoshi x idolxReader | angst, fluff

Tw: weight loss, not feeling enough

The rain poured relentlessly, blurring the neon lights of Seoul into streaks of color as Hoshi stood outside the apartment building. His fingers clenched around the umbrella handle, though he wasn’t sure why he had bothered bringing it. He was already soaked, and something about the cold seemed fitting.

He hesitated before pressing the buzzer.

Silence.

Then, a static-laced voice: "Who is it?"

Hearing her voice after all this time nearly broke him. "It’s me."

A long pause. Too long.

"Go home, Soonyoung."

He swallowed. "I just want to see you. Please."

"Don’t you have something better to do? Like catching a flight to Japan?" she said bitterly.

"I’ll take the next flight," he replied without hesitation. "You’re more important."

More silence, then a click. The door unlocked. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and stepped inside.

Y/N was thinner than he remembered. The weight loss was noticeable even under the oversized hoodie she wore, sleeves pulled over trembling fingers. Her once-bright eyes were dull, lips slightly chapped, the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix settled deep in her features.

Seeing her like this made his chest tighten. This wasn’t the Y/N he knew.

"You shouldn’t be here," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Hoshi ignored the warning, stepping inside fully. "I had to see you. I had to know if you were okay."

She let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through her tangled hair. "Do I look okay to you?"

No. She looked like she had been barely holding on, like she had been drowning in something she couldn’t escape from. And the worst part? He hadn’t been there to pull her out.

"I’ve been watching you… on stage, in interviews, award shows. You’re disappearing, Y/N. You’re hurting," he admitted, voice raw. "Your friend reached out to me. She’s worried. And she thought maybe… maybe I could help."

Her eyes flashed. "And what? You think you can just come back and fix me? That your presence will magically make things better?"

"No," he whispered. "But I can be here. I can hold you up if you let me."

She scoffed. "You left, Soonyoung. And now you want to be my savior?"

"I never stopped caring," he said, his voice shaking. "I never stopped loving you."

That was the breaking point. Her lips trembled, and before she could stop herself, she collapsed into his arms.

"It’s so hard, Soonyoung," she sobbed into his chest. "No matter what I do, there’s always something wrong with me. I’m never pretty enough, never talented enough. Always too much or too little. They find every flaw, every mistake. The pressure is… it’s crushing me."

He held her tightly, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Y/N, listen to me. You are the most beautiful person in the world. And not because of how you look. You are beautiful for the way you think, for the sparkle in your eyes when you talk about something you love, for your ability to make people smile without trying."

She clung to him, her breathing ragged.

"I am proud of you," he continued. "I am proud of you for trying, even when it hurts. I wish I could tell you when you’ll finally feel okay again, when your head will be above water, but healing isn’t something you can time. It isn’t something you can measure. But things will get lighter, little by little, as you break through the weight on your shoulders. Keep facing what you need to face. You are getting closer every single day, even if it doesn’t feel that way. And I hope you start to believe that you are worthy of everything you want in this life. You deserve to be adored and cared for in every way your mind, body, and heart long for. You are effortlessly beautiful. You are the embodiment of beauty. Don’t let anyone tell you differently."

She sniffled, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Why do you still love me? After everything?"

He smiled sadly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "The only feeling stronger than my love for you is the ache that comes with missing you. I love everything about you. Maybe too much. But how could I not love that smile, that laughter, those eyes, that passion?"

Her breath hitched, fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

"I hate you," she whispered, voice trembling.

"I know," he said softly, pressing his forehead against hers. "Hate me all you want. Just let me stay."

She let out a shuddering breath and, after what felt like an eternity, nodded against his chest.

Soonyoung held her, his arms tightening around her fragile frame, and for the first time in months, she let herself lean into the warmth she had been missing.

Outside, the rain kept falling, washing away the past, making room for something new.

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cloudcountry · 18 hours ago

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SUMMARY: tkdb boys that love your scrunchie

COMMENT: my second recycled twst prompt...i am STILL COPING!!!

Jin really does not care what anyone else thinks about the soft blue scrunchie on his wrist. You had crammed it over his hand earlier that morning, smiling like a fool as you did so. He allowed it—after all, your silly whims and beautiful smile always melted his heart, and he did so love matching with you. If this was your way of marking him as your own, who was he to refuse? Besides, if anything said anything, he could just cut them down.

Kaito nearly cries when you gently pull his arm towards you, stretching the elastic of the scrunchie to fit it over his hand. His heart nearly bursts in his chest as the scrunchie snaps against his wrist, and in that moment he vows to never take it off. It’s a precious gift from you, a sign that you really truly love him (and only him!) He would be a fool to take it off! Oh, but if the scent of your shampoo wears off, he may shyly shuffle over to you and ask you to wear it for him again.

Alan is so stone faced even as he wears your scrunchie, but don’t let that fool you. He is hyper aware of everything he does with it on his wrist—oh, heaven forbid he gets dirt or dust or even blood on it, he will be so upset. You can tell him it’s not a big deal, but the yellow fabric is precious to him because you gave it to him. It’s a gift from you, even if he’s only borrowing it for a little while. He needs to keep it safe—and by extension, you.

Haru only wears it on his very very very rare days off. He doesn’t want to ruin it!! He would be so sad if the bright orange fabric got stained by one of the animals...or if one of them ate it thinking it was food...ripped it because they were gnawing a little too hard...Haru would be devastated. He treasures everything you give him so deeply, even if it's only a silly hair tie to others.

Taiga does not particularly care that his hair is too short, thank you very much. Actually, who are you again? Just kidding, kitten, you don’t have to pout at him like that. You’d think he likes stealing your scrunchie just to annoy the hell out of you, but he really does do it because he likes it. Well...both your pouting and the hair tie itself, really. Hey, you knew what you were getting into with him!

Subaru does not want to offend you. In fact, that is the very last thing he wants to do ever. And so, when you leave your scrunchie for him after one of your visits to Hotarubi, he returns it as soon as possible while apologizing profusely. What do you mean you left it on purpose? It’s so pretty, the shade of purple matches his uniform and—oh, you want him to wear it? Well, how can he say no to you when you look at him like that?

Lyca often wonders about the stretchy fabric you use to tie back your hair. It’s a deep purple, much like his uniform (which he likes more than he’d care to admit), but he doesn’t truly understand the appeal until you give it to him. It smells sweet, just like you. It never leaves his wrist. He doesn’t care that people are looking at him weird for sniffing it whenever he misses you—it's none of their business anyway.

Yuri wakes up at his work desk as usual, bleary eyed and mildly nauseous. It takes him reaching up to rub his eyes to realize that you left a gift around his wrist—a light blue scrunchie, soft and smelling of your shampoo. His cheeks turn a fiery pink and he freezes, hand twitching like the scrunchie is giving him an allergic reaction or something. He is short circuiting, staring wide eyed at the hair tie that has held your hair up, it has touched you and you have touched it, day after day after day and ohhh how is he supposed to deal with this!?

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gorbo-longstocking · 3 days ago

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Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter 5

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Upon discovering this is not the first time Marianus has met the emperors, you learn the horrible truth of what they endured at the hands of their father. It isn’t until later that night do you realize just how deep these scars run.

Tags: Marianus gets beat up at Geta’s command, mentions of past child abuse, mentions of mcs own toxic relationship with their parents, medical inaccuracies, split second of period-typical misogyny, period-typical slavery, Caracalla has a flashback and hits you during it, violence, dissociation (Caracalla), self-harming behaviors (mc does this), discussions of PTSD, and finally, even more absolutely diabolical levels of ‘I can fix them’ from mc

Word Count: 10.8k Words

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

Not once, in your entire life, did you get to have a lazy afternoon. You always imagined what it would be like to have no responsibilities for as little as an hour. All you wanted was for some time to bask in the sun, talk to a friend about nothing and everything at the same time, or even lay in bed for a few extra minutes in the morning. Of course, that was too much to ask for. Even in your earliest memories, you were stuck doing something or the other. From music lessons to tutoring, extracurriculars, and schoolwork, your parents made sure you hardly had time to breathe. Eventually, you got used to the fast paced life you were given, though it would be a lie if you didn’t wonder if the grass was greener on the other side. What was the world like for the ones left behind?

It wasn’t until this never ending dream did you get to find out.

Aelius laughed and punched the air with one hand, the other held against his stomach to keep the walnuts cradled in his palm from falling to the ground. His smile was playfully victorious. When he got close, he gave you a whack on the shoulder. “I win again. You are very bad at this game, my friend.”

“You grew up playing it,” You countered. Though your tone was exasperated, you grinned at him. “Set them up again. I will win this time.”

“I doubt that,” Aelius teased as he did as you requested. Expertly, he scattered the nuts along the slope, set up in a way where it would be a challenge for both of you to hit. It felt a little unfair considering he was better at the game than you, but you were having too much fun to care.

Aelius was showing you a game he played as a child where you took turns rolling walnuts down a slope lined with even more nuts. Whichever ones you hit, you would take, and whoever had the most in the end, won. Out of the six times you and Aelius played, you came out victorious only once. You were sure that was because Aelius went easy on you. He wasn’t pulling his punches anymore.

Marianus yawned from his place in one of the archways. He was relaxing, his back pressed against the hot stone as the afternoon sun beamed down at him. With his dark skin and hair, it would do little to affect him, even if you wished to slather him with sunscreen. The three of you, plus your ever-present praetorian escorts, had taken up space in the walkways of the garden. This particular one was settled on a small hill, making it perfect for a game of rolling walnuts — at least, that was what Aelius said. Greenery surrounded you, and you managed to keep cool because the roof above your head provided blessed shade from the sun. Only Marianus seemed to insist upon laying in its light like a spoiled housecat.

If you ever told him that comparison, you feared he would stop talking to you again. At least you knew what to say if you were ever angry enough to not want to see him for a week.

It had been a few days since your last official check up with the emperors, and a few days since Caracalla nearly plucked your eyes out. You fought a shiver at the memory. It was important to look on the bright side. Not only did both Geta and Caracalla return yesterday — at separate times — for another look over without you having to ask, but Marianus was talking to you again. As annoyed as you were at the silent treatment to begin with, you weren’t going to bring it up. Marianus was no longer angry, and thus, neither were you. It was easier that way.

For once, it seemed as though things were looking up.

With Aelius by your side, you squinted in an effort to get a better look at your targets. You had never been very skilled when it came to games, your intelligence lied elsewhere. Bending your knees, you positioned the walnut over your thumb and prepared to let it loose. This time, you would win. All you had to do was think of it like a game of pool.

“Alga!” A familiar rasp called, startling you enough to throw off your aim. Your walnut arced through the air and landed a foot away from the ones you were trying to hit before disappearing down the slope. Beside you, Aelius stood at attention, and judging who the voice belonged to, Marianus was as well.

When you turned around, there was Emperor Caracalla, his arms crossed as he frowned at you. He looked every bit a petulant child. It almost made you forget how he tried to blind you less than a week ago. His last visit to your clinic had gone well, he was as pleasant as he could have been, but it was quick. He had left as soon as he came, back to ignoring you as if you weren’t there. The fact he was looking for you set your teeth on edge.

“Caesar,” You greeted with a deferential nod. A part of you was thankful that it wasn’t customary to bow to Roman emperors, you weren’t sure if you would remember to do so every time you were in their presence. That would be as humiliating as it was dangerous.

Caracalla looked between you and Aelius, and then the walnuts. His judgement was obvious from the haughty raise of his chin. “I have been searching for you all day and here I find you playing children's games with soldiers.”

Expertly, you ignored his disdain with a question of your own, “You were searching for me?”

“Of course I was,” He spoke as if it were obvious, like you should have known that he was looking for you through psychic means. “I have something to give you, Alga.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the spot in front of him, away from both of your friends. “Here, now.”

Feeling a little awkward, you made a conscious effort not to look at either man instead of Caracalla, no matter how much you wanted to. While you were still anxious in Caracalla’s presence — his mood changed on a dime, and that was terrifying in of itself — he hadn’t actually hurt you. He had only intended to. You could delude yourself enough into believing intention and action were two separate concepts.

Besides, he didn’t look furious, merely frustrated. A vindictive part inside of you smiled. Now he knew how you felt when you spent hours searching for him and his brother in the sweltering heat. It wasn’t so funny now that the shoe was on the other foot. If you had a cup full of spit and all the power in the world at your disposal, you knew what you would do next. Of course, you kept all of those spite filled thoughts to yourself, your expression schooled into something mild as you approached him.

Once you were where instructed, your body close enough for the fabric of his cloak to brush against your side when the wind blew, Caracalla cocked his head to the side. The corners of his lips quirked upwards, momentarily pleased with your obedience before he remembered he was supposed to be angry with you. His eyebrows furrowed over his narrow eyes.

“Give me your hand,” He demanded.

It wasn’t like you had any room to disobey. With your palm up, you presented him with your hand, and Caracalla gave a pleased sniff. He placed his own palm flat against yours before he wrapped his dainty fingers around your wrist. There was a small, thin item sandwiched between your joined appendages, and you tried to focus on how soft and uncalloused his skin was rather than the object itself. It was obvious what it was and you would rather not acknowledge it until you had to. The pad of Caracalla’s index finger traced a vein in your wrist before he slid back, your own sweat making his retreat slick. When you looked down, he left behind a needle. A feeling of nausea twisted your gut and you hurried to close your fist, letting it fall to your side.

“Caesar?” There was so much you could ask. Too much you wanted to ask, but none of it would come out. Fear tied your tongue into a thick knot.

“You kept your promise,” Caracalla leaned even closer to whisper in your ear, his breath hot against your cheek. His gaze flickered to your own. You could smell the lavender oil he used as perfume, it made him seem sweeter than he was. “So far, medicus, you have pleased me. My brother, though he insists on asking his questions, seems to understand he will receive nothing from you. Keep it this way and I—” He swung his arm gently, almost playfully, a finger brushing against your knuckle “— Will not have to return for this.”

Your mouth felt dry as your lips moved around words without making any sounds. Was this a threat? Was Caracalla threatening you? It certainly felt like he was. Though, the way he was looking at you, proud, as if you were a dog that had performed a new trick for the first time, made you question that train of thought. With a harsh swallow, you tried to focus on what Caracalla said rather than the needle burning into your skin. So long as you kept doing what you always meant to do, save for that idiotic empty threat you made, you would be fine. You would keep your eyes. The weapon was in your hands now, the ball in your court. As you exhaled, your shoulders slumped with barely contained relief.

“I understand, Caesar I will not betray this trust you have given me.” Without thinking much of it, you threaded the needle into the folds of your tunic, effectively hiding it from any prying eyes.

Caracalla gave you a firm nod, his smile satisfied. “Good. It would do you well not to.”

“I, uh, yes,” Over your shoulder, you checked to see if Aelius or Marianus were listening — they were both watching your exchange with varying levels of worry — and placed your hand beside your mouth. You dropped your voice to a murmur, like you were sharing a secret. Caracalla seemed amused by your showmanship. “And your symptoms? How do you feel?”

A little giggle, more genuine than you have ever heard it, pulled from his throat and he moved even closer until the tip of your nose was almost brushing his. The scratchiness of his voice was heightened by his low volume. “Better, Alga. It’s nice to have a physician who knows what he’s talking about for once.”

Despite yourself, the compliment made you flush, a bit of pride squirming in your gut as you pulled away. You always had a weak spot for praise, particularly regarding your skills in the medical field. Perhaps that was what happened when you made it such a major part of your identity, or maybe it was because you had been starved for any sort of approval by your parents. Caracalla watched your reaction with a confused tilt of his head, though you could see him filing it away for later.

“If that is all, Caesar, I should return to my game,” You said as diplomatically as possible. The fact that Caracalla had given you a small amount of trust — that was what you decided this was, not a threat; it helped — made your grin a bit more genuine.

In response, Caracalla clenched his jaw and glanced behind you at Aelius. “Nucēs relinquō, soldier.”

Whatever that meant, it made Aelius’ tanned skin darken with embarrassment. He kicked the walnuts by his feet away from him and gave you an apologetic smile. “Perhaps we should quit playing, my friend.”

“What? No! It was fun,” You exclaimed before you could stop yourself.

Caracalla straightened up and curled his arm behind his back, his expression arrogant. “It’s a game for plebeian children. I know better games, Alga.”

“But—”

Caracalla wrapped his fingers around your wrist and gave you a small tug, away from Marianus and Aelius. “Come with me. We can gamble. I want to have that miraculous little torch of yours.”

“I’m not going to gamble my medical supplies, Caesar.”

Caracalla laughed, both mean and determined. Any semblance of the softness from before had dissipated into what you expected from him. “You will if I ask you to.”

You wrenched yourself from his grasp as you fought to keep the irritation off your face. “If you ask me, I will teach you how to use some of my supplies. With my supervision.”

“I will do whatever I please, medicus!” Caracalla stomped his foot in a childish display, his fingers latching back around your forearm.

Marianus, who had been quiet this entire time, said your name, causing both you and Caracalla to jerk in his direction. The frustration on Caracalla’s face melted away into confused recognition.

“I know you from somewhere.”

Marianus grimaced. “Do you, Caesar?”

Caracalla cradled his chin between his forefinger and his thumb as he studied Marianus with narrowed eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do, but I do not know from where.” He frowned and hummed before his face lit up in realization. “My brother will know. Centurion, medicus, at my side, Geta will figure out where I know you from.”

You didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Aelius, who anxiously shuffled in place as he watched you disappear into the palace. Caracalla was dragging you, Marianus, on your heels, looking more uncomfortable than you had ever seen him. If he could turn into a bird and fly away, like in myths, you were certain he would have long ago. Wherever Caracalla recognized him from, he seemed to know, his jaw set in a grim line. Marianus was acting like he was marching to his own execution, and knowing the twins’ temper, he very well could be. It all depended on Caracalla’s tenuous memory.

You wanted to vomit.

Four praetorians formed a square around your trio, Caracalla’s grasp firm enough for your bones to ache. The idea of losing Marianus hurt more. You hadn’t known him for long, and despite knowing he was a figment of your imagination, you found yourself terrified of losing him. Friendship was not a frequent companion in your life. You were friendly with your peers, but that wasn’t anything more than fair-weather, if that. Now that you had a taste, you didn’t want to let it go.

Which was stupid, you told yourself, because Marianus wasn’t real. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye and his gaze met yours. His dark curls, cropped close to his scalp, with an aquiline nose and brown skin, he certainly looked real. He gave you an apologetic grimace. For what, you didn’t know. Thinking about it only served to make blood rush in your ears. If he wasn’t real, why are you so scared for his safety? If this was a dream, couldn’t you make him come back? Couldn’t you save him?

Caracalla took a sharp turn, ducking into a spacious room, decorated by columns and two thrones. It was the same one you were in when you first met Geta and Caracalla, and it still left an empty pit in your gut. Geta sat upon one throne, looking bored as an important looking man spoke in slow, meandering rhythms. Whatever he wanted, he was not being blunt about it. That only served to irritate Geta judging by the imperial frown on his face.

“Brother!” Caracalla called as he entered. “I have a riddle for you to solve.”

Geta breathed a visible sigh of relief. You figured he saw an excuse to shirk his more irritating duties, if only for a few minutes. It would be foolish of him not to take it. “You are dismissed, Senator.”

“But—” The man began.

“Dismissed!” Geta’s tone left little room for argument. The senator wrapped his toga tighter around his forearm held against his chest. He looked ready to speak again, before he thought better of it and did as he was told. It wasn’t until his footsteps disappeared entirely did anyone move.

With a snap of his fingers, mimicking how one would call a dog, Caracalla released you and brought Marianus to his brother. Unlike how he held onto you the entire way here, he didn’t touch Marianus.

“What riddle are you going to set upon me now, Caracalla?” While Geta sounded exasperated, there was a small twitch in his cheek that implied amusement. He didn’t have to indulge his brother, still he chose to anyway. Whether it was out of affection or the desire to avoid any more rambling senators, you didn’t know. A strange, writhing part of you, deep under your skin, wanted to. You focused your attention back on your friend and the two wolves that circled him. Back to your worry and your fear.

“I know this man,” Caracalla tossed out his arm, almost whacking Marianus in the face with it. To his credit, Marianus didn’t flinch, only giving the offending appendage a blank stare. “Surely, you must know from where, brother.”

Geta hummed and tilted his head as he studied Marianus. He stood, stepping closer to him to get a better look at his face. Like Caracalla, he cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger. While the differences between the twins were prevalent — they certainly weren’t identical — right now, they looked the spitting image of each other. “Tell me your name again, centurion.”

“Lucius Marianus.”

“Right, yes. It did sound familiar when I first heard it, perhaps—” Geta cut himself off, recognition glinting in his brown eyes. His expression cut into a horrid mix of fury and betrayal as he gestured for Caracalla to join him by his side. His brother obliged, and though he looked perplexed from the sudden change of emotion, he wrinkled his nose to mirror Geta. When he spoke again, his voice trembled with barely contained rage, “My brother was right. We do know you.”

“You do, Caesar.” The only sign of emotion on Marianus’ face was fatalistic acceptance.

You wanted to step in, placate them, but you were frozen in place. For once, you were thankful for it. What could you hope to do here? You were no hero. All you could pray for was that whatever Geta decided to do was something you could fix. That was where your talent laid: in the aftermath.

Geta leaned down to whisper in Caracalla’s ear and you watched as his features twisted into raw hatred for the man before him. He inhaled a shuddering breath and looked like he was about to start shouting before his face went slack, eyes growing distant as he took several steps back to collapse into his throne. His jaw was set, a foggy air about him, glaring at Marianus from below his brow.

“You know us too, do you not, centurion?” Geta began to pace back and forth, and it reminded you of a tiger trapped in a cage. His anger was rolling off of him in waves, simmering under his skin. It made the room feel hotter than it was. “You have known all this time, remembered me and my brother all this time. Were you laughing at us? Do you find our humiliation amusing?”

“No, Caesar.” Marianus stood stock still, his arms clasped tightly behind his back.

Caracalla lunged from his throne with a near-feral scream, “Liar! He lies, brother!”

Geta held up his hand, and, for once, Caracalla listened. He froze in place, breathing heavily, his stare intense and eyes glassy. “Calm! I will take care of it, he will be properly punished.” With a deep breath, Geta clenched his hands by his side. He was shaking. “Tell me, centurion. I want to know. Is it only now that you regret your lack of action?”

“I have regretted it since that day, Caesar.”

Geta let out a humorless laugh. “More lies from a man desperate to avoid retribution.”

Inhaling a deep breath, he bellowed for the praetorian to enter, and you flinched as a dozen armored men brushed past you, swarming Marianus at Geta’s command. Again, he was pacing, his chest heaving and eyes wild.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You didn’t know what to do and it made you feel sick. Run, or stay. Scream, or beg. Step in, or watch. Ultimately, the coward you were, you stayed rooted in your spot, your heart thundering at a frantic pace. There was nothing to be done, you told yourself, even if you knew that wasn’t true. You knew, at your core, that you were terrified to be in Marianus’ position, and you knew that, no matter how badly you wanted to, drawing any attention to yourself was a bad idea.

As much as you cared for Marianus, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but watch. You wondered if that made you a bad friend.

“Let us see how you like it, being at the mercy of other men,” Geta snarled, saliva flying from between his clenched teeth. “No hope of stopping the pain, no hope of being saved, knowing that the pain will only end when I demand it so.”

With a flick of Geta’s wrist, a praetorian threw the first punch, straight into Marianus’ gut, with a meaty thud. The air left his lungs as he doubled over, though he didn’t get the opportunity to catch his breath before another praetorian brought both his fists down against his spine. It wasn’t until Marianus hit the floor did you realize you were crying. A sharp gasp ripped from your throat when a praetorian kicked Marianus in the face. There was a sickening crunch and blood spewed from his nose onto the marble floor.

Geta, who seemed to have forgotten you were there — or perhaps he never knew — whipped around to face you. If you thought you were frozen before, the weight of his fury made your blood run cold.

“Do you like to watch too, medicus?” Geta bellowed as he advanced on you. “Is that why you’re still here, sobbing like a woman?” He threw his arm forward, pointing at the exit. He was screaming now, so loud, his voice cracked, “Out! Get out!”

That was all you needed to hear. You sprinted out of the throne room, tears streaming down your face, the sounds of Marianus’ beating echoing behind you. It wasn't until you were safely inside your clinic did you stop, the door shut tight behind you. Broken sobs ripped from your chest as you pawed at your face, desperate for the tears to stop. What the hell was that? What was wrong with you? This was your dream, you should have stepped in, you should have stopped it, screamed at the emperors until they understood how insane they were being. Instead, all you did was prove yourself to be a shameful, sniveling little worm. You were so incomprehensibly pathetic. Weeping on the floor, through snot and tears, as your friend was very likely being beaten to death a few halls away.

A hysterical whimper fell from your lips alongside a line of drool that you wiped away with the back of your hand. You had to breathe. Shut it all down, lock everything you felt away so you could be what you needed to be. Useful, and perfect, and obedient, and a doctor. Marianus would survive, this was your dream, and if you thought about it hard enough, that would be what happened. He would come to your clinic, bloody and bruised, for you to fix.

All you had to do was get a hold of yourself and wait.

With one, final sniffle, you stood, wiping your face clean with the heels of your palms. First, you needed to prepare your tools. As much as you didn’t want to perform surgery, if he had a punctured lung, there would be no choice. On autopilot, you lined up each of the ancient surgical instruments, right next to some opium that you had at the ready the second that Marianus fell through your door. Which, he would. He had to, or you didn’t know what—

A few more tears dripped from the tip of your nose onto your desk. Your breathing was shaky again, and you couldn’t have that. Placing your palms flat against your wooden surface, you steadied yourself the best you could before you began to organize again.

Once you had everything laid out, you checked, then double checked that it was all in order. Then you took inventory. After the fourth time, you began to count the grains in the wooden surface the instruments laid on to keep your mind focused on anything other than the images of Marianus’ corpse your mind kept conjuring.

This was taking too long. There was only so much trauma the human body could take. If the emperors were having him beaten this entire time, there would be nothing to be done aside from scraping Marianus’ remains off the floor. You felt numb. There were one thousand three hundred and forty eight grains in—

The doors opened and light from the hall spilled into your clinic. Two praetorians carried in a barely conscious Marianus, their arms tucked under his armpits. You were by his side before you could blink. One second, you were staring blankly down at your desk, the next, Marianus’ swollen face was inches from yours. While you led him to a lectus, the cushion sure to be far more comfortable than your examination table while you checked over his injuries, you muttered soft affirmations to him.

“I’m here now, I’ll fix you, my friend.”

Gently, you laid him on the lectus raced to grab your flashlight and stethoscope. First, you had to check for a concussion, then, any broken ribs, or, God forbid, a punctured lung. Marianus groaned, his head flopping to the side as fresh blood dribbled from his crooked nose. It was definitely broken, you would need to make a splint for it.

“Don’t go to sleep, Marianus.” You patted his cheek with as little pressure as you could manage. To your relief, one of his eyes fluttered open, the other swollen shut. “I know you’re tired, but you cannot sleep. Whatever happens, you cannot sleep.”

He groaned, drawing attention to his split lip. It was deep enough to require stitches and you fought the urge to frown. “I won’t sleep, medicus.”

“Good, I am going to keep you talking while I work. If you do not respond, I will pinch you. Do not test me.” Marianus nodded as you placed a hand between his shoulder blades and helped him sit up. It took both of your efforts to try to slip off the top half of his tunic, only for you to discover his shoulder was dislocated when he let out a cry of pain. You cut the fabric off, instead, with a small apology. Once you placed the stethoscope against his chest, you said, “Breathe in for me, please.”

He did, and you let out a relieved huff. No punctured lung, but judging by the bruising on his abdomen, his ribs were at the very least cracked. You knew he was in pain, and while you wanted to give him some opium to help him, you were very aware of how addictive it was, along with the dangers of an overdose. Ibuprofen was an option, even if you wanted to ration it, but it was a blood thinner. That would be dangerous for the first twenty-four hours.

“How is the pain?” You asked as you checked if his pupillary function with your flashlight. You sucked in a breath through your teeth, he had a concussion. A minor one it seemed, thankfully.

“I will be fine,” Marianus managed to say. It was obvious he was in immense pain, and it helped whittle away your resolve to grab the opium.

You took stock of his injuries, creating a mental list in your head. Concussion, cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, a split lip that required stitches, and broken nose. “Do not lie to me. Treatment will hurt. Do you need opium or not?”

Marianus sighed, wincing as his ribs twinged. “I will not say no to opium.”

Well, that made your decision for you.

With Marianus sufficiently numb, you relocated his shoulder first. It would be the most painful, and he took it like a champ. If he was younger, and if you had lollipops at your disposal, you’d give him one. Next, you stitched his upper lip back together. It would scar, there was no helping it. You assured Marianus it would make him look more grizzled to his men with a small smile. That earned you an amused grunt in return, the opium loosening his uptight attitude ever so slightly. Finally, you set his nose. It took a bit of time — the sun had set a while ago — to make the splint in order to keep the bone in place. After this, all Marianus would need is time, patience, and to be kept as far away from the emperors as humanly possible.

“Marianus,” You began. Now that you were done wiping his face clean of blood, you were sitting on the floor next to the lectus as you forced him into conversation to keep him awake. A few minutes ago, you sent a nearby praetorian to fetch Aelius to help Marianus down to his bunk. The blood coating your skin made your hands feel tacky. When you pressed your fingers together, they stuck for a moment before snapping away with some minor pressure. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You want to know what I saw.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. His head was lolled to the side, looking down on you with a bit of affection that could be described as paternal if you examined it enough. Absentmindedly, he played with your hair.

You nodded. “Yes, why were the emperors so angry with you?”

“Their father, the former emperor, Septimius Severus, used to beat those two bloody when they were children,” Marianus said, more blunt than the topic needed. You couldn’t help the startled noise you let out, nor the sharp raise of your eyebrows. He waited for you to respond, but when you didn’t, he continued, “He brought Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla on a military campaign, and I served under him during this time. Emperor Severus called me into the command tent. I am not sure if it was purposeful, or if he forgot I was coming, but he was in the middle of disciplining his boys when I walked in.” Marianus took a deep breath, his one good eye squeezed shut. It was the most emotion you had ever seen from him. “The hope on Geta’s young face when he saw me walk in still haunts me. I could do nothing. He was my emperor and their father, what could I have done?”

This explained a lot. Empathy welled in your chest, wrapping around your ventricles like a heartworm, squeezing as tight as it could. You should hate them for what they did to Marianus. He was right, what could he have done? Stop the emperor when he was a mere soldier? That was a good way to die.

Unfortunately, you could see the emperors’ point of view too. Abuse left scars, especially when it came from a parent. While yours never hit you, it would be a lie to say they weren’t, at the very least, toxic. Even that had made its mark. You couldn’t imagine what kind of deep scars Caracalla’s and Geta’s father left on their minds.

“Poor treatment from your parents… It can manifest in—”

Marianus recognized that look in your eyes and stopped playing with your hair, his expression stern. “Stop. Do not try to justify their behavior, medicus. They are grown men now.”

“I was merely saying that I…”

“Those are dangerous thoughts,” He muttered. Then, contrary to what he said, “I cannot imagine what a child could do that could ever earn that severe of a punishment. If my children looked at me with that amount of fear, I would never forgive myself.”

Thankful for the change in subject, you grabbed a hold of it like a fish with a hook. “You have children?”

“I do. It is why I wanted respite in Rome. I wanted to see them again.” Before you could respond, Marianus let out a short sigh. The opium had loosened his tongue more than you had expected. “There are times where I find myself wondering if Rome would be different if someone dared to protect them then. It is too late for that now.”

“Is it?” You asked. After the words left your mouth, you clamped your jaw shut. “Sorry, I— I am merely—”

“You pity them,” Marianus finished. “Your pity will not save them.”

“It is not pity!” You exclaimed, sitting up a bit straighter. “I am merely wondering when the last time they had a friend was. Everyone needs a person to trust, especially after being hurt by someone who was meant to protect you. I—” When you looked up, you saw Marianus’ bruised face. His broken nose and the stitches on his lip, his one dark eye swimming with remorse. You remembered who did this to him and guilt pooled in the back of your throat when you found you didn’t hate them for it. “I apologize. They hurt you and I am making excuses for them. It’s wrong.”

“I wish I realized before,” Marianus murmured as he tugged a strand of your hair.

You blinked at him. “Realized?”

“You are not too soft for the military, you are too soft for Rome. I should have never brought you here.”

Before you could respond, Aelius entered with a soft knock. When his eyes landed on Marianus, his jaw dropped. “Centurio Marianus!” He rushed over to the two of you, wringing his hands in front of his chest. “What happened?”

“The emperors happened,” Marianus grumbled. Slowly, you helped him into a sitting position, one arm around his shoulders, his hand in yours.

Aelius pursed his lips, displeasure evident, though he said nothing.

“It would be best to keep him far away from the emperors for now,” You said softly. Now that Marianus was up, you began to give Aelius your instructions. In case he forgot, you reached down to grab a wax tablet that you used to write down everything he needed to know. “Do not let Marianus sleep tonight. If he falls asleep, fetch me immediately, I do not care what time. Every few hours, he must gently cough, or take a deep breath to prevent fluid from building in his lungs. He is not allowed to move without help or supervision until I deem him healed enough to do so. In order to get better, he requires rest. Everyday, I will come to the barracks to check on him, he is not to come here. Finally, for an hour each day, ice his ribs and his eye with a cold compress to reduce swelling.”

Aelius nodded along, even if he was clearly overwhelmed by your instructions. When he opened the wax tablet you gave him, he was unable to hide his amused snort. “Your written Latin is… very bad, my friend.”

You felt yourself deflate. “Is it truly so poor?”

Aelius waved away your concerns, a bit of sweat forming on his brow. “I can understand it, that is all that matters.”

“Right,” You sighed. “When I visit to check on Marianus’ health, I will bring medicine. Do you think either of us can get ice from the ice house?”

“It is considered a luxury item…” Aelius trailed off.

You nodded. “I will get it then. We are in a palace with emperors, they can afford to let me have a little ice for my friend.”

“Is that wise?” With a grimace, Aelius nodded towards Marianus’ battered form. “You have seen what they are capable of if they are displeased.”

A frown pulled at your lips. You were very aware of what the emperors were capable of when they were even mildly upset. The thought of earning Geta’s anger, or Caracalla’s again, made you start to shake. You quickly steeled your resolve. While you were not the strongest man in Rome, you would be what you needed to be for your patients. This was the least you do after not stepping in to help Marianus. You could get him ice for the swelling, he deserved that much.

“I am certain.”

Marianus, while still high, had enough of his faculties to whack you on the back of your head as he passed, helped along by Aelius. “Do not be foolish, medicus.”

“I will always be foolish for my friends,” You responded with a determined tilt of your chin. Both men stopped at the door, Aelius’ smile fond, while Marianus tried to frown at you despite the softness in his eyes. You waved them out the door and into the hallway. “Shoo, shoo. Your medicus prescribes rest!”

With an echoing chuckle from Aelius, you only slipped back inside your clinic when they were both out of sight.

You felt better knowing Marianus wasn’t dead. Infinitely better, though the knowledge he gave you about the emperors sat heavy in your chest. It was wrong to blame Marianus for their father’s sins. There was nothing he could have done to help them, nothing he could have done to save them. A soldier could never hope to stand up to an emperor, especially not when it came to his sons. While you didn’t remember the details, Roman society was very patriarchal. The head of household, a man, was in charge of disciplining his children however he saw fit, and to question that — at least, out loud — would go against the very foundations that Rome was built on.

Still, you remembered your own life. The real one that felt so distant now, as though it were decades since you last lived it. You remembered the tutors, the teachers, the coaches, all of the adults in your life who watched you run yourself ragged at your parents' behest. Not once did they step in, even if you knew they pitied you. A part of you resented them for it. If you doubled — no, tripled — that resentment, you could see why Geta reacted to Marianus the way he did. It didn’t make it right, not in a million years, but understood in a way that you wished you didn’t. You would feel better if it was easy to despise the emperors for hurting your friends. It wasn’t, though. Your heart bled with every beat.

A frustrated groan rumbled in your chest as you began to clean up your clinic. You carefully put away your surgical instruments, grateful that you didn’t have to use them, while humming a small, modern tune under your breath. It was your favorite song, and a bit of sadness panged in your chest when you realized you had forgotten the lyrics to the bridge. You frowned and paused your organizing. If only you had your phone, or a charger, or even an mp3 player, you could listen to it as a reminder.

There was a lot you missed about reality.

As the days passed, however, you found yourself falling into a new routine, one that was more comfortable than it ought to be. Your fingers twitched as you continued to clean. Tonight, you would sleep. Maybe you would wake up in your apartment again, surrounded by your nest of blankets and pillows, to a brand new day.

The thought shouldn’t make you feel so miserable.

A shriek ripped you from your reverie. It was a woman’s, high-pitched and shrill, followed by the thunder of footsteps down the hall from the emperors’ rooms. You carefully placed your tools down on the nearest flat surface and jogged out of your clinic and down the hall towards the commotion. If someone was hurt, it was your duty to fix it. From the sound of it, there was either an assassin or an elephant rampaging down the halls.

You weren’t a particularly brave person, that much was evident from how you reacted with Marianus earlier. Despite this, you also knew when your skills were needed. You didn’t know what the difference was, being unable to step in while your friend was beaten, versus sprinting in the direction of such a loud cacophony of terror. There was one there, that much you were sure of, though you were too focused on your duty to truly analyze it.

When you turned the corner, there were a handful of people outside of Caracalla’s bedroom doors. Slaves, if you had to guess, likely ones who attended to him while he was in his chambers. From inside, there was the sound of glass shattering and furious screaming, most of it coming from Caracalla himself. His Latin was too sporadic for you to understand, spoken too quickly or too furiously for you to pick apart the sentences as you normally would. Every so often, you could make out a frantic ‘—away from me!’ or simply a furious roar, followed by more sounds of objects being thrown.

You met the eyes of a cowering woman, and when she realized it was you, relief bloomed across her features. “Medicus! We were about to fetch you!”

“What’s going on? Is Emperor Caracalla being attacked?” You asked, peering at the ornate doors to his chambers.

She shook her head, eyes wide and terrified. “No, no, it is another one of his outbursts. No one can find Emperor Geta! You are the only other person in the palace who has calmed him.”

Circling you, she placed her hands on your back and began to push you to his room. Your feet scrabbled against the floor in an effort to get her to stop, but she was stronger than you expected.

“H— How do you know about that?”

“The praetorians gossip more than the slaves!” With a final push, you were nose to nose with the double doors leading to Caracalla’s bedroom, the sounds of his fury growing louder by the second. “Hurry, before he grabs a blade.” When you looked over your shoulder to meet her eyes, they were glassy with tears. “Please.”

You had failed Marianus, you didn’t want to fail again. Steeling yourself, you gave her a nod and gently pushed open the doors to slip inside.

Caracalla’s room was in complete disarray. Incense and their holders were knocked over, scattering ash onto the floor. Sheets and blankets were strewn everywhere, ripped off the canopy bed in a frenzy. There were two lectī settled by an open window, one tipped over on its side, while the other had stuffing coming out of the cushion from where it had been ripped open. There were only three people left behind. Two were hiding in an adjacent room, while one was frantic, his gaze leaping to the exit every few moments.

In the middle of it all was Caracalla, his face red from screaming. Instead of his usual imperial garb, he only wore a thin, off-white tunic that hung loosely on his frame. A few drops of blood dotted the fabric. His breathing was sharp, each one a heaving gasp, and his face was wet with tears. In his hand was an empty metal chalice that he was waving with wild abandon at the people left behind with him. Caracalla was barely coherent, his speech choppy and hard to follow. What you could make out was, in the context of what was happening, bizarre.

“You will stay away— And liars, all of you, liars and snakes. You’ll sell me out, tell him about me! You’ll get me in trouble and I’ll— Keep away from me!”

When the door shut behind you with an audible click, he whipped around to where you stood. You barely had time to blink before you were struck in the forehead with the cup, thrown from his hand with unfortunate precision. It hit your skull with a metal clang, hard enough for stars to erupt behind your eyes. With your hand cradling your head, and your ears ringing fiercely from the strike, you rubbed the forming knot with your fingers. It hurt more than you expected and you stumbled a few paces to the side.

When you opened your eyes, Caracalla was charging at you. The squeak that left you would have been embarrassing if you had the cognition to think about it. One of his fists were raised to hit you, and even to your untrained eye, you were able to recognize he had very little combat training. Or, if he did, he was too out of it to utilize any of it.

You had seen Caracalla when he was angry, and he was not angry right now. He was utterly terrified.

His body crashed into yours, pushing you against the wall as he managed to strike you once in your temple before you were able to grab his wrist. For once, you pronounced his title correctly. “Caesar! It’s me!”

“Snake!” With his other hand, he knocked the side of the head once more with the heel of his palm.

You struggled to keep him at bay. When you managed to stop him from hitting you, he began kicking at you from below. This time, when you spoke, your accent slipped through, heavier than usual, “Ceasar! Caesar! Calm down, please, calm down!”

Miraculously, he froze, his chest heaving as his red-rimmed eyes searched your face. With harsh fingers, he grabbed a handful of your hair and jerked you closer to him, his eyebrows twitching together. Pain lanced through your scalp at the rough treatment.

His voice was distant, “Alga?”

“Yes, yes, it is me. Medicus Alga.” Your head throbbed in tune with the beat of your heart. Welts from where Caracalla hit you had begun to form, and if you weren’t so preoccupied, you would have prodded at them. In an effort to get through to him, you thickened your accent considerably, “Your green-haired, foreign physician. It’s me, Caesar.”

He looked ready to argue, his hands fisted in your hair. “You’re here to— After pater… And he—”

You felt your heart sink. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together as to what was happening. Keeping your voice soft, you gently reached up to untangle his fingers from your hair. “I’m here because I was worried. You seem very upset.”

His grip loosened for only a moment before they were like a vice once more.

“You’re here to hurt me, like everyone else! I smell it on you, I see it on your face!” With each word, he shook you, making your vision spin. Instinctively, you wrapped your fingers around his wrists to try and pry him off of you. “Pathetic! You’re pathetic!”

“Caesar, I’m not!” It took everything in your power to keep your hold loose on him while he jerked you around. Your thumbs rubbed circles against his radial artery and tears sprung in your eyes when he knocked against one of the bruises on your head. “Caracalla! I swear it, I will never hurt you. Caracalla, Caracalla, Caracalla.”

You spoke his name like a mantra as you let go of his hands to reach for his face. His lips pulled back into a snarl. When your hands drew near, he flinched. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking down his face, and his grip in your hair so tight, you were sure he’d rip out parts of your scalp. It wasn’t until you cradled your palms against his cheeks did his grip loosen once more. Despite the pain radiating in your temples, you tenderly wiped away a few tears.

“It’s going to be okay, I’m not mad. No one’s mad at you. I swear to you, I’m not mad,” You cooed to him, the same way you would to a frightened dog ready to bite. “I’ll take care of you, yes? What is it that you want? Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

Caracalla’s face crumpled, his sniffle thick and watery. “I want my brother.”

Finally, he let you go, his wrists flopping against your shoulders as he wrapped his arms around you. Though your head throbbed fiercely, you loosely draped your own around his neck and began to play with his hair. The motion seemed to calm him further as he slumped against you, the weight of his body dragging you down to the floor. With your back pressed against the wall, nearly flattened under Caracalla, you began to soothe him however you could. After some clumsy fumbling, you settled for one hand toying with messy strands of his red hair, the other rubbing between his shoulder blades. When you looked up, the three who had been cowering earlier watched their emperor weep with unreadable expressions.

“Go now,” You said. “This is no show.” Before they left, you decided to ask, “And, if you would please fetch me chamomile from my clinic, and honey and boiling water from the kitchens, I would be grateful.” It was slaves you were ordering around, and it made your tongue taste sour. You tacked on a final, polite ‘please,’ to make the guilt easier to bear.

The trio looked at you, then at Caracalla, before disappearing into the hall. You breathed a sigh of relief, slowly rocking the man in your arms back and forth. Your chest felt damp from where he buried his face, and you were sure you were coated in more snot and spit than you usually wished to be in this late at night. He was trembling in your arms, each sob silent as he clutched himself tight against you.

It wasn’t until he went slack did you start to worry again. Caracalla wasn’t moving, though he was breathing, and he was no longer crying. His arms were loose around you once more. Gingerly, you pried him away from you. A string of snot connected him to your tunic, and you swiped under his nose with the linen to clean him up, if only a little. He didn’t look at you, his eyes foggy and gaze distant.

“Caesar,” You tried. No response. Swallowing hard, you went another route. “Caracalla.”

That worked. His pupils darted toward yours. A hint of pink caught your eye when his tongue dabbed at his dry lips. “Are you real?”

He was dissociating, you knew what that felt like all too well.

“Look around the room for me, Caracalla.” You continued to say his name, it seemed to keep his attention better than anything else. “List five things you see.”

His jaw worked up and down as his gaze darted around the room. With a small smile, you hooked your index finger under his jaw and closed his mouth. “Speaking out loud is not necessary. Tell me, only if you want to. Listing in your head is good enough. Now, five items you see.” You waited a moment before speaking again. “Four things that you can hear.” Another half-minute passed before Caracalla swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You took that as your sign he was done. “Three things that you smell.”

“I smell you,” He murmured.

Despite yourself, and the pain in lancing through your skull, you laughed. “I pray that I smell good.” Caracalla didn’t respond aside from a small hum. You continued, “Two things you can feel.” His thumb brushed across your tunic before he began to run his palms up and down your arms. “Good, very good. One thing that you can taste.”

When he glanced at you again, he seemed much more aware. His lips twitched into a smile, showing off his teeth. “Blood. I bit my tongue, medicus.”

Caracalla seemed to expect something from you. What it was, you didn’t have the faintest idea, but a flicker of disappointment crossed his face when you didn’t move. “Do you feel better, Caesar?”

There was his anger again, his eyes narrowing. “You are not to leave. I demand you stay.”

“I was not going to leave,” You assured him. He relaxed into you, his ear against your breast as you began to stroke his hair. “I only want to help you. If staying helps, I will stay.”

“Good,” He muttered.

You weren’t sure how long you held Caracalla. Not enough for him to fall asleep, despite his breathing beginning to even out. The only reason you knew he was awake was because he was staring up at you, sharp blue eyes latched onto yours. He was searching for something, and whatever it may have been, he seemed satisfied with what he found. As you tugged gently on strands of his red curls, he dragged his thumb over the most prominent welt on your forehead. You sucked in a sharp hiss when he pressed into it — and distantly, there was this screaming, nagging realization in the back of your mind you didn’t have time for — and Caracalla furrowed his brows.

He was too hard for you to decipher, not without decades at your disposal.

The door cracked open before you could even begin to truly figure him out, and Geta’s head popped into view, peering cautiously into the room. When his eyes landed on you, his brother in your arms, his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. The expression hardly lasted more than a few seconds before Geta remembered himself, schooling his features back to distanced anxiety. You could tell that, too, was forced. From the concern welling behind brown irises, he was beside himself with worry.

“Caesar,” You greeted with a small nod. “Emperor Caracalla was asking for you.”

In your arms, he looked ready to argue. Once he looked at Geta, his relief was palpable. “Brother.”

“You made a mess again, Caracalla,” Geta said, his voice even as he took in the state of his room. Then, he turned back to you, taking in your frazzled appearance, from the messy state of your hair, to the raised lump on your forehead. “A big mess.”

Behind Geta, a woman shuffled into the room. In her arms, she held the items you had requested earlier: honey, boiling water, and chamomile. With a grateful smile, you gestured to the table beside Caracalla’s bed with your chin. She looked to Geta for permission, only obeying when he nodded. Once she was gone, you took this as your cue to finish up.

“Up we go.” You braced yourself against the wall as he heaved Caracalla to his feet. Even as you led him to his bed, he continued to cling to you. You pulled back the thick, woolen blanket, and with an insurmountable amount of care, you pried him off of you. With three downy pillows, you propped him into a sitting position and ignored his frustrated glare when you stepped away.

“You said you wouldn’t leave,” Caracalla began.

The best you could, you poured the boiling water over the chamomile to allow it to steep. When you had the free time, you should see if you could find an item in the kitchens to help you make better tea. “Your brother is here, you don’t need me anymore.”

You glanced over at Caracalla and almost screamed when you found Geta hovering over your shoulder. He pointed to the honey. “My brother has a sweet tooth. Put a lot of honey in it or he will not drink it.”

“Yes, Caesar. That is good knowledge to have.”

The amount of honey you put in Caracalla’s chamomile tea should have been illegal. Only when Geta tapped your wrist did you stop. You blinked, a little confused at the contact. It wasn’t often he touched you. In fact, you were sure this was the first time he ever had. He seemed to realize this with a strange little frown, and pulled back to wipe the pad of his finger on his robes, as if you had dirtied him. You tried not to look as offended as you felt.

With the tea in one hand, bowl of honey in the other, you moved to sit on the edge of Caracalla’s bed. He wrinkled his nose at the tea. “I do not want any of your elixirs tonight, medicus.”

“It’s chamomile. It will calm you,” You insisted. As you began to hand the cup to Caracalla, you froze, remembering that he was an emperor. He wouldn’t consume anything without it being tested first, and he was too fragile for you to introduce another variable into the room. A small sigh huffed from between your lips. You supposed being poisoned on top of everything else from today wouldn’t be so bad.

Without being asked, you took a sip. Standing at your side, Geta watched you, staring at you like you were an enigma to him. You paid him no mind. “Eugh, this is incredibly sweet.”

“It is as I like it,” He said, reaching for the cup.

You pulled away before he could reach it with a small tsk. “There is a saying in my country, Caesar, one I am sure you will like.”

“I doubt he will enjoy foreign nonsense,” Geta said, though his words lacked bite.

“Do not speak for me, brother,” Caracalla snapped. Softer now, he fixated back on you. “What is the saying, Alga? I want to hear your foreign nonsense.”

Dipping the spoon into the jar of honey, you scooped up a decadent pile and held it out for Caracalla to take. His fingers brushed yours when he did, and, for some reason, it made your cheeks warm. He looked at you expectantly, your silence as you worked out how to translate causing him to purse his lips into a pout.

“A spoonful of honey helps the medicine go down,” You finally said.

Caracalla cocked his head to the side before he shrugged. In a single bite, he downed the entire spoonful with nary a flinch. His sweet tooth must be truly unmatched. Even watching him drink your unfathomably sweet tea made a shiver go up your spine.

“What does that mean?” Geta asked as Caracalla loudly slurped his drink.

A part of you was surprised at the question. Caracalla not understanding was one thing, but you were under the impression the proverb was self explanatory. Maybe Geta wasn’t as smart as he made himself out to be. A flicker of amused fondness curled in your gut before it was quickly snuffed out.

“It means making a task that you dread more enjoyable by adding a pleasant aspect. Taking medicine is never fun, however, adding a spoonful of honey to the situation makes it easier to swallow,” You explained with a small smile. Geta hummed and said nothing more, even as he kept his eyes fixated on you. It was clear there was something he wanted to say, and you had a good idea what it was. With a small smile, you brushed your knuckle against the back of Caracalla’s hand to get his attention. The contact was quick, you still weren’t comfortable being openly physical with him yet, but having him cling to you earlier helped. “Is it okay if I talk to Emperor Geta about what you went through earlier? I believe I know the root cause, and I am sure he is worried. If you say no, I will not speak on it anymore. You have my word.”

Caracalla blinked at you, almost surprised, then waved you away with a flick of his spoon. “I don’t care what you do, Alga, so long as you make my nightly medicine from here on out.”

“Every night, Caesar. Happily.”

After promising Caracalla you wouldn’t leave the room without his permission, you and Geta stood, huddled together, across the room from his bed. It was a bit difficult navigating through the sea of broken glass. Thankfully, you both managed with no injury. The last thing you wanted to do tonight was pluck shards from Geta’s feet. Caracalla watched the two of you from afar, neither pleased nor angry, simply some odd middle ground between the two.

Geta was the first to speak, his arms crossed. “You would tell me what you know, with or without my brother’s knowledge.”

“Let’s not start this again.” You were far too tired to mince your words, your tunic sticking to your chest, still wet from Caracalla’s tears. “First off, has your brother experienced any trauma in his life?”

If you didn’t already know the answer, the shadow that passed over Geta’s face would have told you everything. “Traumatic?”

“Witnessing the death of a loved one, experiencing a tragic accident, I…” You swallowed hard. This was dangerous ground you were treading. “An assault at the hands of a parent?”

Geta let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t look happy about your knowledge, though he held his tongue for his brother’s sake. “How is this related?”

“When the mind experiences trauma, there are many ways it can adapt to protect you. Unfortunately, it is not always as helpful as intended. In an effort to protect you from experiencing a similar negative event, it can cause… problems.”

“Speak plainly, medicus.”

“When Emperor Caracalla is presented with certain stimuli, it can bring forth a bad memory. His mind will force him to relive an event that terrified him as if it were happening all over again. Is there anything that seems to set him off?”

Geta glanced at the spilled incense and frowned. He looked too tired to be truly angry despite his dark eyes being harder than usual. “I had this particular scent discontinued. It was pater’s favorite.”

Well, that explained what triggered him. Geta’s lips twitched, it was clear he hadn’t meant to give that much information away. You decided not to comment on it any further to let him believe that you had missed the mention of his father entirely.

“There are other symptoms of this disorder—”

Geta stopped you with a raise of his hand. “I am already aware my brother has a disease of the mind.”

“Do you know the symptoms? Do you know the treatments? Do you know how to help him long-term?” You countered, trying to keep your voice gentle.

Drawing up in height, Geta tilted his chin down at you. “Do you?”

“I— I know enough. While I am a doctor of the body, I can help treat him as best I can. So long as I am your physician, I will always do my best. Of that, you have my word.” Your next words came out stilted, awkward, as you played with your fingers. “Caesar, if you experienced a similar event, it is very likely you have the same disorder. It simply is manifesting differently. I can—”

“I no longer wish to discuss this.” With a sweeping motion, he gestured to Caracalla, who had fallen asleep, the empty cup on his chest. “I will tell my brother I dismissed you. Go, now.” His gaze flickered to the visible welt on your forehead. “Take care of your injuries.”

Geta didn’t wait for you to respond. Instead, he turned and sat on the edge of Caracalla’s bed, resigned to a sleepless night of watching over his brother. You overstepped, you knew you did, but it needed to be said. As much as you were Caracalla’s physician, you were Geta’s as well, and his wellbeing was important to you.

They were not good people, but you didn’t need to be good to receive care.

It wasn’t until you were in the hall, prodding at your aching skull, did that horrible realization dawn on you. The one you had been swallowing for weeks, the one that you kept locked away in the back of your mind where it couldn’t hurt you, the one, oil slick, eel, writhing against your brainstem.

In a daze, you walked back to your clinic, eyes unfocused and hand picking away at one of the knots on your head. Everytime your fingernail scraped against the raised skin, a shock of pain radiated down your neck. Again and again, you scratched and felt, and scratched and felt, until the only thing you could think was—

If this is a dream, then why do I feel pain?

A/N: Oh my god. Okay, so, funny story, but this is not only the most words I’ve written for a chapter over all of my projects ever, along with being the fastest I’ve written this much. What are these ginger twinks doing to me??? This authors note is going to be a little long because I feel like I have a lot to explain here. So, for starters—

Nucēs relinquō! That’s a Roman proverb that directly translates to “reliquish the nuts.” A lot of childrens games were played with nuts back then and it basically means to give up your ties to childhood and grow up. Caracalla was basically calling Aelius childish there. It’s also a fun little reference to one of the possible titles I had for this fic “Algās Relinquere” Ignore the conjugation on that one. Anyway.

Why Geta let Marianus live. This is hard for me to convey in the text because the fic is not from his point of view, but basically, he wants Marianus to experience life like he did. To never know when the next beating will come, only that it’s coming. Dying would be too kind and too easy, Geta knows this from personal experience. He’s vindictive and angry, and something, something, cycle of abuse. There’s a lot to be said here that I’m definitely planning on touching on later.

Another fun fact, but playing with Caracalla’s hair helps soothe him so much because it reminds him of Dondas. She’s around, I just haven’t found an organic place to introduce her. Because, um, Alga is going to see a whole ass monkey and wojack point at her. Also if you’re wondering where Geta was because no one could find him, he was brooding. Skulking around with an evil ass Eeyore cloud following him. He had much to think about.

Lastly. Two warnings I feel morally obligated to share about this fic. One. The smut is going to be fucking weird, I must say. Geta’s a freak, Caracalla’s a freak, I’m a freak. It’s freak city in here. All the smut will be properly tagged and warned, and also skippable, yay! A few of the wilder kinks I’ll probably end up touching on will be medical / surgical roleplay and a bit of blood / pain stuff from Caracalla. I’m not an avid smut writer, so I can’t guarantee if it’ll be good, but it WILL be strange. Two. Alga’s ‘I Can Fix Them’ disorder just might win. I have character development planned for Geta and Caracalla, and I don’t want to be all love conquers all, because they’re both eternally fucked up people, but they DO get character development. They will get marginally better. Just a heads up.

Now, the real last thing. Oh my god, I would love to hear y’alls thoughts on this chapter. I was at this shit in my google docs like a blacksmith at a forge. Hanmering away at this molten steel like my life depended on it. I’m both proud and nervous to share this one, and I am so, so curious to know how people feel about it. Comment, reply, send an ask on anon, but seriously, it makes my DAYYYYY. I start glowing and flying like Spongebob in a goofy goober rock, I’m so serious.

Okay, done for real this time. Hugs you!!! Thank you for reading as always, bye bye!!!

Taglist: @snazzynacho @t6gse370 @cherrysweets-world @justlibra

#emperor caracalla x reader #emperor geta x reader #emperor caracalla x you #emperor geta x you #gladiator x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 fanfiction #THIS IS SO LONG.

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lchufflepuffcorn · 2 days ago

Note

Dragon hybrids with their first child/how they feel when they see their mate with children

Ooooooouh! I like that! I spoke a bit about it in one of Rhaenyra's headcanon, but having to explain it more is fun!! You are now dubbed the 🧑‍🍼anon! Spicy-ish in some places. Consider yourselves warned.

With their children and mates: A reaction.

With Mates:

Aegon ii:

Listen, he’s glad that you like his kids, but he’d much rather keep you to himself. Thank you very much. The less people know about you, the better, and honestly, having you take care of his and Helaena’s children always sour’s his mood.

He still leans against the door, watching you interact with both his children as they were practicing music with a nanny. He still yearns for that novelty of a newborn, that warmth he feels when he holds them as itty-bitty things. Yet his duties do not lie with you, and he feels like it would be like dishonoring you to have you compete with Helaena’s children. He doesn’t want his mother to meddle with his feelings like she did with his marriage. He’ll commit to his wife, even if it means having you both hurt from this situation, rather than comfort his mother. Losing you is not a price he’s ready to pay for his own happiness.

He is selfish and a brat, mean and a coward, but he’ll sleaze his way into keeping you without any remorse.

Aemond:

He’d never thought of children before seeing you with his sister’s hatchlings. There was something strange that happened to Aemond when he first saw you hold one of the little twins, a month or two after their birth.

The one-eyed prince was used to Vhagar cooing at smaller things; many things were smaller than her. But that wasn’t it. Vhagar’s history was well known. She’d had many hatchlings of her own before, and the hole that carved itself in his chest when he saw you standing there with your arms full of a baby, smiling down at the little bundle of red cheeks and white hair was nearly enough to make his wings pop out and wrap them around you.

He felt like protecting you from the watchful eyes of Helaena, who was probably just concerned about the well-being of her hatchling. But how could she even think about you doing evil to the little being in your arms?

Warm and safe, a wall of scales and leathery wings. Ours to protect, ours to raise. Little giggles echoing against the walls of the castle, the smell of baby skin. Aemond had never had those memories, but they still felt like his. And he’d never wanted something more in his whole life than to give you hatchling to take care of, to see the smile you arbored looking at Jaehaerys toward children that would have traits like yours, but with the Targaryens hair and eyes.

He stood inert, face blank, all the while you held the child in your arms, never making it seem like his emotions were warring against his own reason. Two steps back, half turned toward the doors, even though guards were posted there already. Aemond would protect his sister’s peace and joy, but also the vulnerability of this moment. Of sharing them with the most precious thing he ever held dear.

Baela:

Watching carefully as you played with Aegon and Viserys from her seat, Baela could only smile. She knew of her duty to continue the lineage of her Targaryen/Velaryon blood, and she knew she could not imagine herself having her hatchling with anyone else than you. Her perfect lover, her mate. She thought herself young still, too young to be married; her father thought so too.

“Baela, look!” Aegon’s cry came to her ears, and she raised her head from the book she was pretending to read. Her little half brother was riding on your shoulder, his little pudgy hands firmly held on some strands of your hair, a bright smile on his face.

“You’ve tamed them?” She asked her brother, eyeing your form playfully, and you sent her a fake glare, mouthing ‘tamed’ with a roll of your eyes. She chuckled and watched as Aegon nodded proudly.

She’ll like having children, hatchlings, with you when you’re older. When your names are synonyms of each other. But right now, she enjoys the sight of her lover with her family.

Helaena:

Much like Aegon, she’d rather not have children with you. She already has three, in all. Her duty is to her kingdom, to Aegon, and to her mother. Much as she regrets not being able to share herself completely with you, she would never put herself and you, much less any children coming out of this union, in danger.

It’s not selfishness if she does it for your own safety. Helaena reason’s with herself again. Dreamfyre purring at the sight of their hatchling cuddled with you in a too-small bed. You’re retelling a story of wolves and roses. One she hasn’t paid much mind to, but she knows her children enjoy it.

It’s peaceful to have someone else take care of the little ones. It is peaceful to share their pleasure. Aegon doesn’t keep them close, Jaehaera, more so than her brother, but Jaehaerys is the crown prince. She smiles, cocking her head to the side as she observes her children cuddle closer to you, their eyes fluttering close at every other word you speak.

Jacaerys:

Having to share you was one of the worst punishments for Jace. But the more he watched you interact with his siblings, especially the younger ones, he couldn’t help the burning passion that flared inside of him. He couldn’t hide how his tail would slither from left to right, up then down, or how his wings would flutter. He could hardly hide the bulge in his pants when he looked at you holding the toddlers for too long.

Leathery wings hiding you from the light of day, Jace had managed to lure you into his chambers (again), holding you against the wall as he quite literally rutted into you, still fully clothed. His warmth was nearly suffocating, and his kisses left behind them a burning hot trail. He puffed his exertion into your neck, talking to the best of his abilities.

“Can’t wait. Mated. Let me give you the best thing in our lives.” He pleaded, eyes glazed over by lust, leaving behind marks upon your skin, busying his hands to undo whatever clothes you were wearing. A prince should never beg, but right now, Jace is fighting for his legacy™.

One of your hands tugs at his hair, and he lets out a wine that wrenches out your heart. You feel him, hard against one of your legs, warm against your chest, his lips bruising at your neck and shoulders. Kiss him back, and he’ll whine for you, pressing harder into you as if he could pass through your clothes. Let your nails, blunt or not, rake against the scales covering his neck, and he’ll shiver, his eyes darkening with desire.

Laenor:

Heart-eyes.

Laenor looks at you, holding little Jace, his firstborn, his wife’s firstborn, with heart-shaped eyes. At first, he thought his marriage would destroy his bond with you, but you kept surprising him every time.

Rhaenyra was in the room, laying back to rest, watchful eyes gazing at the both of you, but Laenor couldn’t care less right now. He huddled closer to you, looking at the brown-haired child in your arms from over your shoulder, then looking up at your face with a marveled look. He looks back at Rhaenyra, unable to find the words, her work more important than what he’d ever imagine it to be, the fruit of her labor making his heart sing for all of you.

She smiles back at him, and he pulls you closer to her bed, letting her see her baby, your baby. He’s lucky, Laenor thinks. Lucky to have such a loving mate and such an understanding wife. Such a wonderful family it is.

Rhaena:

While Rhaena likes children, especially her sibling, I don’t think she’d be that into having some. (As she will be forced to mother her stepbrothers.).

She’s glad that you are good with her family; it is important to her. She would be glad if you stepped up to help her when Rhaenyra asked her to be the mother she couldn’t be to her children. But I think she’d be even more glad that you didn’t force her to have children of her own. She is content with just having you.

With Lovers:

Daemon:

Daemon would try to give you your own. If you like children (especially his) so much, why not have some for yourself?

“Of course Rhaenyra doesn’t mind; should we ask her?” He’d tease into your ears, hips rutting against your own. “Would you like her to join in, too?” His laughter intended to be mean, mocking, but his breath caught, transforming it to a moan, his scaly hands coming to grip at your hips, talons caressing dangerously the fragile skin under them.

“I could father children for the both of you, have twins from different parents.”

He’s lost in his own fantasy, babbling away, words hardly making any sense as he plunges into you with more will than ever before. It’s your fault, really; had you not reached to grab Rhaena, keeping her steady on her feet as she playfully walked on the stone railing of the outside stairs, you would not be in this position. Truly, if you hadn't, Caraxes would not have taken over and kidnapped you for a very passionate, loving time. It had been something about the panic in your eyes, the way you’d reacted—even quicker than him—to his own child’s dangerous exercise.

He hadn’t even locked the door. And thinking about Rhaenyra entering on them both fucking (to put it crudely) clothes barely taken off and positioned like animals made his movement sharper, taking a gasp out of your mouth; his forehead fell to your shoulder.

Rhaenyra:

It’s a given that Rhaenyra would not accept you as a lover if you didn’t love her children. Having you actively in their life is something she takes to heart, and she would not imagine herself with you if you didn’t respect and love her hatchling. (See this headcanon for more reference.)

Taglist: @lady-dragon-rider

List of anon: 👑😵‍💫🥰🧑‍🍼

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midnight-mourning · 7 hours ago

Text

Love Bites

💘💘Midnight's DCA Valentine's Day 8💘💘

Okay okay okay, back on track now, please enjoy this little diaster i made based on @divinit3a's yeti boys, it was, quite fun >:3c

Prompt: umm letseee... valentines...Typically the Sun is not Out.... (for... Reasons... ahah.) but----loves to hunt, and hunt for the thrill/sport/game of it. And loves to eat & eat & would love a properly cooked meal. preference to high protein meals, very rich, very tasty, salty & fatty. so Im sure if u wanted to tackle him, in particular, could have fun with that..... (Slaps a giant fish on the table. Token of affection. Totally Wont Eat You ) The Moon.......... is a lot quieter and subdued, but actually a far better caretaker. takes care of hurt animals; would probably take care of a hurt human, too. mmm hot cocoa. much pickier eater, he doesnt like much, and he doesnt like to eat meat.... I think overall, a 'meal together' would be the best valentines fhgjsdfghjsdf WITH THESE FREAKS IN PARTICULAR...

Word Count: 2907

Read here if you prefer ao3!

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The hall is quiet as you step out from your room. You strain to listen for any sign of life, nothing. Must be out. Good. That gives you more time.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the shadowed hallway, not nearly as bright as your windowed room. Though, you weren't opposed to keeping the lights off. It saved energy for one—which meant warm floor beneath your feet as you pad through the facility—and two, it kept the not as friendly yeti from making an appearance. Which, yourself and Moon were both in agreement about at least.

When you'd first gotten here, so many months ago now, your first encounter with the yeti, robot, thing—you still haven't quite figured that one out—was less than, pleasant. Though, that may very well have been due to the state he first saw you in. Which was bloodied, bruised, and vulnerable. And as Moon would later explain it to you, that had triggered something in counterpart. Something more instinct than logical.

Luckily for you, a ragged chase into a darkened cavern had saved you from suffering any further injury, or worse.

Instead, you got Moon, and he was thankfully much calmer than the other bot. He also wasn't trying to kill you, so you took what you could get. He patched you up, gave you a place to stay, a nice warm bed out of the cold, and plenty of things to do while you recovered.

When you'd first ventured out into the snow, having heard the rumors of the 'ice devil' you'd be facing, this hadn't been what you'd expected.

Delivish upon first glance, sure. Those tusks didn't help anything, that's for certain. Not to mention Sun as a whole, the manic energy he radiated, the wild look in his eyes, the raw strength as he'd pinned you down to "Try a bite"—

But still, with Moon at the very least, the rumors didn't match up.

He was quiet, even a bit stern in certain cases, but polite. He took his directives very seriously, but beyond that, he held a compassion you wouldn't ever have expected of a machine. Though, maybe it was because he was a bit more than that, they both were.

Regardless, you owed him for not abandoning you out there in the frozen tundra to die. Much less putting in the effort he had to care for you.

As you traverse the hall now, there's only the slightest pain still left in your ankle as you shuffle. You'd left the crutches behind today, as you had been the past several mornings, despite the lunar-themed yeti's insistence for otherwise.

That was another thing, the care. For a so-called devil, he had the attitude of a saint. Or well, you didn't know any saints, so a good friend then. A very good friend, at that.

You found yourself in long conversations that would last hours, either listening to that quiet tone regale you with stories of all his travels, or sharing some of your own experiences prior to meeting them. You enjoyed the walks you'd take together through the caverns, or going with him out into the arctic—on the rare trips he would allow you with your injury—to scout for poachers and the likes.

And those rare moments you could get him to laugh at one of your jokes, it lit something inside you that you couldn't describe. Something that albeit would be a bit more frightening than it already was if not for your situation.

You think the combination of getting your foot caught in a bear trap, freed and then chased by a rabid yeti-bot, and then saved by the other side of that same yeti-bot, allowed you some freedom when it came to your feelings.

But that wasn't the point to what you were doing. Rather, you wanted to show your appreciation for Moon, not your feelings. Nevermind the fact that today did just so happen to be Valentine's, having found out by checking the date on your half-dead phone.

Besides, You didn't even know if it was even possible for him to return such affections. Truthfully, you preferred not knowing if it meant you could keep this peace you've had for so long now. You were almost afraid for when you fully healed.

Afraid that the moment you could leave, you'd be kicked out, back into the cold to survive to find your own way back to society. That the past few months were nothing but a ruse, set up by Moon and in fact once you were at a good range, your back turned and unaware, Sun would bear down on you and—

You shake your head, no. Despite your initial encounter, Sun had been fine. He wasn't allowed out much, so you didn't speak much, though you also think he would prefer not to. It didn't necessarily have to do with you in particular, you don't think.

Whereas Moon was more oriented to stay on task, Sun had his own personal drive to fulfill. You'd yet to figure out exactly what that was yet, however. Besides the desire to hunt and kill just for the thrill of it. Whatever it was, with your injury, you simply didn't fit into it. You had no use—for now—so he left you to your own devices.

For now.

You flip on the light to the kitchen area as you enter, dimmed lighting now illuminating the space.

You'd been surprised to find there was indeed working cooking equipment in the research station. Not originally all in the same space, but with a bit of help, you'd dragged everything functional into one space.

When it came to ingredients, you didn't have much to work with besides what either yeti brought to you. There was some very old canned food you'd found, and several containers of unopened spices, but beyond that it was slim pickings. The crate of hot coco you'd found had been a godsend. Considering the situation though, you weren't going to complain.

The idea of making a meal had come from the simple fact of the matter that beyond hunting and protecting, Moon nor Sun did much else. So, providing nourishment would have to be your way to pay back their hospitality. Or at least, Moon's hospitality. If Sun enjoyed something you made, you'd consider that in and of itself a victory.

So, you set to work immediately. Opening the fridge, you pulled out one of the the few items in there, a massive bluefin tuna, which took up the majority of the space. You struggle to take it out, much less carry it with wobbling limbs over to the island. When you put it on the counter, you almost swear you hear it creak under the weight.

You step back and let out a breath, admiring the giant fish for a moment. While the two really only ate for fuel—a fish like this would just simply be devoured as is from what you'd seen—you knew they could taste, and that when presented with chances to try something that was flavored in some regard, they did seem to enjoy it. Especially Sun, having taken one bite of your beef jerky and snatching the rest away for himself when you'd not been paying attention.

Though you only had the one fish and just a few other ingredients to work with, you had several ideas in mind for how to properly utilize it. Taking the large butcher knife, you cleaned, gutted, and scaled it, and divided it up into proper pieces.

The loin you'd make steaks out of, pan searing and basting in fats, utilizing the bit of pepper and spices you had available. You set aside three to cook and stored the rest in the freezer.

The back you would smoke, creating some jerky from the pieces there. Thankfully, Moon kept firewood around in case the power failed entirely, and you doubted he would notice a few pieces going missing. You'd utilized one of the broken freezers for your smokehouse.

The belly would be raw, sliced thin and served with a bit of the salty roe that you'd discovered inside the fish initially.

As for the remaining bits of the fish, you'd stew the bones for a broth and fry the collar and cheeks as one final touch to finish off the meal.

It was a lot, all things considered, and for them it may very well be next to nothing in comparison to their appetites, especially Sun's. But, that wasn't going to deter you from trying your best to make something from your heart. So, you got to work.

You had no idea when Moon would return, so you tried your best to work both quickly and effectively. Thankfully, since several items were basic prep, they took very little time to come together. You enjoyed it, the process overall. After all the time being spent on you, being able to give back felt gratifying in its own way, exciting even. Again, ignoring your own feelings about the yeti.

At some point, you even find a small radio, the batteries still good to your delight. Despite your location, you can just barely catch a signal as sappy love songs play from some far away station. You hum and dance and sing to the music as you cook, the time passing by like nothing to you in your focused state. You even are able to make yourself some hot coco, sipping on it throughout the cooking process.

You're so focused, even, that you don't notice the towering presence hovering around the other side of the counter until you turn directly to face it. You were just setting down the last bit of the meal, ready to sit and wait for Moon's return, so color you shocked when you find yourself face to chest with Sun instead.

His head cocked to the side as he looks down at you, expression unreadable as he examines you with that calculated stare.

"You've been busy." He states.

You come out of your daze, shaking your head. "I-yeah. I have."

"Tore up the meat. A pity. I was going to enjoy that." He picks at one of his claws, you see a hint of red stained there before he glances back up to you, grin wide. "Though, it's not nearly as good as when it's fresh, anyhow."

You both know that fresh isn't quite what he's implying.

You swallow, while you'd been expecting Moon—and would have preferred him, especially in this case—this was technically a gift for the day-themed yeti too.

Deciding you weren't going to let your lingering fear overtake you, you straighten up, and steady your voice. "This is all for you, actually. And Moon, of course. I, wanted to extend my thanks for, allowing me to stay these past few months." This again was technically all for Moon, but you couldn't exactly say that with Sun standing right in front of you.

"I—Me?" He questions, eyes widening and grin falling.

You nod. "Yeah, I um, figured that something made with a bit more care might be something you guys liked. I noticed you never really get the chance to... add more flavor to things, and you seemed to like my snacks in the past so, i just—" You stop when you find that he's eye to eye with you now, baring down on you with a serious expression you weren't anticipating.

"You made us, me, a meal?" The way the words are half-snarled mere inches from your face makes you flinch.

"Y-yes?"

Sun stares at you for a bit longer, and if you weren't so alarmed you'd move away. But you don't.

After a few moments more, he huffs, then starts to chuckle, standing straight again. "Aren't you just so interesting, Little Star?"

You feel confusion knit your brows only for them to shoot up in shock as Sun's hand suddenly grasps your chin, leaning in again.

His other hand snatches one of the pieces of raw fish from the table, eating it in one bite. "Such an offering from you is, surprising but, despite your, obvious misconceptions about our relationship, I suppose I can consider it." He tilts your head this was and that. "You're not the worst option I've ever been presented with."

"I, huh?"

He let's you go again, grabbing one of the steaks with his bare hands. His teeth tear through it like it's nothing. You can only watch as you try to understand what he's saying, not entirely comprehending it.

When he's finished, he wipes his mouth, snickering to himself. "I certainly can't wait to see what he thinks of your proposition. I'm sure it will be entertaining to say the least."

Before you can respond, he walks over to the light switch, dimming the lights as low as possible, thus allowing for Moon to take his place.

As the switch occurs, Sun makes one final remark, and it all finally clicks to you. "Something you should keep in mind though if I do accept, Sunshine, is that I don't share."

With that, you're left with an embarrassing realization, and Moon.

You can't make eye contact with him, instead turning around and starting to busy yourself with cleaning up to distract from the burning feeling spread across your cheeks.

You can't believe you didn't put together that something like this would mean something like that to them. But it's not like you would have known either! How were you supposed to understand the cultural differences between humans and yeti-robots that lived in abandoned research centers? This feels like something that was on them and not you to be honest.

Your half-delusioned reasonings do nothing to stop the racing in your heart as you clean, and you just hope to finish up quickly, grab a snack for yourself, and get out of there to keep yourself from any further embarrassment.

"It's very good, Starlight."

You pause for a moment, then hum. "Y-yeah?"

"Yes. The amount of flavor you've packed into each dish is... incredible." Moon says, sounding genuinely a bit in awe.

It only worsens your state, mumbling back a quiet response. "I'm, I'm glad you like it."

Quiet between the two of you. The radio still plays softly throughout the space, only disrupted by the sound of clinking as you clean things up, or Moon's utensils scraping against each other.

"So what Sun said—" "You should eat too—"

You both stop, and looking back to him, you laugh softly.

You nod. "You first."

"Join me." He pats a seat next to him. "It's only fair after the effort you've put in."

"Oh! Okay."

You try not to make a fool of yourself as you make your way over and sit down. You can only protest as Moon piles you a plate full of food, depositing it in front of you once he's finished.

He hands you a fork, chuckling at the scowl on your features. "You need your energy too, if you want to stand any chance at getting better."

"You're not wrong." You sigh, taking a bite of the smoked fish. As you'd hoped, it's delicious, and you appreciate your own efforts to make such good food in that moment.

"So,"—Moon reaches for a bit of the fried collar—"You were saying?"

You almost choke on the bite you just swallowed. You regain your composure to answer. "I, um, Sun mentioned, that um, something like this was very, very, important to you guys in a specific way. Which, honestly I didn't know and I'm so sorry if I've offended you I just wanted to do something nice—"

You're interrupted by a kiss pressed to your forehead.

"I would say offended is nowhere close to the feelings you've elicited. Honestly." The night-themed yeti states, amusement between the words. "Rather, I find myself rather interested in your proposal, intentional or not."

Your eyes widen ever further. "Pr-proposal?"

"If I'm misreading, then I am sorry, Star. But I—"

"No!" You shake your head, trying again. "No, you're not um, misreading. But again this wasn't my intent at all. I'm definitely all for it. I mean, to a point you know, sorry this isn't something I ever expected to happen but I really do like you, a lot and—"

Instead of a kiss, a piece of tuna is pressed into your mouth, and with how good it is you can't say for sure that you'd prefer the kiss or not. As you chew, a slight scowl on your features, Moon laughs. It makes your heart flutter for a moment.

"I really like you too. I wasn't sure that you'd feel the same, so I didn't act on those feelings. But, since you've shown that you clearly feel something,"—He snickers as you shoot him another glare—"For me, I'm more than happy to make it clear to you now."

"Gee, thanks."

Another kiss is pressed to your hair, arm wrapping around you and you welcome it, snuggling into the warm fur next to you. You grab a piece of tuna, munching on it to hide your fluster in that moment.

"And since he's already said it, I will too." Moon's voice is right next to your ear in that moment, low but lethal.

"I don't share either."

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Thank you for the request @divinit3a!! I had lots and lots of fun with the yetis and i can't wait to see what else you do with them yourself, i may perhaps do a bit more when I find the time hehehehe

My writing Masterpost

DCA Valentine's Masterpost

Tag list (if you would like added, simply say so!):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8 @luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @milosmantis @robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva @juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml @divinit3a @amarynthian-chronicles @crystalfay @that-one-unknown-artist @rosescarletful @buzzybee3

#fnaf dca #dca fandom #fnaf sun #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf moon #sundrop #moondrop #x reader #dca fic #mm dca valentine's #gahhh i loved writing for the yetis oughhh #feral dca my beloved #i rotated them around in my head a lot before after and during writing for them #hsakflksajf #so much fun with these two truly

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