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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years ago

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Barrage

For @whumptober2021 day 3: taunting | insults | “Who did this to you?”

CW: War whump, WWI, dehumanization, vampire whumpee, degrading language, negative/panic stimming due to sensory overload, casual ableism (it’s not intended as such, but effectively is), period-appropriate xenophobia, implied future loss of limb, brief religious talk at end

1918, the Western Front of World War One

If he’s screaming, he can’t hear himself over the sounds of the artillery.

Shells fly through the air with the only warning a high whistle before they burst apart in blasts that shake the trenches like an infant with a rattle, knocking free dirt from the sides of the trenches.

It drifts down to land on his shoulders, settling over the hands he has over his head. His palms press against his ears and it does nothing, absolutely nothing. There are tears in his eyes, fear bleeding pink into mud that simply turns darker, seeing no difference between vampiric saltwater and blood.

Not that there is much of a difference, really.

His mouth is wide open against the ground, throat taut, lungs tight with the expulsion of air but the vibration of sound in his throat is so overwhelmed by the rumbling of the earth and the barrage slamming into the ground around him that he can’t feel if he’s making any sounds or not.

If he had a beating heart it would be pounding, but it lays still in his chest, locked in the final heartbeat he’d had more than a decade before.

That he is already dead never quite undoes the visceral horror of sounds too loud for a human mind to understand, destruction too total and complete. The part of him that is still human shrieks at him to run, but there isn’t anywhere to go.

The barrage is everywhere, it’s in everything. The trees blast apart above their heads, branches and fragments of bark and leaves rain down into the trench.

The other men hunker down, trying not to look directly up, each of them with eyes closed or staring off into space, flinching now and then, hands trembling so hard their rifles rattle. There’s no point in moving - the shells will find them if they so much as pop up over the bags. All they can do is wait, and wait, and hear the sounds without knowing which come from their own side and which from the enemy.

In a moment like this, the human body knows only terror, and there is nowhere to run to escape it.

Finally, the sounds start to die off. A final whistle, a single explosion, and then everything falls silent.

Not that the vampire boy can tell, not at first.

His ears keep ringing, painful noise that is inside him and not without. He slowly pulls his hands off from his ears and pushes up to his knees, shuddering, rocking back and forth in an attempt to soothe his nerves. He can feel, now, the vibration in his throat. He can’t hear himself but he must be humming, low and tuneless, trying to drown out the panic.

Once the shells have finished, the gunfire begins.

“Here they come! Steady aim, boys, the Krauts are on us!”

The sound of the soldier’s voice seems tinny and small, so distant, trapped behind the ringing in Tristan’s ears. He screams himself, into the mud beneath him. Someone races past, stopping briefly to pat his head. If they speak, he can’t hear them over the shrieking noise inside his mind.

Short reports break through the air like thrown knives, the soldiers in the trenches alongside him popping briefly up from behind their protective shield of sandbags to fire on the German infantry who come out of the shell-smoke like a swell of horrible phantoms.

They fall, they cry out, they hit the ground.

Sometimes the Americans let out a cry themselves, someone is fired upon and falls. Someone else yells in fierce victory. Someone shouts a curse.

He hears a man shout, “I won’t die today!” and hopes it’s true.

Tristan loses time, shivering compulsively and curling into himself, humming and rocking until the ringing finally starts to die down. Longer, still, as long as the rifles continue to fire. He hears a wild, high-pitched cry, and glances up to see a German with a bayonet through him drop to his knees and then fall into the trench, landing less than three feet away.

The man’s probably dead before he hits, but Tristan still screams and pushes back, scrambling until his back hits the wall. His knees are damp from the mud he’s curled up in and he doesn’t care, he’s never cared. All that matters is finding some small hint of peace.

It seems like an eternity before even the gunfire starts to go quiet.

There’s a voice that calls, but he can’t care enough to let the sounds filter into understandable words. He smacks his hands into the mud, again and again, pushing himself forward and back, finally leaning down to knock his head into the ground, over and over. Each contact with solidity is a soothing rush, slowly working its way down his spine and through his muscles, reminding him that the noise is gone, the noise is over.

The voice calls again.

There’s no more guns firing, no more shells. The world settles into an awful heavy silence that is nearly worse than the sounds. They’re in the middle of a forest more vast than any Tristan has ever seen before, and there are no birds, because there are no more trees for the birds to live in.

Only the doughboys and the enemy, everyone the walking dead. They’re as dead as Tristan is, their bodies just haven’t figured it out yet. And they won’t get back up when they fall.

The vampire keeps knocking his head into the ground. It helps to stop his thoughts from spinning and swirling in a mad spiral inside.

It doesn’t help enough.

He’s brought back to himself by a kick, a fellow soldier’s boot knocking hard into his hip and sending him onto his side. He grunts and looks up, squinting. The German soldier’s corpse is gone - they’ve moved it while he was locked within himself, within his terror. The sky above them has a sickly glow beneath heavy clouds brought on by smoke from the fires and explosion.

The soft sound of distant wounded calling for help filters into his understanding.

The soldier that kicked him, Kirk, gives him a grin. The man’s face is streaked with mud, dark with it, and only his teeth and his eyes show white. “Hey, medic. Didn’t you hear the officers?”

Tristan looks up at him, and slowly shakes his head. His ears ring, a little, but all their ears ring. They’re all shouting just to be heard.

“Huh. Well, trench got blown apart off to the east. It’s your time to do what you do best, fangs. Go sniff out the ones we can save.” Kirk grins. “Like a fucking dog.”

The vampire closes his eyes, shuddering, looking away, shaking his head more in denial than in real refusal. It feels like the shells are still breaking apart inside him, shuddering rumbles inside his nerves now, not up in the sky. His whole body shakes. “I, I, I c-c-can’t, can’t, I-... I c-can’t go, go up there, c-can’t-”

“Doesn’t matter what you wanna do or not, bloodfuck. You think any of us would be here if anyone important gave a damn about our feelings? Gotta earn your bloodbags, don’t you? Get up there with the dogs where you fucking belong. ”

The other soldiers laugh as Kirk kicks him again. Their laughter isn’t even mean, exactly, but carries an edge of hysteria. It’s a release of tension after the barrage for them, after the gunfire, after the loss or three or four of their own, listening to how Kirk talks to him. It makes them all feel better, reminds them they’re still alive by reminding them that the vampire isn’t.

And, for whatever it is worth, it seems they’ve held the line.

To Tristan’s mind, a bit of land doesn’t seem worth what they are being asked to suffer.

He uncurls himself slowly, his bones aching in protest of his movements, his body begging him not to show himself above the bags, to be potentially seen by a German sniper just waiting for the American soldiers to pop up thinking it’s all over and make excellent little targets.

The vampire reaches out with a trembling hand to pick up his helmet where it’s been discarded beside him, stuffing his hair up underneath as he pulls it on. He tries to buckle it, but he keeps dropping the straps. His fingers won’t close, they’ll only shake.

Kirk finally huffs a sigh and leans forward, grabbing him by one arm and yanking him over, taking the straps in hand and doing the buckle himself, jerking it too tight until the vampire whimpers at the pinch. “You’re fucking useless, bloodsucker. Go on. Serve your fucking country, like the rest of us. We’ll see you later. Hey. We made it, huh? This time we keep breathing. Well, we keep breathing, anyways. You keep… uh, whatever it is you do.”

The vampire nods, slowly, eyes searching Kirk’s for some hint of something other than his hatred.

For the first time since they were shipped out, Kirk’s expression does soften.

Just a little bit.

“Come on, bloodfuck.” He says the insulting name almost like an endearment. “Don’t look like that. You’ll be all right,” He says, voice low, giving the vampire’s chin a playful little shake. “It’s just the artillery, just a little scrap. They brought out their big guns, and look at us, we still got our limbs, ain’t we? You still got those chompers. Hell, none of us wet ourselves this time, so we’re doing a sight better than last time.”

The other soldiers chuckle, a little. Someone mumbles, “That was once.”

“Oh, hush it, Fallows, nobody looks down on you for it, everybody’s a bit crackers the first time they get shelled.”

“Yeah, Fallows, we’ve all been there.”

“Listen, after my first time it took me three weeks to go to the latrine without a buddy just in case, you’re all right.”

The soldier who must be Fallows shifts, but he half-smiles, a little, comforted by the camaraderie around him. Tristan’s heart hurts, wishing he could be part of it, not kept apart by the curse in his blood.

A different soldier - Tristan thinks the man’s name is Davies - pulls out a canteen of what is probably supposed to be water and almost certainly isn’t. The American army doesn’t imbibe, officially, but Tristan’s never seen an officer who didn’t look the other way after a battle if his men needed liquid courage to make it to the next one.

“I, I, I’m scared,” The vampire whispers. A tear trickles down the cleared path along the dirt in his face, following the trails of those he’s cried before. Kirk looks at him and rubs his thumb over the vampire’s high cheekbone, smearing dirt back over. Like trying to fill in a dried riverbank. “I’m, um, sc-scared of the sounds, Kirk.”

“So’re the rest of us. Fritz never does it halfway, does he? I get you. We’re still here, for now.” Kirk pats the side of the vampire’s face, almost gently, and then pushes him backwards with a sudden resurgence of his usual careless violence. “Now go find the crump-hole Fritz made of the others and pull out the wounded.”

He has to do this. It’s his job, and it’s the only reason he hasn’t been staked out like the ones who refused to go willingly. The vampire swallows, nodding slowly, and turns away. He has to jog down the narrow line of the trench, past rows of soldiers who watch him with dulled eyes that stare far, far past him. Twice he pops his head up, just for a second, to get a better look at where he should go.

Ahead of him, the No Man’s Land stretches. It’s a hellscape, cratered and with any hint of greenery long gone. A morass of mud and the still-standing stump of the occasional tree. There are dead men out there, he can smell them. Some new dead, mostly old, the ones that aren’t worth pulling back behind the lines, not yet. Some wounded men who call for water, for help, but who mostly call for their mothers.

Tristan would call for his, too, if he thought it would help.

There’s dead Germans out there, he can see their uniforms on the prone, still bodies. Some of their wounded cry mama, mutti, mutterchen. A few cry papa, vaterchen. Tristan has seen enough dead - some by his own hand, though he never wanted to kill anyone, William didn’t tell him how not to and he had to find that out on his own - to know that nearly everyone, at the end, thinks finally of who they love most.

Someone cries, in a broken voice, “Cady, help me,” and Tristan closes his eyes against the pleading in the sound.

Seems like more Germans than Americans, this time, and he might see some French, too. It’s hard to tell, with the smoke is still rolling over the land.

He hopes they don’t try to gas each other again. It doesn’t affect the vampires, but he’s seen too many men die choking on their own lungs already, he’s ready to never see such a thing ever again.

He sighs, gets back down into the trench, and keeps moving.

The ranks thin out, and he finds himself utterly alone for the last few hundred yards.

There’s a brief burst of gunfire that has him shaking again, flinching and stumbling into a depression underneath the top, where a soldier might sleep at night. The vampire stays there, curled up tight staring in fear, until the gunfire subsides.

Once it fades, he hears the barking.

Ambulance dogs.

“Medics! We have wounded!” A man’s voice cries, rough-edged. “We need help!” Ahead of him, the trench collapses in on itself, blown apart by shells. A soldier’s rifle lays in the mud, bayonet glinting faintly. Next to it, a photograph, a young man and woman standing next to each other, dotted with dirt. The woman has a slight smile on her face, and the young man’s arms are around her waist. They look happy.

The vampire’s throat closes as he looks at it. She’s very pretty, he thinks. She’ll be very sad when she hears that her soldier isn’t coming home. He wishes he had any photographs of his parents.

If he must be damned to never see them again, even in Eternity, it seems doubly unfair that he can’t even find an image of them to remember them by. He’s sure there were photos taken at the island where they were processed, but those photos weren’t for them. They were kept by the men and women who barked orders at the young Tristan and his parents as they went through the line.

“We have living wounded!” The man calls again, much closer, and the vampire jolts back into motion. He picks up the photograph and tucks it into one of the pouches at his waist, next to a small vial of plain alcohol he uses to wash out wounds.

He can see the dogs up top as they dig, paws burying themselves with incredible speed in loosened mud as their handlers move next to them, encouraging them. Every dog wears a big white square patch with a cross on each side, marking them as ambulance dogs. The vampire has a patch on his left arm like that, marked with a cross for medic - and a V to make sure he is always known for what he is by anyone who sees him.

As if the fangs don’t give him away. As if the way his eyes look in the darkness isn’t a clue all its own.

There’s a high-pitched bark and a shout of triumph, and the vampire looks up and sees a man so covered in dirt he seems less human than golem being helped to his feet. He’s miraculously uninjured except for having been half-buried in mud.

“Let’s go, soldier,” The dog’s handler says, and then moves quickly away. The soldier follows him, shuffling more than walking, staring around in amazement that he’s still alive.

The Germans could fire again at any moment, of course, and the vampire finds himself frozen, staring up into the yellow-tinged dark sky. There’s a low rumble, a whistle and boom, and he flinches before he realizes the sound is so distant that it must mean shelling much further down the line than he is.

That doesn’t mean what they’re doing is safe.

He’s still staring up at the sky, waiting for the barrage to begin again, when something closes tight around his wrist and he jolts to the side with a cry of shock and fear.

It’s a hand.

A hand, reaching out from the mud. Dirt is ground into every knuckle, under the torn fingernails, into the callouses worn into the pads of his fingers. The hand grasps wildly, blindly, trying to find anything to hold onto.

There’s a living man buried under the mud.

The vampire has to work his throat to find his voice, and when he does he cries out, “We, we, we have living wounded! Living wounded! B-buried, buried, help! I need help!”

There’s a flurry of movement as the vampire lurches forward, gripping onto the hand and digging with his other, trying to give the man who must be in there some reassurance that he is felt, seen, found.

Trying to give him some air before whatever he’s got runs out.

One of the other medics hops down and lands roughly on their feet next to him. It’s another vampire, one that Tristan has never seen before. They’re older-seeming, with straggly long dark-blond hair barely held back in a plait down their back. The vampires aren’t usually allowed to speak to one another for fear that they’d plan some sort of mutiny, and so the other medic is silent other than a soft grunt, digging into the dirt with their bare hands with inhuman rapidity, uncaring for the possibility of injuries because they simply cannot hurt their muscles any longer.

Tristan feels the hand he’s holding squeeze and he gives two squeezes in return. We’ve got you, just hold on, hold your breath, just a little longer.

Eventually the frantic work of the other medic reveals dirtied blond hair, helmet-less, marked with mud and blood in equal measure from a cut they can see as the man’s forehead is revealed. Then his eyes open wide and very blue, he gasps in air.

“Pl-please,” He manages, his voice a rasp. “Please, help me-”

Tristan exhales an unnecessary breath in relief, and smiles. “Hold, hold, hold on, hold on, we’ve got you, soldier.”

The man sees his fangs but he’s too full of the rush of adrenaline at the prospect that he has been saved from suffocation to be scared of them. Instead he starts to cry, weeping and holding onto Tristan with a bone-crushing grip.

The other medic hisses as they dig in and find a dead soldier on top of the living one. This one has the telltale slightly-open eyes of someone long gone, body still warm. There’s an awful caved-in look to one side of his head that Tristan refuses to allow himself to see. “Must have protected him that way,” The vampire notes, coldly informative, uncaring. “Dead took the brunt of the blows. One lucky man, one unlucky one. Flip of a coin, living or dying.” They sound like they don’t care at all.

Tristan wonders how long they’ve been a medic. If they maybe felt more at the beginning.

The smell of blood moves through the air like a bubbling stew, making Tristan’s mouth water. He holds back as best he can, pulling to help dislodge the survivor from the dirt his compatriots have died in.

Some of them still haven’t yet - the vampires can scent the difference between dead and living, and there are more soldiers still breathing under the rubble. He can smell that some are so wounded they won’t last long. Others, though, they’ll get out in time.

Tristan doesn’t look at the slack expression of the dead soldier whose body kept this one alive as he is revealed. The survivor comes free - first his shoulders, then his arms come up to grip tightly around Tristan’s waist. His torso is revealed, his hips…

It’s only when they finally get him fully freed, laying on the ground, that Tristan realizes one of his legs is… wrong. Bent wrong, nearly blasted off. He swallows at the sight.

“We, we, we need a stretcher,” Tristan says, frowning. The soldier groans, as if only now beginning to feel the pain of the shattered bones from his thigh down to his foot. “He, he, he can’t walk. He’s gonna lose the, um, the the the leg.”

“God, no,” The soldier pleads to no one in particular. “Please, no, not my leg…”

“Hush. Better that than your eyes or your face, mouthbreather.” The other vampire launches themself at the side of the trench, clambering back up - only for there to be a sudden burst of new gunfire, and Tristan stares up in panic as the vampire’s body jolts as three bullets pass through them.

They stumble backwards, briefly, then bare their fangs in the direction the gunfire came from and hold up their hands with middle fingers raised high above their head. They give a loud, half-mad trill of laughter.

“Have at it, Huns, I’m already dead!”

Then they turn on their heels, moving at a rapid jog towards the medical tents nearby. There are bullet holes in the back of their uniform, new fresh ones alongside several that have already been patched up from earlier hits.

“Please, I have to-... have to go home,” The survivor of the bombardment says in a whisper, and Tristan turns back to him, nodding slowly. The man’s face is pinched with agony, but… but he’s familiar. “I can’t die here, fangs. I can’t.”

“Don’t, um, don’t don’t don’t worry… you’ll go home, you will.” He doesn’t know that, not really, but it’s what every soldier wants to hear, and the doughboy beside him lets out a breath of relief and smiles, a little, trusting him. Tristan hitches in a breath, and digs into his belt-bag, pulling the photograph out. It’s the same young man as the subject of the photo, his sweetheart next to him. Maybe she’ll see him again after all.

He holds it out. He sees the soldier blink, struggling to focus.

Tristan clears his throat. “I, I, I… um, I found this.”

The soldier grabs it with his free hand and gives a hysterical, relieved laugh, pulling it to his lips and giving it a kiss. “Marta,” he breathes. “Oh… thank you, fangs. Thanks for finding it.” he looks up at Tristan with a bright smile, teeth seeming terribly white in his dirt-coated face.

They are so rarely kind to him, the soldiers.

The vampire closes his eyes against a new rush of tears. He whispers, “Look, look, look at the, the, the photo for just a moment for me,” and lifts the soldier’s wrist to his mouth. The soldier knows the score - he doesn’t even go tense. He's probably been bitten a few times before.

When the vampire sinks his teeth in, it’s as gentle as possible. He takes little blood, only pushes venom into the wounds until the soldier’s body goes limp and relaxed, his eyes still locked on the photo of the woman he wishes badly to go home to.

“Tell, tell, tell me, um, about… about, about Marta,” The vampire says, glancing up. He can hear further shouting. The other vampire’s voice, which means help is on the way. “While we wait for the stretcher.”

The soldier’s eyes drift shut.

“She’s… she’s nineteen. Preacher’s daughter, her ma and two sisters died from the flu this year. She’s got four little brothers who made it, though. We were married just before I was sent to basic training, last fall… Hey.” The soldier looks right at him, meets his eyes. “What’s your name, fangs?”

No one ever asks him that.

He blinks once, twice, three times. “What?”

“Your name. What can I call you?”

“Uh, Tristan, um, Medical, um, Un-dead Medical Private Tristan Higgs.”

“Huh. I’m Dennis. Just… I don’t care for all the titles we get. Just say Dennis. Tired of bein’ called by what I am and not who.”

He nearly laughs. He knows the feeling. “Nice, um, nice to meet you, Den, Dennis.”

“You, too, Tristan. You’re Irish, right?”

Tristan nods, a little, his smile widening slightly. “Was. Been in New York since, ah, before the turning of the, um, the the century.”

“Were you a vampire when you came here?”

Tristan swallows, looking away. “No.”

“Oh.” Dennis falls silent, for a moment, then squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bring on bad memories.”

“That’s, um, that’s all right.” Tristan settles onto the muddy ground, with the body of the soldier who didn’t make it visible in the dug-out part of the cave-in, and listens. The other soldier, he thinks, likely would have his own people waiting for him, who now must be told the terrible news - but this man, Dennis, he’ll go home to his Marta, one-legged but alive.

Dennis never lets go of his hand.

Whenever his face starts to show his pain again, Tristan lifts the man’s wrist back to his mouth, fills him with venom again, and asks him more questions about home.

Dennis thanks him for it, every time.

He says Tristan reminds him of his own brother, who’s still back home working the dairy farm he grew up on. “He’s always been better with the cows than people, anyway. He’d hate all this racket,” Dennis murmurs.

“I, I, I hate it, too.” Tristan smiles, just a little. “I’d say you, um, you get used to it, but…”

“You don’t,” Dennis says, heavily.

“Right. You… no, um, you don’t.”

Tristan hopes Dennis gets to go home to his pretty Marta, his brother and the cows, and never come back to this hell the rest of them are trapped in until its bitter end. He hopes, deeper than that and in a secret place within himself, that he will redeem some of the damnation of what he was turned into by doing as much good as he can while he’s here.

He can’t go home.

Home is people, not a place, and his are long, long gone.

But maybe if he suffers for the good of the living, he’ll be seen as redeemed enough by God and His angels to be allowed to see his mother and father again.

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @pretty-face-breaker @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

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d0llpie · 4 years ago

Note

prompt 16 ;; in your req rules you said this was okay so i hope its fine :,) could i have oikawa, iwaizumi and tsukishima finding their s/o's fresh (or old if you prefer) sh scars? the way it ends should be fluff lol, im only asking because this would bring me comfort </3 either way i love your writing ur amazing<3

Self Harm Comfort

oikawa x reader, iwaizumi x reader, tsukkishima x reader

Warnings: self harm mention, blood mention, this topic is very triggering so please do not read if uncomfortable, i add tags that can be blacklisted for this topic !

a/n: hi love, i hope this brought you some comfort, my messages are always open, have a beautiful day <333

prompt: “i know i’m not what you signed up for”

wc: 1.9k

Oikawa

~ You hadn’t been dating Oikawa very long, he never questioned why you always wore long sleeves and honestly he didn’t think much of it

~ You were proud to say that you hadn’t self harmed since your relationship had begun, he was always doting and caring while also being fun and a distraction for you. You loved him with all your heart and knew he loved you too

~ You knew you couldn’t hide them from him forever but you didn’t realise he was coming over to surprise you, wanting to take you on a date

You’d been in your head all day, you couldn’t help it, your thoughts spiraled and you were back in that dark place you’d been so happy to be out of for so long. You hated that you resorted to this but coping this way became to familiar that before you knew it, you found yourself on the bathroom floor, blade in one hand and bloody tissues in the other. Tears were rolling down your cheeks but you stared blankly ahead of you, you didn’t feel any better, your thoughts turning to tooru, what would he think? This only made your tears come out faster, shame creeping up on you, your thoughts spiraling darker and deeper until you were stuck overthinking and rolling your sleeve higher.

You didn’t hear Oikawa open the door or walk towards the bathroom, you did hear his gasp in the door frame as he dropped to his knees in front of you, cradling you in his arms, wetting your shirt with his own tears. “Y/n, why didn’t you tell me? What happened? What are you doing?” you were too shocked to answer, scared that this was the end of your relationship and you’d be trapped again with your thoughts, alone. “i-“ you tried to speak but it came out in a choked sob and Oikawa shushed you, pulling you to sit on the edge of the bathtub while he fetched your med kit. He was silent cleaning your wounds, occasional sniffles let out which only make you overthink even more. Once he bandaged your arm you held his wrist still.

“Tooru i wanted to tell you, i hadn’t done this since before we started dating, i’ve been doing well i dont know what happened and i know i’m not what you signed up for, i’m sorry i’m really sorry it’s just-“ “you are exactly what i signed up for. I want you, all of you, i just wish you felt comfortable enough with me to tell me, this scares me y/n, i need you and i’m sorry that i was to ignorant to realise how you were feeling..” you cupped his cheek “no tooru baby you don’t need to apologise..” “you don’t need to either y/n, i’m going to help you, please tell me when you feel like this...i don’t know what to do but i’m not leaving. i’m staying right beside you okay?” you nodded, tearing up again and burying your face in his chest “why are you crying my love?” you lifted your head, pressing your lips against his slowly “i love you tooru, i’m s-“ “don’t you dare apologise, i love you too.” you giggled softly, sniffling before returning back to his chest.

“C’mon y/n, let’s watch your favourite movie and i’ll let you braid my hair to distract you hmm?” you smiled up at him, you both looked a mess, red puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks but you were there in each other’s arms, safe and in love.

Iwaizumi

~ Iwaizumis love language was touch, it reassured him to feel you against him and showed you how much he loved you when he would absentmindedly trace patterns on your skin

~ He always had to have some form of physical contact with you, holding pinkies in crowded spaces, holding your hips while talking to people

~ It shouldn’t have surprised you that he’d eventually feel them

He’d had a long day, the team wasn’t listening to him and all he wanted to do was come home and fall asleep on your chest while you played with his hair. He hated staying late training the team but he knew you were going to be there tonight, waiting for him to come home. It was so domestic, coming back to see you in his apartment, wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of his boxers, the thought kept him going throughout the day and drive home.

Iwa was coming come home late again so you decided to take a shower and head to bed, you got out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body as you made your way into the bedroom to grab one of iwas hoodies. Iwaizumi walked into the bedroom to see you in just a towel, he smiled at you and wrapped his arms around you, breathing in deeply. You froze underneath him, did he see? would he think you were weak? disgusting? you tried calming your breathing but Iwaizumi obviously noticed your state and stepped back, running his hands over your shoulders and down your arms “what’s wrong?” he froze when his arms reached your forearms, running his fingers over the raised flesh so he knew he wasn’t imagining it. Your breathing only sped up, your throat felt like it was constricting. “y/n...” he was angry, not at you, at himself. You’d been together for so long and he never realised? He used to find the fact that you only wore oversized hoodies adorable, seeing you drown in the material warmed his heart, now it made him sick. Did you not want him to see? Did you not trust him? Why didn’t he notice?

“Ouch Haji..” your squeak shook him out of his thoughts and he released your wrists, not realising how tight his grip was getting. He then noticed your wide eyes and shallow breaths and realised you were having a panic attack “y/n-shit. i’m so sorry here, breathe with me baby okay?” he held your hands and led your breathing until you calmed down. You changed into one of his shirts and some shorts before sitting next to him on the bed. “Baby, please tell me none of those are new.” he pulled you onto him so you were sitting on him “they aren’t, i was going to tell you i was just...ashamed? i’m not sure it’s complicated, i know i’m not what you signed up for..” he held your arm out gently, tracing the scars with his fingers before pressing your wrist against his lips. He kissed along each of your scars, mumbling how much he loved you while a few stray tears escaped his eyes.

“If you ever feel that way again, i want you to tell me first okay? I love you, you’re so strong and beautiful, you’re my home okay? i need you and i want you to be able to rely on me too.” you nodded before kissing him, smiling against his lips “thank you haji” you began playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and he nuzzled his face into your neck, picking you up and lying you down fully under the covers “you don’t have to hide them around me y’know” you hummed, playing with his hair, kissing his forehead as he peppered kisses along your jaw “goodnight haji”.

Tsukkishima

~ you don’t know what exactly led you to feeling this way again, but you were back to feeling numb, wanting more than anything to feel

~ although you knew better, you still made you way to the bathroom, blade in hand like you were on autopilot

~ you hadn’t told tsukkishima yet, too afraid of what he’d say, what he’d do. He was rarely serious as it was and you didn’t feel the need to burden him with this

Tsukkishima wasn’t dumb. He was smart, he noticed when you were uncomfortable in public and would take you out of there without you needing to express your discomfort. He noticed advertisements for that show you mentioned a few weeks ago on the back of a bus. He noticed the clothes you wore and how you fiddled with the edges of your sleeves. He noticed the empty look behind your eyes sometimes and the fake smiles you’d send his way when he asked if you were feeling okay. He hated it. He felt so powerless, he wasn’t certain but he was almost positive and he wanted to help you but he didn’t know how.

You weren’t answering your phone so Tsukki let himself inside, making his way up to your room only to see your phone on your bed but you nowhere to be found. He walked down the hallway and noticed the light on in the bathroom.

You looked up from the floor, hearing a knock on the bathroom door. “Yes? I’m in here.” your heart leapt into your throat when the door knob started rattling and you quickly sat against the door. “Y/N? move, what are you doing on the floor?” You froze at the sound of Keis voice “Kei? what are you doing here?” you tried to push harder against the door but he pushed it far enough to let himself into the bathroom. You had rolled your sleeves back down but he saw the bloodied blade on the counter. “Take off the jacket” you rolled your eyes “I’m not in the mood right now Kei” he moved towards you “y/n.” the sad tone in his voice made your lip quiver, he knew. You slowly took your jacket off and looked away from him as you started to tear up “i know i’m not what you signed up for but please-“”dumbass, why didn’t you tell me...” you looked up at him to find him staring at the cuts, you tried to speak but you couldn’t.

Tsukki moved to the medicine cabinet and took out some bandages and alcohol wipes, cleaning and dressing the wounds while you cried softly. “y/n, i’m not leaving okay? you don’t need to cry, i’m here.” you wrapped your arms around his neck and he hugged your waist, burying his nose in your hair. “Kei i’m sorry i didn’t tell you i just didn’t want you to break up with me..” “i’ve known for a while now, i’m not mad but i will be if you feel like this again and don’t tell me. I’m you boyfriend, you’re one of the few people i can stand and i’m not gonna have you thinking i don’t care okay?” you nodded at him, burying your face in his chest “i love you kei, i promise i’ll talk to you more..” he rubbed your back soothingly “good, dumbass. i love you too..”

653 notes · View notes

un2-verse · 4 years ago

Text

BILLY — Kim Taehyung (3)

Synopsis: News of a Sadistic Serial Killer nicknamed “Jigsaw” is spreading around town like wildfire… the nickname stemming from the puzzle piece he cuts from every victim’s body. No one knows who he’ll trap next but in a town full of delinquents and criminals, it could never be you. Right?

Pairing: yandere!Taehyung x f!reader

genre: angst, horror, weirdly some fluff lol

Warnings: dark themes, yandere, stalking, manipulation, conditioning, mentions of abuse, suicidal ideations/attempts, self harm, murder, depictions of torture etc (basically its gorey and fucked up), angel trap, etc stabbing and guns. do not read if triggered!!!!

wordcount: 2.2k

taglist: @yes-sol-not-soul @yoongiofmine

a/n: pt 3 is here!! honestly i wasnt expecting this amount of support as i’ve never published my writing before so thank u sm ♡ i was inspired to write this one night and i had no idea where it’d go or anything but i’m happy with the way its turning out :D fun fact abt me, i’ve been obsessed w the franchise since i was little and i actually have 2 saw tattoos, one of billy and one above saying “cherish your life” since that’s pretty much the motto of saw :) and i have quite the collection of saw/billy items so why not turn my fav horror film into a fucked up love story! let me know if u would like to be added to the taglist and pls enjoy reading^^ feel free to send me asks abt the series or anything u want~ i love hearing from u guys!! :D ps— taehyung and the reader dont have much interaction in this part,, theyll definitely be more of them together in part 4 :) unedited so pls excuse any mistakes!! tysm <33 and remember these are fictional characters and do not represent bts personally in any way!!

series masterlist

part one part two

The headlines constantly named the Jigsaw Killer, Billy. The somewhat eerie little doll that had a face as white as a Calla Lily with spirals on it’s cheeks as red as the blood that was shed during the tests. Billy was always dressed in a little black suit with a red bowtie and he was (most of the time) situated on a squeaky battered tricycle. Attached was always a tape that read “play me” and when the subjects did, a chilling voice— one that could make even the world's worst predators shiver with terror— would echo around the room.

Everyone knew that a doll clearly wasn’t responsible, yet they gave it the name Billy in hopes to somewhat humanise the face that instilled panic— they did not want to live in fear.

It was the only face behind the killings.

But this time, there was a different subject stuck in the test and Billy had made sure there was no way for them to survive.

“How are you scared of heights? You’re practically a giant yourself!”

“Just because I’m tall doesn’t mean I can’t be scared of heights Y/Nie.”

You had no idea how long had passed since Taehyung had turned up at the garage, you were too busy chatting away squeezed into the kitchen while your Dad, Yoongi and Hobi worked on the cars in the shop. If anyone could hear you both, they would think you’d known eachother since childhood— the playful jokes and light touches exaggerated that.

You’d only known him for a few hours really, if you added the time spent with him on the first day and now. It hadn’t seemed like all those weeks ago that you first met, he had a familiar presence, as though you had known him for years compared to the hours.

“I just wouldn’t imagine you to be scared of anything Taehyung… you seem so confident and fearless.”

You saw the way Taehyung looked at you. His eyes flashed with understanding.

“I did have my fears back then, much like yours.”

“What do you mean?” you had a rough idea on what he meant but you needed him to voice it.

A deep inhale and the words flowed from his lips before he could stop it, “The fear of living. I had been through some stuff you know, growing up. My mum was working a lot and my dad was an alcoholic, he was so fucking possessive and wouldn’t let her go anywhere without kicking off. It was a fucking shitshow and so toxic. This one time though, I’d pretended that I’d gone to school and waited outside the front door. It didn’t take long before I heard shit getting smashed and my dad shouting.” Taehyung was telling the truth only, he left out the part where he was also as possessive, if not more, than his father. Well, let's say… obsessive. “I just ran in the house and saw my dad towering over my mum and I don’t remember what happened but, I do remember my mum crying and my dad disappeared.”

Now Taehyung was lying through his teeth. He remembered clearly, almost like it was yesterday. He smashed the nearest bottle, pulled his mother away from the monster that scared her and stabbed him. Not just once, not twice but thirty-seven times. Hence the thirty seven tattoo on the palm of his right hand (the one he’d actually killed his father with). There was only Taehyung who knew what it meant, he counted every single time the broken glass pierced his father’s body, he counted with a smile on his face and a chuckle in his throat.

You were at a loss for words. Your mouth gaped in shock, eyes wide and your brain scrambled for the right thing to say. You reached over and grabbed his hand, interlacing your fingers. His thumb running back and forth along your hand. “I’m sorry, I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like.” There was no way you could relate, your mother and father were happy and in love. They had the ideal relationship, one you wished for yourself. You could empathise though.

“You don’t need to be sorry baby, it’s in the past and I’ve moved on from it. I was like you though, poisoned by the roots that keep you on the ground even though you wanted nothing more than to break free and be no longer.” A silence fell over you both before Taehyung uttered, “I wasn’t successful with my attempt so now I’m here to help you.”

Warmth spread throughout your body, a smile graced your features as you no longer felt alone.

You had a completely different idea to what those words actually meant.

It was nearing the evening when Taehyung’s car had been fixed. Yoongi popped his head in the kitchen to tell him but stopped himself so as to not interrupt the scene before him. You were laughing along to whatever Taehyung was babbling about with your hand resting on his bicep, with that look in your eyes that he hadn’t seen for years. Yoongi felt himself smile as he saw you hanging onto Taehyung's every word.

For the first time in forever, you looked alive.

Yoongi cleared his throat which drew yours and Taehyung’s attention, “Sorry to interrupt guys. We’ve finished with your car so whenever you’re ready we’ll be outside.” The infamous gummy smile overtook his features, you felt yourself beam in return.

“Thanks man! I’ll be like, five minutes.”

Yoongi nodded his head in reply and swiftly left the room.

You’d taken Tae’s hand into yours, playing with the array of rings that occupied his fingers. Solemn thoughts overtook, am I not gonna see him again? Was this, whatever this is, over before it had even begun? Your eyes stayed on his hand as you turned it over and traced your finger over the inked ‘thirty seven’ on his palm. “What does this mean?”

Taehyung didn’t think twice before he practically beamed out, “It’s my lucky number.”

The difference was, it wasn’t really his lucky number… although he did see it that way. It was the number that had stayed with him. It was something he was proud of, whenever he looked at the hand that killed his father, his chest filled with pride and a joyous feeling overtook his senses. It was his first murder. Something he relished in and thus, created the onslaught of Jigsaw killings. He targeted a certain type— those whose sins would lock them up forever if they were ever found out. Racists, murderers, rapists, drug dealers, con-men. Authoritative figures who abused their power. He even went as far as subjecting suicidal people.

You see, things aren’t sequential. Good doesn’t lead to good, nor bad to bad. People who steal, don’t get caught, they live the good life. Others lie, cheat and get elected.

Some people would call it karma but Taehyung, he called it justice.

He’d started this with one thing on his mind— those that don’t appreciate life do not deserve it.

Whenever a serial killer was on the loose, the press did what they always did. They gave them a nickname. While the public had named the doll Billy. The actual killer was named ‘Jigsaw’.

This stemmed from the jigsaw piece that was cut from the victims skin, no one knew why he was doing it or what it even stood for.

It did have a meaning although unknown to the public.

The jigsaw piece that was cut from the subjects was only ever meant to be a symbol that that subject was missing something. A vital piece of the human puzzle. The survival instinct.

After all, until a person is faced with death, it’s impossible to tell whether they have what it takes to survive.

Across town an underground abandoned warehouse, was where the next subject had found themselves.

They were suspended in the air, their feet merely dangling above the ground. The putrid smell of death lingered in every crevice, the sound of rats scurrying along the concrete floor filled their ears just as they began to stir awake.

A pain in their ribs was the overwhelming factor to them finally coming around. When they groggily opened their eyes, they were paralised with fear due to the scene in front of them.

A doll sat a few feet ahead, perched upon a tricycle. Adorned with a black suit and a red bowtie. A slow red light flashed in his eyes.

Billy.

Before the subject could even register how, when or why they found themselves trapped in a test, footsteps echoed behind them. The subject called out, “Help! Please, somebody help! I shouldn’t be here!”

A tsk reached their ears, as a disembodied voice replied, “Trust me, no one can hear you. Scream all you like. You’d just be wasting your breath, you may as well cherish it before it's gone.”

With hairs stood on end, the subject stilled. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you.” The man's footsteps grew louder. “I’m here to serve justice, that’s all.”

The man rounded the subject, settling in their view with only his cloaked back visible while he tended to the little doll. He touched Billy delicately—like he was a little child that he loved dearly. He combed his gloved hand through the doll's black hair and eventually pulled his fingers from the tresses to pat his head gently.

“You fucking psycho! Let me go!”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that which only infuriated the subject more causing them to shake in anger, a movement they soon ceased when they realised something was penetrating their ribs.

“I’d be very careful if I was you, we wouldn’t want you hurting yourself now… would we?” The cloaked figure spun around. An angry glint to his eye.

“What the fuck, you’re fucking crazy. Let me out, this isn’t right!” The subject tried their hardest to swing their legs, to somehow kick the man who’d imprisoned them.

“I think you’ll find it is right. You’re unworthy of the body you possess.” He inched closer, “see, when someone purposely intends to harm others, they lose their right to life.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

The man arched a brow as he replied, “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He felt like it was a game of cat and mouse except, he was a tiger and his subject, was the tiniest prey to mankind. “But, let me remind you! Since you can’t get your thick fucking head to work. You’re a liar, a cheater and an abuser. That ring any bells?”

The subject's face dropped.

“Ah, I see by your expression you know exactly what I’m talking about! Glad to see we’re on the same page.” He shrugged his cloak off placing it to the side of the doll. “I want to play a game.”

“What game? This isn’t a fucking game! You’re sick in the head you fucking cunt!”

The atmosphere shifted, the man remained calm while the subject went ballistic.

“What is this? What fucking game?”

“You feel the machine that’s currently occupying your ribs? Well, in about ten minutes that’s going to rip you apart. I’m proud to say that trap is my baby. I’ve been working on it especially for you! How nice is that?” he reached out to tug at the subject’s legs, tormenting them like a cat would a mouse. “Anyway, as my beautiful angel trap will rip you apart, my darling little friend Billy over here,” the subject followed the direction the man's hand pointed, “is going to match your face with the ugliness of your soul.”

“Fuck, fuck this! How do I stop it? Tell me how I fucking stop it!”

A boxy grin overtook the man's face, laughter poured from his mouth as he leaned over and slapped the subject’s leg. “This is a special game.”

“Who are you? What do you mean by ‘special game’?”

He raised himself so he stood tall and grabbed a knife from his pocket, “I’m the man you call Jigsaw.” He traced the tip of the knife along the subject’s ankle, “and when I say a special game… I mean you can’t get out.” While the subject was screaming in realisation, Taehyung walked back for his cloak, hung it over his shoulder and stalked off back the way he came. He sent one last smile to the subject as he rounded them and within the blink of an eye, he gripped the knife and slashed the subject’s achilles.

A chilling scream pierced the eerie atmosphere, the subject couldn’t string words together. Abundances of anxiety, terror and pure panic took reign of their body. Taehyung grabbed the injured muscles and forced his gloved fingers in as he gripped and twisted them, “That’s for Y/N.”

Taehyung had pressed the timer before he cut the subject’s tendons. He grabbed the tape from his pocket and threw it on the ground and with a chuckle he shouted, “Game over!”

Before he reached the end of the hallway, he heard the gunshots pierce his subjects face followed by the sound of the angel trap, even this far away Taehyung heard every crack of the ribs and the noise of the body being tore apart.

Without looking back, Taehyung rounded the corner and slammed the door shut.

He’d chosen the Angel trap for the irony, the subject that was currently hanging from the ceiling was no angel. They were a fucked up, evil, waste of space. Taehyung had done the world a favour, he’d done you a favour.

That got him thinking, how much blood would you shed in order to stay alive?

[a/n: who do we think was in the trap???👀]

220 notes · View notes

morganaspendragonss · 4 years ago

Text

white noise, what an awful sound

“Their unit is not on the grid. It’s like they have disappeared.”

ao3 | 3.3k | 2.08 speculation

It’s more than an hour after TK’s shift was supposed to be up, and he still hasn’t come home.

Carlos doesn’t want to worry; Owen told him that medical caught a call right at the end of shift, so he knows that TK will be pulling overtime. It’s actually worked in their favour a little, because they’ve been able to set everything up for TK’s party in the time they’ve been waiting. But, from what Owen said, it was only supposed to be a simple call, and whilst Carlos knows as well as anyone that the simplest calls can often turn out to be the most complicated, they really should have been done by now.

He sends off a couple of texts, telling himself that TK is just busy and will reply when he can, even though his instincts are screaming at him that something is wrong. By the time they hit the two hour mark, everyone seems to be getting concerned - which, in a house full of first responders, is not something to be taken lightly.

Carlos crosses over to Owen. “Have you heard from TK?” he asks, trying desperately to keep his voice as low and steady as possible.

Owen shakes his head, flashing Carlos a smile which doesn’t reach his eyes. “They’re just running a little over,” he says, and Carlos isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“But what if it’s not?”

“We can’t think like that, Carlos,” Owen says, not unkindly. “He’s probably just in the shower.”

“He would have texted,” Carlos persists. “You know he would have, Owen. Something’s wrong.”

Owen grimaces, glancing around the room of people, who have started to take notice of their conversation. He sighs. “Try calling him,” he tells Carlos. Then, turning to the room, “Can anyone try and get a hold of Nancy or Tommy?”

“Already did, Cap,” Marjan says. “Nancy’s not picking up.”

“Tommy neither,” Judd adds, and Carlos’s heart plummets as the sound of TK’s voicemail confirms that he, too, is still unaccounted for.

“This isn’t right,” he says, allowing a little desperation to bleed into his tone. He can feel it in his bones; TK wouldn’t leave them hanging like this, especially not on a day like today. Carlos has no idea what could have happened to make all three paramedics drop off the grid, but he knows it’s not just lack of cell service or traffic.

Owen closes his eyes and hangs his head, apparently coming to the same conclusions. “Alright then.” He pulls out his phone, and Carlos frowns.

“Who are you calling?”

Owen sends him a wry look, showing him the three oh-so-familiar numbers he’s dialled. “Desperate times, right?”

Carlos manages a nod, but there’s a lump in his throat at the thought of these being such desperate times that they need 9-1-1. Logically, he knows it’s the right step, but he guesses he still has that little flame of hope left in him - hope he doesn’t want crushed by the confirmation they’re about to receive. Owen places the phone on speaker, and Carlos watches it nervously, waiting for a dispatcher to pick up.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” It’s Grace, and Carlos could cry with relief. If anyone can help them find TK, it’s Grace Ryder.

“Grace,” Owen starts, “it’s Owen.”

“Captain Strand? Is everything alright?”

“We were hoping you could tell us that.” Owen takes a steadying breath, looking once more around their friends, before continuing. “EMS 126 were sent out on a call at the end of our shift, two hours ago. There’s been no word from them since, and we’re worried something’s happened to them. Could you tell us anything about where they were sent and why?”

There’s a brief pause on the other end before Grace speaks again, hesitant and slow. “Captain Strand, that’s not information I’m sure I should be giving out to civilians.”

“I’m not a civilian,” Owen argues. “I may not be on shift, but I’m always Captain of that firehouse. Please, Grace. They’re our family.”

Grace sucks in a sharp breath, then the sound of typing comes through the speaker. Carlos allows himself a single moment of relief before the anxiety takes over again as Grace speaks.

“EMS 126 were dispatched to a pregnant woman in distress,” she reports. “They… Oh.”

Carlos exchanges an alarmed look with Owen, his panic spiking at Grace’s words.

“Oh?” Owen asks, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice anymore.

“Captain Strand, their unit is not on the grid. It’s like they have disappeared.”

If Grace says anything else after that, Carlos doesn’t catch it. A ringing erupts in his ears and he staggers, all the breath sucked out of him. TK’s missing. Not running late, not on his way; missing. Something happened to him and his team between leaving the firehouse and now, and they’ve all just been sitting here, doing nothing, for two hours. He should have spoken up earlier, when he first got his bad feeling - maybe that wouldn’t have prevented this, but they could be on their way to finding him right now.

And Carlos knows better than anyone here how crucial every second is in a missing persons case.

When he comes back to himself, a hand - Paul’s - is resting on his shoulder, and Owen and Gwyn are locked in an argument, the call with Grace clearly over.

“What’s going on?” he asks, turning to Paul.

Paul shoots him a sympathetic grimace, squeezing his shoulder. “Cap got the address of their last call,” he answers. “He’s insisting on going, but he won’t let anyone else go with him. Gwyn disagrees.”

Carlos stares at Owen, finding himself firmly in agreement with Gwyn, though likely for different reasons. In his mind, it’s a non-issue; he’s going to search for TK, and there’s no-one who can stop him - certainly not Owen Strand.

He strides over to them, not caring about interrupting their quarrel. TK’s life is on the line, after all. “I’m going with you,” he says firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“Son -”

“You can’t stop me, Owen.” He levels him with a hard stare. “Besides, I’m a cop, and you need back up. I’m going.”

Owen watches him for a long moment, then sighs, nodding reluctantly. “Alright,” he says, clapping Carlos once on the shoulder. “Let’s go find them.”

Carlos jumps out of Owen’s truck before it’s even stopped moving, flicking on his flashlight as he strides through the garage, praying that he’ll round the corner and find them all in one piece. Behind him, Owen is yelling out for them, the only reply he gets the sound of his own voice echoed back. It sends Carlos’s heart plummeting into his shoes, even as it only confirms what he’s known for a while - they’re not finding TK here.

All they do find is a brown van, all its doors open, and a pile of bloodied rags lying next to it. Carlos refuses to think about whose blood it could be; if he does, he thinks he’ll lose it, and that’s the last thing anyone needs right now, himself included.

“Where would they go?” he asks, turning to Owen. They hadn’t seen the ambulance on the way in, so they must have left in it at some point - or someone had.

Owen shakes his head, a trembling hand running through his hair. “I don’t - I don’t know,” he says, sounding more lost than Carlos has ever heard him. It’s a jarring sight; Owen is usually so put together, so unruffled in the face of emergency, and his appearance now cuts a striking contrast. Carlos understands - much as TK has complained about his parents in the past months, it’s clear they love him, even if they might not be the best at showing it.

Carlos is sure he looks similarly distressed; his curls are beginning to escape from his fingers running through them, and his heart is pounding a mile a minute, but he tries to school his expression into something stronger, as much for his own sake as for Owen’s.

“I don’t know what to do, Carlos,” Owen admits, body sagging in defeat.

Carlos hesitates, then pulls out his phone, tapping through to his contacts. “I might,” he says, and Owen looks up at him in surprise. “My dad is a Texas Ranger. He’ll be able to help, I’m sure of it.”

Owen immediately nods, seeming to steel himself up a little. “Do it,” he says. “I’ll call and update the others; I’m sure they’ll want to know.”

He walks away, giving both of them some semblance of privacy to make their respective calls. Carlos pauses for a brief second, glancing down once more at the pile of bloody rags, his mind flashing back to four years ago, the last time someone he loved went missing. He knows - he knows the situations are nothing alike, that Iris’s and TK’s disappearances are worlds apart. But the grief crawling up his throat and clutching at his heart can’t help but make comparisons, warning him that he’s going to lose someone else.

Carlos swallows roughly and shakes his head, dialling his dad’s number before he can start spiralling. Now is not the time to fall apart; he has to be strong.

His dad picks up on the second ring. “Carlos? ¿Qué pasa?”

“Dad,” Carlos answers, surprising himself with how steady his voice is. “I need your help.”

They’re on their third dead end of the day, and Carlos can feel his grip on control slipping.

His dad had tried to get him to leave when he’d arrived at the garage. “You’re off duty; you shouldn’t be here, mijo,” he’d said, attempting to steer Carlos towards Owen’s truck. “Let us handle this now.”

“No,” Carlos had insisted, shaking his dad’s hands off him. “I have to be here. One of the missing paramedics - it’s TK, Dad.”

It had taken a few moments for the penny to drop, his father’s frown growing once it did. “Your friend from the market? I thought he was a firefighter.”

“He switched fields.” Carlos had drawn himself up, staring his dad down. “I’m not going anywhere until I find him.”

Something had flickered across his dad’s face then, something Carlos hadn’t understood. Whatever it was, his expression had quickly cleared, and he’d lain a comforting hand on Carlos’s shoulder.

“Alright, mijo,” he’d said. “You can stay.”

Now, Carlos can feel his dad’s eyes on him as he stares blankly at the building they’d been so sure they’d find TK, Nancy, and Tommy in. It had been empty, because of course it had, and Carlos is starting to wonder if they’re ever going to find them.

They’re supposed to be celebrating right now. TK hadn’t wanted anything special, but Carlos knows he’d secretly been looking forward to tonight, his one year anniversary of sobriety a source of pride for them both. They should be celebrating it; instead, TK could be injured or worse, and Carlos feels like he’s going out of his mind.

(They’d found the ambulance an hour ago, abandoned on the side of the road. There had been blood staining the inside of that, too, and Carlos had had to swallow back bile at the sight.)

His dad comes to stand at his elbow, a hand on Carlos’s back. “So,” he starts, gently, “this TK boy?”

Carlos closes his eyes, desperately wishing for his dad to drop it. He knows what’s coming next, and he knows there’s no avoiding it this time. He doesn’t have the strength to lie.

“Dad -”

“Who is he, Carlos?” His dad’s voice is careful and measured, lacking any hint of judgement, but Carlos still tenses, not fully prepared for the fallout of this conversation.

He avoids his dad’s eyes as he answers, keeping his gaze fixed on the space in front of him. “He’s my boyfriend,” he says. “We’ve been dating for just over six months, and I - I really love him, Dad.”

The last admission is said quietly, but Carlos feels like he’s shouted it, such is the silence that follows his words. His hands start to shake at his sides and a sick feeling begins churning in his gut, but, still, he doesn’t look over.

“Six months…” his dad eventually says, voice strained. “Which means you were together when we met you at the market. Why did you lie?”

A flash of white-hot anger surges through him, tears burning the back of his eyes as he rounds on his dad. “I could hardly tell you the truth!” he cries. “You’ve made it clear you’d rather not hear about my sexuality. I was trying to protect us!”

A sob crawls up his throat, but Carlos pushes it back, determined not to break down in front of his dad’s entire team. His dad’s face is stricken, a surprising emotion glinting in his eyes.

“Oh, Carlos -” he starts, but he’s cut off by one of the Rangers shouting for them. He throws Carlos a look that lets him know they’re not done with this conversation yet, before they both run over to the Ranger, Carlos arriving slightly ahead of his dad.

“We’ve found them,” the Ranger says without preamble.

Carlos stares, the words sending a spark of hope through his chest, but he refuses to give in to it just yet. “How sure are you?” he demands. He knows it’s not his place to ask these questions - he’s barely allowed here as it is - but he doesn’t think he could take one more false lead, one more dead end. The Ranger, to his credit, only momentarily shows his surprise, quickly schooling his expression back into one of firm neutrality. He nods, once.

“Positive.”

And, for the first time since they’d heard the news, Carlos dares to hope.

He’ll never get used to this.

The heart monitor beeping by his side, the smell of bleach, the hardness of the chairs. It’s not something he should really have to get used to, but, with a family full of first responders, hospitals are a fact of Carlos’s life. Especially with a boyfriend like TK, who seems to insist on gravitating towards danger even when it’s no longer his job.

“How do we keep ending up like this, huh?” he whispers, gently running a hand through TK’s hair.

TK’s asleep, having first woken up around an hour ago. Hopefully, he’ll be discharged later, if all his tests come back okay - which, thankfully they should.

Carlos’s eyes drift to the bandage around TK’s head, the wrappings around his ribs, the scratchy sheets which Carlos knows covers extensive bruising. They’ve been lucky, he knows this, but he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to forget the sight that greeted him when they burst into that restaurant. Tommy and Nancy were standing by the table, next to an unmoving body, both shaken but unhurt. TK had clearly borne the brunt of the attack, and Carlos hadn’t needed to stop to wonder why; his boyfriend’s too much of a damn hero for his own good sometimes.

Apparently, TK had tried to pull the fire alarm, but had been caught before he could, receiving a blow to the head for his efforts. They’d also broken his nose and several ribs, and his body is littered in marks from the kidnapper’s boots. Carlos’s heart had nearly stopped when he’d first seen TK, cable-tied to a pole and barely conscious, but now he can only thank god that it isn’t worse.

“Carlos.”

Carlos stiffens as he hears his dad’s voice behind him, dreading the conversation they’re about to have. He tightens his grip on TK’s hand, not yet brave enough to look away from him.

“Hi, Dad,” he says, voice hollow. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

“Yo también, hijo.” His dad heaves a sigh, footsteps coming closer until he’s at Carlos’s side, easing himself into a second chair. “You know we love you, don’t you?”

Carlos winces. “I know. I’m sorry I yelled at you like that earlier, I was just -”

“No, mijo,” his dad interrupts. Carlos looks up at him sharply, confused by the weariness in his dad’s tone, and he’s taken aback by the sorrow in his eyes. He’s not sure he’s ever seen him cry before, and Carlos doesn’t know what to make of it. “It is me who should be apologising.”

“Dad -”

His dad holds a hand up, cutting Carlos off. “Your mother and I… We have only ever wanted what was best for you,” he says. “When you came out to us - Carlos, I was so proud. I was shocked, yes, but I could see how hard that must have been for you, and I thought you were so brave. We thought that if we carried on as normal, then you wouldn’t feel like anything had changed. Because, to us, it hadn’t. You were still the beautiful son we had always known and loved, and being gay wasn’t going to change that.

“We thought that you would be more comfortable with it like this, but I see now that we made a mistake. I’m so sorry that we made you feel like you couldn’t talk to us about these things. I’d like to change that, if you’re willing.”

Carlos blinks, tears spilling down his cheeks. “You’re really okay with it?” he croaks. “You and mami?”

“Of course we are.” His dad chuckles, rubbing Carlos’s shoulder. “You know what your mother’s like; she’ll be fawning over him as soon as she finds out.”

Carlos manages a laugh, though there’s still a little lingering dread in his stomach at the thought of having to tell his mom. He’ll have to do it, and soon, but he can’t get rid of a decade of uncertainty and fear so easily. At least, this time, he’ll have his dad and his boyfriend by his side.

A groan from the bed pulls his attention, and he looks over to see TK’s eyes blinking open. They immediately seek out Carlos, a frown creasing his brows.

“You’ve been crying,” TK murmurs, reaching a hand up to Carlos’s face, only to freeze before it gets there. TK’s eyes widen, frantically darting between Carlos and his dad. “Uh, Mr Reyes, sir. Carlos said that you helped to find us; thank you.”

“Hey.” Carlos catches TK’s hand, still hovering in mid-air, and smiles at him. “It’s okay, Ty. He knows.”

TK’s lips part in shock. “You told him?” he whispers.

“Kind of had to,” Carlos replies, laughing a little. “I could hardly say I was having a meltdown over a friend, now, could I?”

TK’s face clouds with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Carlos,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“Did you ask to get kidnapped?” Carlos asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, but -”

“Then you have nothing to apologise for.” He presses a gentle kiss to the inside of TK’s wrist, never breaking their gaze. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

TK smiles, visibly relaxing. He squeezes Carlos’s hand, then brings their joined hands to his lips, lingering for a long moment. Carlos loses himself in it, his heart aching at the thought that he could have lost all of this today. But TK is here, and he’s going to be okay, and that��s all that matters right now.

A throat clears behind them, and Carlos jumps, turning to look guiltily at his dad.

“I see I’m no longer wanted here,” he comments wryly. Carlos flushes, but his dad just laughs and pats his shoulder as he stands. “I’ll see you soon, Carlos.”

“Thank you again, Mr Reyes,” TK calls.

Carlos’s dad grins at him. “You take care of my boy, TK.”

TK’s gaze flicks over to Carlos, his eyes full of so much love that it shocks him. “With my life, sir.”

It’s a promise that goes both ways and, as he leans over to kiss his boyfriend, Carlos knows that he’d do anything to keep it.

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heliads · 4 years ago

Text

Cherry Bomb

You and Peter Maximoff hate each other. Loathing doesn’t even begin to describe the sheer dislike you have for each other. So why would Peter be so troubled when you were injured in a fight?

masterlist

You breathe in and out slowly, doing your best to focus. Your gaze is riveted on your hands, and under your watchful eye a small spark blossoms to life on the tips of your fingers. You squint in concentration and the spark grows into a flame, dancing along your hand. Grinning, you start to let down your guard, and the flame grows larger and larger, reaching its blazing tendrils up to the sky.

There’s a sudden sound behind you, and you lose your treasured focus. The fire spirals out of control, jumping to double its previous height. Cursing, you shake your head and try to clamp down the flames, watching as they slowly shrink down. Once the fire is gone, you whirl around in anger to face the source of your sudden disturbance.

“What was that for?” Peter Maximoff just laughs. He had appeared right behind you, using his powers of speed to startle you. “I thought you were working on control, Cherry Bomb. Looks like that still needs some work.” With that, he speeds off again, leaving you to grumble angrily after him.

See, you and Peter have hated each other since the second you arrived at Xavier’s School. It was pretty obvious that you had to be there- you barely had any control over your mutation, which allowed you to manipulate fire. Although it was pretty amazing, you needed a lot of help to make sure that you didn’t burn down whatever was closest to you.

You hadn’t hated Peter at first, nor he you. He just seemed like another student at the school, and the two of you never really crossed paths. Once it became apparent that you’d need a lot of help, though, Peter had transitioned to not giving you much thought to dedicating a good part of his day to tormenting you.

You suppose he had a few reasons not to like you, such as his friends spending a lot of time helping you meant that they spent less time with him, and he kept insisting that you were a danger to the school and shouldn’t be there. You, on the other hand, hated Peter because he hated you, and because he had given you the nickname ‘Cherry Bomb’, which you absolutely despise. Peter had been pretty proud of the nickname, saying that it suited you because you were likely to destroy everything at a moment’s notice, but you couldn’t stand it.

When Xavier calls you into his office, you assume he’s heard about your momentary loss of control over your powers and wants to talk about it. You slump down into a seat in front of him, ready for another lecture, but he just adopts a faint smile. “I’m not here to admonish you, Y/N, in fact just the opposite. Let’s wait for the others to arrive and I will explain further.” Knowing that you’re not going to get yelled at, you relax a little bit.

Eventually, Jean, Mystique, Scott, Storm, and Peter all file into the room. The Professor laces his hands together on top of the desk and starts speaking to the group. “There’s been news of a disturbance in a town not far from here. Apparently some mutant with the ability to grow in size and strength was kicked out of town for his powers, and decided to take revenge by attempting to destroy everything. He’ll come back in an hour’s time, and I believe that we should be there to stop him.”

Everyone agrees, and Xavier leads you all to an awaiting plane. On the ride over, most of you remain silent, with Peter sending the occasional glare to you, which you return with equal animosity.

You land in a small town, and it is quickly obvious as to how you’re supposed to find the rogue mutant- simply follow the trail of destruction. You and your friends soon come across the man, who has chosen to grow to the size of a giant and wreak havoc on the town. Battle plans are quickly exchanged, and you all set off to your respective positions for the fight.

Your task is to light fires on the giant, thus distracting him from the town. You race towards him, igniting your hands in a blaze that you launch his way. The giant roars in agony, turning away from the buildings to focus on you. Gulping, you throw more fire his way, but you’re so intent on finishing your part of the plan that you don’t notice the giant’s arm swinging towards you.

When his rocky fist collides with you, the breath is instantly knocked from your lungs and you are thrown into a brick wall several yards away. You find you can’t stand up or find the energy to move at all, and you can only watch as blackness rushes in from all around you.

You’re only aware of a few sensations- pain from your head, after it hit the wall. Blood, trickling down from your wounds. Then, arms lifting you up off of the ground. There’s a worried face above you, one with silver hair that seems all too familiar. The boy holding you starts to run, faster than you can even blink. Before you know it, he’s standing at a crossroads, looking left and right as if to see which way he needs to go. You must have moved a little, for the silver-haired boy looks down at you, and you realize he looks absolutely terrified. “Don��t worry, we’re almost there.” He starts running again, and moving at such high speeds knocks you into unconsciousness once more.

When you come to, you are still being carried in the boy’s arms, but he’s speaking to someone. Distantly, you realize you’re back at Xavier’s School. “You have to heal her. She needs help- she was hurt pretty bad. Promise me she’ll be alright!” After receiving the necessary promise of safety, the boy finally allows your body to be taken from him, but not before you notice the fear lacing his voice and the look of panic as he watches you be carried away from him.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying in the hospital bed, but the bright light of morning is shining when you finally gather the strength to open your eyes. A student is standing next to you, checking a few readouts. You blink, trying to focus, and you realize that the student is Jean. Your friend smiles when she notices that you’re awake, and sits down next to you.

“How are you feeling, Y/N? You took a pretty hard hit.” You cough tiredly. “I’ve been better. Were you able to subdue that giant?” Jean laughs. “You’ve been unconscious for three days, and the first thing you ask about is the fight? Typical. Yes, we got him under control, with no small amount of help from you.” You relax at that, but then look at Jean curiously. “How did I get here so fast? We had to take a plane to get to that village, how was I here in time to get help?”

Jean grins at you, and the satisfied gleam in her eyes makes you more than a little worried. “Well, none other than your favorite mutant, Peter. The second he saw you hurt, he raced over to you and ran all the way back to school with you in his arms. We didn’t even have to ask him, he just did it without thinking. I should tell him you’re awake, actually. He’s been stressing every second you’ve been unconscious and I think the Professor had to tell him directly to go to class, or else he would have been here all day too.”

You look confusedly at Jean. “That doesn’t make sense- Peter hates me and I hate him. Why would he be so interested in my wellbeing? Last time I checked, he was doing everything in his power to get me removed from the school so he could be rid of me.” Jean just smirks again. “I guess we all have our own motivators.” With that, she turns to answer a beckoning student, leaving you to wonder what on earth she’s talking about.

A few hours later, it has been determined that you are well enough to leave your hospital bed and go back to your classes. It feels great to be up and walking again, after so long lying down. A few friends wave to you in greeting, but you’re headed on a decisive path to one person in particular.

When Peter Maximoff notices you approaching him, he pauses his music and tucks his hands casually in his pockets. “Looks like Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake. I’ve been treasuring these Cherry Bomb- free moments, but I guess all good things have to come to an end.” You feel yourself bristle at his comments, but you can’t help but notice dark rings under his eyes and that he looked more than a little relieved to see you alive and well.

“Whatever you say, Peter. Look, I have to ask you something- why were you so worried about me? You treat me like I’m your worst enemy in the world, but Jean says you dropped everything to carry me back to the school when I got hurt. What’s with the big change?” When Peter hears what you have to say, his carefree expression quickly shuts down and is replaced with the usual malice. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but I was just trying to help. Is it that out of the question that I might actually do something good? I mean, I know you’re sick of me, but come on.”

You take an involuntary step back when Peter raises his voice. “Okay, calm down. I’m just messing with you. No need to get upset.” Peter just rolls his eyes. “Of course you were. Everything’s a joke to you anyway, that’s why you can’t control your powers that well, Cherry Bomb. You just don’t care enough.” That struck a nerve, and you look at Peter with hurt. “I didn’t ask for these powers! I didn’t ask for any of this! How long will it take for you to realize that your friends, and your fellow students, and everyone in this school wants me here! I guess the only problem is-” You stop talking, realizing that you’re taking things too far.

Peter, however, has already guessed what you’re about to say. “The only problem is me? Of course. Well, don’t worry. If me being here is a problem, I’ll solve it for you.” Your heart drops in your chest. “What’s that supposed to mean, Peter?” Peter’s laugh is cold, and the hurt within it breaks your heart. “I’ll go. Doesn’t that make you happy?” Your eyes widen and you shake your head mutely, but Peter just fixes you with one cold stare and speeds off into the distance.

You feel horrible about what just happened. You immediately head to Peter’s dorm, but he isn’t there. Same thing with his classes, and with his friends, and with any part of the school he would usually haunt. Eventually, you turn to Jean, frantic with worry. “I think I lost him. I think I made him leave.” Jean shakes her head, trying to comfort you but to no avail. “Peter’s probably just at the store or something. Once he cools down, he’ll come back. He’s done stuff like this before, and it never lasts more than a few hours.”

Jean is wrong, though. That night, no one sees Peter, and his dorm room is empty. The next day, he doesn’t show up for his classes, or the next day, or the next. You’re forced to live with the fact that Peter, the boy who saved your life, is gone because of what you said. It doesn’t feel good at all.

One week later, you’re listlessly clicking through stations on the battered old radio in your room when your focus is drawn to one frantic reporter. He’s talking about some freak storm in a distant corner of the country, and you realize with sickening dread that it’s happening right outside Peter’s old neighbourhood. Before you know it, you’re grabbing your gear and the keys to one of Xavier’s cars. It’s time to go find Peter.

By the time you reach Peter’s neighbourhood, you realize that there’s no mere storm damaging the area. It’s another mutant- this time, one that can control the clouds. He’s enveloped the town in fog as dark as night, making it impossible to see anything. You quickly light a fire on your palm, and use it to guide your way through the town.

You walk slowly to the center of the storm, keeping your bearings by walking towards the darkest of the clouds. Sure enough, you find yourself on the outskirts of the eye of the storm, and you realize with horror that there are two figures inside: the mutant, laughing with manic glee, and Peter. The enemy mutant is making some grandiose speech about how he’ll rip the town to shreds. “The worst thing is, no one could stop me. I mean, who’s going to do anything about it? You?”

You find yourself speaking. “He’s not alone.” With that, you extend your arms, flames dancing around them and growing until they’re several feet tall. You step into the clearing, and the mutant looks terrified of you. Peter, on the other hand, smiles, and the two of you charge the enemy mutant.

It doesn’t take long to take care of the cloud controller, and before you know it, he’s running as fast as he can in the opposite direction after swearing that he would never pull a stunt like this again. You extinguish your flames, and realize that Peter is walking towards you. Before he can say anything, you start speaking quickly. “I’m sorry, Peter. Truly I am. I never meant anything I said, and we need you back at the school.”

Peter just nods. “I’m sorry too, Y/N.” You smile at that, and Peter looks at you in confusion. “You called me Y/N. Not ‘Cherry Bomb’.” Peter laughs. “You know, I can still call you Cherry Bomb if you want.” You shake your head, pretending to be horrified. “After I saved your life? Absolutely not!” Peter puts on a mock frown. “As I recall, I saved your life first. That means we’re equals, and I can do whatever I want.” You can’t help but laugh at that. “Maybe so.” You extend a hand to him. “Head back to school with me?” Peter smiles, and takes your hand, pulling you close. “What else would I do?”

#peter maximoff #peter maximoff imagine #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff imagines #quicksilver #quicksilver imagine #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver imagines #xmen #xmen imagine #xmen x reader #xmen imagines

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pcos-fighter · 3 years ago

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As some may know from my group chat, I am currently in therapy to manage my anxiety and I’ve been learning grounding techniques and the kind of questions to ask myself when I get in one of my moods where I might spiral into an attack or spark it. I slowly have been working through how to manage and my therapist sent me techniques in the Betterhelp app which is how I’ve been going to sessions. The techniques I have started to learn and apply I am finding to actually be helpful when I actively work on them in a moment of panic.

For instance the other day at work I started to feel my heart race and that overwhelming stomach knot I feel when my anxiety spikes. I was in the middle of paperwork and received a text from a dear friend who supported my desire to leave my current job and sent me multiple job postings every few days. But the posts she sent me some of the listings just overwhelmed me and in my head, I began to spiral with thoughts about my abilities to handle those kinds of environments and I could feel myself start to panic a little. So when I walked to the mailbox to get the mail, I did one of the techniques I had read about previously and started to say out loud everything I saw outside to ground myself. I kept my focus on the things around me, naming each tree or car which helped calm me from a full-blown attack.

I am sharing this story because I know with PCOS many of us struggle with anxiety and depression and I know not everyone can afford therapy as it can be very expensive. Shoot I barely can afford it but with the app Betterhelp, it's a lot more affordable than other avenues so I make it work. This is why I am writing this post to share a few grounding techniques so that any of you who struggle with anxiety can have a tool that will help ease at the moment. Now it's not a cure-all so some may work better than others, but at least it can help (as a few help me) to ground you when your anxiety gets high.

There are seven ways you can ground yourself so take what works for you the best and use it to overcome those moments.

1. The Grounding Chair

The first step in this technique is to sit in a comfortable chair where your feet touch the ground. Close your eyes and breath in slowly to the count of three and then out slowly. Bring your mind's focus to the rest of your body in the chair. How does it feel? Scoot your bum right into the back of the seat so that the whole length of your back is pressing into the back of the chair. Can you feel the contact of the chair against your body?

If the chair has arms, touch it, is the material smooth or textured? Press your arms down the length of the chair's arm, notice how your hands hang off the end.

If your chair doesn't have arms, touch the material of the seat, how does it feel?

Next push your feet into the ground, imagine that energy drain down from your mind, flow down through your body, and out through your feet into the ground. As that energy drains from your head, feel how heavy each body part becomes, your torso feels heavy, and now your arms as you relax your muscles. Lastly, feel the heaviness go down your legs through your feet and down into the ground.

2. The 5-4-3-2-1 Grounding Technique

This technique uses all five of your senses to help get you back to the present. It starts with you sitting comfortably, close your eyes and take a couple of deep breathes. In your nose (count to three) then out your mouth (to the count of three). Now open your eyes and look around you. Name out loud five things you can see, you can look within the room and out the window. Name four things you can feel, (such as the silkiness of your skin, the texture of the chair you're in, or what your hair feels like.) What is in front of you that you can touch? Name three things you can hear, (traffic noise, birds outside, noises in the room you're in.) What noises do you hear? Name two things you can smell. Do you have something scented nearby or in the area that you can walk to? Name one thing you can taste, (it might be a good idea to keep a piece of chocolate or mint handy in case you are doing this grounding exercise.) You can always leave the chair in this exercise and taste whatever it is you have chosen with a small bite. Let it swill around your mouth for a couple of seconds, letting it really savor the flavor. Take a deep breath to end.

(This one works a bit better for me personally.)

3. Hold Something and Really Focus On It

Hold an object in your hand and really bring your full focus to it. Look where shadows may fall on parts of it or is there something about it that is textured? Or are there color variants in it or on it? Feel the weight of it, is it heavy or light? What textures do your hands feel while holding it? Is it rough or smooth? This can be done with any object you have lying around or if you know you are going into a stressful situation, take one of your favorite small objects and put it in your pocket so you can do this calming exercise on the go.

4. Distract Yourself

There are several ways to distract your mind so it stops thinking about whatever it is that is worrying you and focuses on something that isn't emotionally driven.

You can pick a color in the room you are in. How many things in different shades of that color can you see around you? How about out the window? Still feeling stressed? Pick another color.

Count backward by 7, starting at 100. It isn't easy and requires you to concentrate.

Or my personal one I use sometimes is having some friends send me pictures of cats on the internet or their cats and it stops me in my worst spirals. (Mostly cause I love cats.) But if you have a creature you love look them up. Or watch a video with them in it. Whatever works to pull you out of that spiral find that image online or video.

5. Draw Around Your Foot In Your Mind

Place your feet on the ground and in your imagination pick your favorite color to draw an outline around each foot. Start at the heel and using your imaginary pencil slowly go up on the side of your foot to your pinky toe and then around each toe then back to your heel. Repeat on the other foot.

Another way you can focus on your feet in a stressful moment is just wiggle your toes inside your shoe. Pay attention to the sensation as you move to separate each toe. Do some move independently of the others? Tense your whole foot then stretch it out. Now do the other foot.

6. Let Your Thoughts Come and Go

So this one is simple in that most of us with PCOS constantly have our minds overthink and wander. Personally, I know when my mind lingers on the parts I can't control or can't fully change my anxiety spikes and it just spirals till I have a panic attack because I don't stop myself and observe my thoughts. And I am learning in therapy that part of this is all due to cognitive distortion and the challenge to overcome those thoughts is to really think about what those thoughts do to my feelings and then my behavior.

This technique requires you to watch your thoughts for a minute. Imagine leaves floating on the surface of a stream. For each thought that comes to mind allow that thought to take its place on a leaf and watch it blow away in the wind. Or allow them to change into a fish and watch it float down the stream. Allow those thoughts to come and go, you don't need to respond to them.

In this case, you don't have to challenge these thoughts at the moment your anxiety spikes but down the line start to challenge them.

7. Get Your Adrenaline-Fueled Energy Out

If for whatever nothing works at first because your adrenaline is spiked your best bet to kick start the calming down process is to do something physical first to get that pent-up energy out. Go for a run if you can, a brisk walk if you aren't as conditioned to run or hate running, or clean a room like the kitchen, the house, or even outside if you have a yard. Dance around your room or house while listening to loud music. (I do this often, even on car drives for my daily commute and it helps me.) When you're physically spent you can try to return to the grounding techniques above to calm down your mind.

I hope this helps some of you in some form through those moments. I know in the past there are a couple I have applied without knowing these in full as grounding techniques and I am grateful to have a therapist who sent me this information as some others I have started to apply.

Living with PCOS isn't easy and managing anxiety isn't easy either. But hopefully, this helps those of you who struggle to find healthy ways to ground yourself so those overwhelming thoughts don't get the best of you. Take care cysters. You know I care about each one of you even if I am not a frequent poster.

All this information can be found on Dr. Sarah Allen's website.

#pcosjourney #pcoscysters #pcos awareness #polycystic ovary syndrome (pcos)#7 grounding techniques #managing anxiety

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narrans · 3 years ago

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Switch - One Shot - Working Title

The two stared at one another for a time as Murad’s words dispersed through the air. Jellal’s mind swirled as it tried to wrap around what the giant before him said.

Did I hear him right? Save… save our lives?

“Wh…what… what do you mean save our lives? Who? All of you? And save them from what?” asked the teen, feeling his chest tightening with panic and worry. Murad blinked slowly and rolled his shoulders, readjusting his folded arms.

“Please spare me having to explain. Honestly, you’re not going to remember so why spend the time?” sighed Murad. Jellal’s heart skipped a beat. He naturally leaned away from Murad, chest tingling with apprehension.

“Wh… what do you mean I won’t remember?” the teen barely managed to sputter out the words without stuttering before Murad leaned forward. The giant’s arm extended, hand outstretched and fingers slightly splayed.

“Relax, it is a simple spell and will cause you no harm. You will simply wake among strangers and friends in a town you recently relocated to. Just breathe and don’t fight it. It will make you sleep better,” instructed Murad. Murad’s extended hand began to glow with a faint ember glow sparking from his palm and lacing around his fingers.

Jellal felt his breath seize, mind blanking in terror. He wanted to shout for the giant to stop. He didn’t want to lose his memory. He didn’t want to lose his family. He just wanted to be home with his sister and his mother and father. His limbs began to shake. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

The young blue-eyed boy watched as Murad flicked his fingers and a brilliant swirl of ember overtook him. Instinctually, he slammed his eyes shut, every nerve and fiber in his body tensing and flinching away, and he averted his gaze.

Something made a solid impact with his chest. It was warm and felt soft like the brush of feathers against his skin. Suddenly, the sensation felt constricting, wrapping around his arms and torso and legs seized him. He wanted to cry out. He tried to shout, to beg for the giant to stop and take him home. His voice refused to obey. His heart was pounding out of his chest. Everything hurt. Everything wanted to thrash and be free. Just as warm tears slid down his cheeks, the sensations subsided.

The tension around his body dissipated. The warmth left him. The constriction faded. His face was wet and finally his breath returned; however, some things remained.

His consciousness.

He was awake.

Unmistakably awake.

Most importantly – he remembered.

The blue-eyed boy opened his eyes one at a time, afraid but also daring himself to take a peek. He was still on the pillow. He was still in the odd room with books and shelves and fire. He was still on the table. He was still in front of Murad, who wore the most curious expression. His eyebrows had partially knitted together, head turned slightly to the side. His narrowed features seemed to further purse in an examining manner.

A new terror struck the boy as the realization sunk into his head – whatever Murad did wasn’t working. His shoulders began shaking involuntarily as he stared up in panic at the other. The auburn-haired giant, on the other hand, seemed more calm than before as his features relaxed. He leaned forward, looming over Jellal, and for a fraction of a moment there was the smallest trace of a tugged grin on his face. His dark brown eyes swirled as a dangerous fascination swirled in them.

“Well,” he said softly. “Seems as though you truly are an interesting one.” Murad once again tilted his head to the opposite side while maintaining eye-contact with the frightened blue-eyed boy. Murad hummed curiously and, placing his hands gently on the edge of the table, stood while maintaining contact with the table and Jellal’s eyes.

Jellal, at this point, went from holding his breath and all of the tension being pinned back by all the will power he had left to having a hard time breathing. His shallow breath was coming in short, bursting gasps. His vision began darkening as his mind darted from thought to thought like a skipping stone on a pond.

What is going on? What is happening? Why didn’t it work? What is he going to do to me? What is so interesting? I’m not interesting. I’m just me. Please! Just let… me… go…

A sudden rush of uncomfortably warm air forced its way into his lungs and churned his stomach. The same nauseating vapor surrounded him like a dense fog. Jellal gasped and coughed, suddenly – surprisingly – finding it easier to breathe. He looked up in time to see Murad placing what looked like the end of a pipe into his mouth and inhaling deeply. The strange device of swirling fumes was connected to the pipe in the giant’s hands. After his deep inhalation, Murad pulled the pipe like device from his mouth and exhaled slowly and steadily.

The fog rolled from his mouth as he directed all of the air currents toward Jellal. Despite the panic he was feeling, the teen remembered his sister’s guidance and began to take slow, deep breaths, taking in the smoke surrounding him. It was a bitter and sickening fume; however, whatever it was made his breathing a little less shallow and was making his chest hurt a little less with each breath. Murad, seemingly pleased with the results, placed the end of the pipe into some kind of latch on the side of the device and nodded approvingly.

“You have the right idea. Breathe deeply, preferably in through your nose and out through your mouth. Tell me, do you always get excited so easily when confronted with the unknown? Or is this simply an inherited trait? In either case, any conflict in your life will undoubtedly send you spiraling into inaction. Hardly advantageous,” stated Murad as he stepped away from the table where Jellal still lay and retreated to one of the bookshelves where he began pulling tomes from their place and sifting through various pages.

Jellal, in the meantime, dared to let his body relax from its immensely tense state for the first time since encountering the giant. While this happened, he began to wonder what had suddenly changed Murad’s mind and what this “spell” he referred to was. He said I would wake up among strangers and friends, but I’m still here. How? Why? What’s going on? I need answers. I need to know what’s going on.

Jellal readjusted himself on the pillow so he could pull his knees to his chest. Somehow, making himself ball up and feel smaller gave him some sense of security. Murad returned after a few minutes with several items on a tray which included a rag big enough to cover three beds Jellal’s size, a bowl of slightly steaming liquid, and several small vials nearly as tall as Jellal with flowers and floating substances in them. Methodically, Murad removed the corks from the vials. Then, he took a step back.

“Please clean yourself while I find you something suitable to wear. Apologies, it’s been a while since I’ve utilized the spell and its components. Regardless, you will need to clean yourself prior to changing,” stated Murad as he once again brushed a few auburn strands of hair from his face using his pinky finger. He began to whisk himself away when Jellal summoned the courage to speak again.

“Hey, wait!” he called, forcing himself to stand shakily on the uneven surface of the pillow to confront his captor. The teen nearly lost his balance, but managed to catch Murad’s swirling dark brown eyes before the giant turned completely away from him. Making eye contact with him made Jellal’s hair stand on end, the all too recent memory of being engulfed by the massive digits of Murad’s hand so easily replaying again and again in his mind. Still, the blue-eyed boy tentatively concluded that Murad’s initial intention was not to hurt him and the possibility of that changing in a moment seemed slim; at least, he hoped so.

Once again, Murad’s eyes swirled again with a dangerous curiosity as he stared at the much smaller sentient being who was now demanding his attention. Jellal swallowed dryly and forced the words from his mind into his constricting throat.

“What did you try to do to me? Why the sudden change of mind? You said I was going to sleep, but here I am awake. What did you mean when you said you’re trying to save our lives? Save them from what? And what weren’t you going to explain to me? What is this place? What is going on?” Everything spilled out of Jellal all at once. Every question flowed over the restraints in his mind just as tears of frustration pricked his eyes. Fists clutched and heart pounding, Jellal searched Murad’s fire glinted eyes for some kind of explanation.

Murad’s expression held just as much curiosity and fascination for the teen as the other held in frustration. He never expected to be lectured to by someone who hardly stood the height of his smallest finger. The boy did have a point, however, and so Murad sighed and resigned himself to sit once again in the chair. He now had the challenge of condensing a significant amount of information without prompting further questions from the emotional boy.

“Well,” Murad sighed while unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up lazily. “You certainly do not waist time with that bombardment of questions. If you could, hold further questions until the end. Both of us will lose track otherwise.”

“Now, where to start. Most likely where you began before that outburst – why are we bringing you from your homes. The oversimplistic answer is because we, meaning my superiors and colleagues, believe there is a war coming which will ravage the land and quite possibly tear asunder a great number of cities along with it. We, in accordance with our studies, are not permitted to take sides in these various conflicts and instead dedicate ourselves to commemorate and record the events as they transpire. There are times, however, where our superiors feel it is necessary to take matters into our own hands and ensure the preservation of a species – ergo, removing a select portion of a population to ensure its survival. Are you understanding me so far?”

Murad spoke with neutrality. Murad spoke with a direct, logical thinking that was completely and utterly detached. It was cool, collected, unabashedly honest. If he felt sorry for what was occurring or what he had done, it did not show.

Jellal, on the other hand, felt the worst swirling knot twisting his stomach and forcing a numbing ringing in his ears. His blue-eyes blurred, darkening around the edges of his vision. His heart sunk. He didn’t remember falling to his knees, but that’s where he was. A weight, an undefinable and yet oppressive weight, thrust itself down on his shoulders as though sandbags had imbedded themselves into his bones.

“So… you…” Jellal spoke absentmindedly, unaware of exactly what words were forming. “You’re taking us… to breed? Like livestock?”

“Hardly,” stated Murad. “You are free to live as you deem satisfactory. If you desire a mate, you may select one. The same could easily be said of your profession and level of interaction with the populous. You’re also exaggerating the situation. We merely aim to preserve the various cultures and societies, even if it is marginally fragmented.” Jellal stared at the giant in disbelief.

“How can you say all of this so calmly?” Jellal asked breathily. “You’re talking about my people dying and whoever you took being the last few remaining and…” A thought hit Jellal like an icy wind. “I… my sister… my family… everyone…”

“What about them?” asked Murad calmly.

There was an untouchable pang as Jellal felt his chest as his eyes slowly raised to meet Murad’s gaze. “You should’ve taken my sister. She… she would know what to do. She deserves to survive. She could survive if she were in this position. Oh Spirits, what have I done!”

“You haven’t done anything wrong given the circumstances.”

“Why not save everyone? Can’t you do that?” countered Jellal.

Murad once again rolled his swirling dark brown eyes and readjusted in the chair. “My dear boy, were you not listening? Firstly, refrain from additional questions until the others are addressed. Second, we are unsure if such an event will even occur. Do we uproot entire cities, cultures, civilizations and disrupt the flow of your advancement on the chance something may occur? Or do we induce widespread panic and fear? Believe me, we have contingencies set in place to protect your kind should worst come to worst but my superiors elected to be proactive this time.”

“Wait… wait… this time?” Murad stared curiously at Jellal who, once again, interrupted to ask a question.

“This is not the first time it has been done. There have been no less than a dozen ties that come to mind where similar actions have been taken. Have you not wondered why we possess cities and established structures rather than nomadic, migratory tribes and fundamental tools and structures for survival?” stated the auburn-haired giant. “Of course, this is the first time in my lifetime, but it has happened before. Generally speaking, our turmoil and disputes are handled civilly or in a designated area. There are times, however, where war is inevitable and there is an undeniable chance of collateral damage.”

Jellal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This had happened before? There was a war coming? And they were going to stand idly by, only acting after bloodshed? Saving only a few on the chance nothing could be done? The teen’s mind swirled and a sick, acidic taste boiled in his stomach and burned at his throat. His eyes burned as though they were dry, yet warm tears streaked down his face. This was too much.

Jellal wasn’t sure how long he sat, shoulders slumped, while the rest of his body shivered and threatened to collapse. Eyes dazed finally focused on a set of hands placed nearby, tapping rhythmically as though to attain his attention. Numb, the blue-eyed boy grasped onto the rhythmic sounds of the taps and let his eyes focus on Murad’s enormous fingers.

“Evidently, that was too much information for you to process. At least you’re not wheezing. Feeling any better?” asked Murad plainly. He reached off to the side and retrieved another spoon which he dipped into a glass and with extreme care brought it in front of Jellal. Based on the color, Jellal assumed it was water and didn’t bother questioning his captor, instead leaning forward and sipping the refreshingly cool liquid. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he had become throughout the whole ordeal.

The liquid brought a calm serene over Jellal; something he didn’t anticipate. For a moment, there was a flare of worry he had taken in something that wasn’t water. It instantly dissipated when Murad took a sip from the same cup he drew the spoon from.

Jellal, in his stupor, came to the realization that he could do nothing about his current circumstances. Murad had taken him and, most likely, wasn’t going to bring him back to his home. There was a war waged by giants which was inevitable – at least from what Murad had stated. Finally, he was completely and utterly alone with more questions than his mind knew what to do with. The teen’s wandering mind wanted nothing more than to curl up and return to that stupor, but some deep, curious part of him tugged back to his bombardment of questions.

“You… said you weren’t going to tell me,” muttered Jellal. Murad shook his head in response while taking another drink of water. With a satisfied sigh, Murad resumed.

“No. Personally, I thought it was going to be a waist of time, but things didn’t go according to plan with you,” stated Murad, setting down the glass and now looking mildly perturbed but fascinated at the same time. He folded his arms indignantly and leaned back in the chair.

“If… well… could you tell me why? I mean, what was the plan? Other than taking me to wherever you were going to take me?” asked Jellal numbly. There was little else that could surprise him at this point. He dared the fates and took a chance in pressing further into Murad’s plans.

“Well, initially, my intention was to alter your memory in such a way that you would believe you were simply out in the forest and elected to rest for a time. There were other elements I intended to add, but that fell through rather quickly. Frustrating, if you ask me, but informative,” sighed Murad, eyes catching the blue-eyes of the boy.

“Frustrating? Wait, is that what that feeling was? Like being grappled by vines?” Jellal asked, now putting together a few of the pieces. Murad’s eyebrows raised and he gave a curt nod.

“That is one description of the spell’s effects. And yes, frustrating. I didn’t anticipate the spell not taking effect, but that’s to be expected given your abilities.” Jellal felt his heart beginning to quicken in pace again.

“My what?” asked the boy.

“My dear boy,” said Murad in an exasperated tone. The giant leaned forward, unfolding his arms, until he was dangerously close in Jellal’s personal opinion. “You’re a Theurgist – a wielder of the arcane, magic. This is the reason the spell had no effect on you. Did you not know?”

Continue | Coming Soon

~~~~~

Thank you all for your patience. Things have been a bit hectic but that is hardly an excuse. At any rate, I hope you enjoy this set of quick chapters. I want to thank every one of you for being so wonderful. As always, comments, questions, suggestions, and prompts are always welcome. Stay awesome!

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harrysweasleys · 5 years ago

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Put A Ring On It

Synopsis: Spending Christmas at the burrow with Fred Weasley.

Warnings: none (maybe a lil bit of language?)

Word Count: 3,463

A/N: quarantine’s got me re-reading the harry potter series so my ideas are flowing right now and its great. also this was supposed to be a short blurb but it ended up being much longer than that. enjoy!

Fred knew what he wanted to get Y/N the day that he asked her to come join his family for Christmas. It was their final year in Hogwarts, and although yes, they were both seventeen and decently young, he knew there was no one else out there for him.

He stared down at the dainty ring in the box, overthinking his choice. Maybe she didn’t like the diamond cut. Maybe she didn’t even want a diamond. Maybe she didn’t even want him.

“Fred, you keep looking at that box and you’re gonna go mental.” George whispered, helping himself to some toast. Luckily Y/N, along with everyone else in the house, was still sleeping so he could stare at the tiny piece of jewelry in peace. Fred couldn’t fall back asleep after waking up at around five, his nerves getting the best of him, and George’s ‘twin instinct’ woke him up as well, leading to the two of them sitting in the kitchen as the sun slowly rose over the Burrow.

Today was Christmas eve, and tomorrow, Fred was going to ask Y/N to marry him.

“I can't stop looking at it, George.” Fred whined, tearing his eyes away from it and looking at his brother, “She’s going to be wearing this every day for the rest of her life, it has to be perfect, y’know?”

George sighed, sitting down next to his brother with a mouthful of toast and jam, “She’s gonna love it, mate. It’s Y/N.”

Fred knew George was right. Y/N wasn’t picky, she was simple and loved anything that Fred got her — she always had. But this was a whole new level.

“Oi, get your big mouth away from the food before you eat it all.” Ron’s half-asleep self came barreling down the stairs and into the kitchen. Fred closed the box and hid it in the pocket inside his sweater, not wanting his plan to be known by anyone other than George. Ron had a big mouth, Y/N would surely find out if he knew.

Ron eyed the twins suspiciously, “What are you two gits doing up so early anyways?”

Fred’s eyes widened and he plastered a smile on his face, “We’re shop owners now, Ronnie. We’ve had business matters to attend to. Owls to send and stuff.” George nodded, going along with his brother’s lie. If there was one thing these boys were good at, it was lying.

“On Christmas Eve? Sucks to be you, then.” Ron picked up a muffin, shoving the entire thing in his mouth as crumbs fell all over his shirt, adding to the already countless grease stains.

---

Within an hour, the whole lot had woken up and came down for breakfast. Y/N sat next to Fred, her hand intertwined with his under the table as she ate a strawberry, deep in conversation with Hermione and Ginny. Fred was supposed to be engaged in a discussion with Percy, but he was only half listening, his mind more focused on the nervous butterflies in his stomach that were slowly turning into aggressive wasps.

“You good, Freddie?” Y/N’s soft voice spoke from next to him, a genuine look of concern on her face, “Your hand is shaking.”

Fred grinned at her, “I had an extra cup of coffee this morning. Guess the caffeine is getting to me.” The lie rolled off his tongue effortlessly, he hadn’t had a drop of caffeine because he knew damn well that if he mixed it in with his already stressed out body, he’d be a train wreck.

Y/N shot him a breathtaking smile and Fred swore his heart leaped. Nearly four years of being together and he still couldn't get over how perfect she was. From the loose strand of hair that always fell in her face, to the light freckles grazing her delicate cheeks, to the way her eyes seemed to shine every time she looked at him, he was completely smitten and nothing could change that. He knew from the moment they had their first date that he wanted to marry her.

She returned to her conversation about books or something — Fred wasn't really paying attention — and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, calming his poor heart.

---

That afternoon, Y/N had left with Hermione and Ginny to go do some very, very last minute Christmas shopping after Molly scolded them for not getting it done on time, so Fred found himself outside playing Quidditch with his brothers to pass the time. (Molly had actually kicked them out to do some wrapping, but still.)

He was still out there nearly an hour and a half later, zooming around on his broomstick and letting the brisk wind blow through his hair when he saw the three girls arrive. His eyes immediately went to Y/N, her arms filled with bags and her cheeks tinted red from the cold air. Her eyes landed on him and she smiled, waving him over.

Fred swooped down to the point where he was next to her, his eyes scanning over her face, “How was shopping, love?”

She grinned at him, “Good! But don’t come inside, I got you a few things and they need to be wrapped first.” She pressed her lips to his, making him want to completely forget about the game he was a part of and run inside with her, but he let her pull away and head inside out of the winter air, a dopey grin on his face as he returned to his brothers.

“You’re obsessed.” Ron called out once Fred rejoined the game.

“Leave him alone,” George smirked, “Once you grow some balls and ask Hermione out you’ll know just how he feels.”

Ron flushed bright red, making his brothers burst out laughing as they continued the game.

---

That night after dinner, Fred couldn’t sit still. Y/N was cuddled into his side on the couch, watching the slow fire burn down as her eyelids slowly started getting heavier, meanwhile Fred had enough chaotic energy to go run a marathon. It took all his self control not to let his leg bounce up and down as a sign of nervous energy, because he knew that if he did, Y/N would question him. The last thing he wanted was for her to be suspicious.

“Freddie?” Her tired voice mumbled as she pulled her head off of his shoulder to look him in the eye, “I really am having a wonderful time here with your family.”

He smiled, pulling her forehead close to him so he could press a gentle kiss on her skin, “And I’m having a wonderful time with you.”

She grinned, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose, “I love you, my little goof.”

Fred melted, leaning even closer to her touch if that was possible, “And I love you, my little angel.”

“Should we head up for bed?” She whispered in his ear, despite the fact that there was no one else in the room. He nodded his head quicker than he intended to, but he knew that no matter when they went to bed, he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. By this time tomorrow, Y/N could be his fiancee. Or she could have crushed his heart in her tiny hand by saying ‘no’ and leaving him spiralling in a pit of self despair.

He grabbed her hand, ignoring his thoughts, and led her up the many, many flights of steps and into his room. Which was pretty much their room now, if they were being honest. She took off her large knitted sweater that Molly Weasley had made her last year and sat it down neatly on the end of the bed. That was another thing Fred loved about her. She was pretty much his opposite when it came to small things - while he would have just thrown his own sweater across the room and only looked for it when he was cold next, she gently folded it and placed it where she knew she’d be able to find and use it.

Fred smiled at the folded sweater, looking over to Y/N who was now untying her hair, letting the loose waves cascade down her shoulders. She really did look like an genuine angel.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” She grinned, walking over to him. Fred placed his hands on her hips, letting them slide slightly under the tank top she had on, his fingers rubbing against her soft skin. Y/N felt goosebumps rise under his touch and leaned in closer to him.

“You, you gorgeous woman.” He smirked. She blushed, trying to take the attention away from herself by running her hands through his hair, causing his eyes to flutter shut. She placed another quick kiss on his nose and took off to get ready for bed.

As she drifted off to sleep that night, her light breaths fanning over Fred’s shoulder, he couldn’t help but worry about tomorrow. He really, really wanted to marry her, but what if she felt like they were too young? Being engaged didn’t mean you had to get married right away, but what if she wanted to wait until after Hogwarts to start thinking about marriage?

He shook his head, not wanting to keep planting negative thoughts in his mind as he looked over to the woman sleeping next to him, her chest rising and falling with each breath she took. She looked incredibly peaceful and Fred wished he could be in the same position. He only wished that all his stressing could be worth it — that tomorrow night, at this time, Y/N would be wearing the ring on her left hand and grinning at it like a lovestruck fool.

She’s going to say yes, his subconscious nagged him, sounding as if George were saying the words to him and not his mind. He smiled. She was going to say yes.

---

“Freddie, it’s Christmas!” Y/N shook the ginger boy awake, startling him out of his dream. He scanned the room in a panic, calming down once he saw the dazzling smile on his girl’s face and the realization that there was, in fact, no immediate danger.

Today was the day.

“Merry Christmas,” he smiled lazily, pulling her back down against his chest. She giggled, placing a kiss on his shoulder, his neck, and then his cheek.

“We have to get up! It’s nearly ten, I hear your family downstairs already.” She reluctantly pulled away from him, already feeling colder than she was moments ago. Surprisingly, Fred gave off a lot of body heat, and she already missed it.

“Fine, just ‘cause it’s Christmas,” he grinned at her, figuring out a way to sneak the ring downstairs without her noticing, “Tell ‘em I’ll be down in a few.”

Lucky for Fred, she was too excited about the holiday to question why he wasn't going down with her. She picked up the neatly folded sweater on the end of the bed, threw it on over her pyjamas, and rushed out of the room. As soon as Fred heard her footsteps retreating down the stairs, he jumped out of bed and opened his nightstand, taking out the little velvet box and placing it on the bed. He then opened his dresser and grabbed the baggiest sweater her could find, throwing it on and hiding the ring in one of his little pockets on the inside, out of sight.

He looked over himself once more in the mirror, “You got this, Fred.” And with that, he rushed down the stairs, tripping over his own two feet the whole way down. Once he made it downstairs without injury, he turned to face his entire family sitting around the Christmas tree, everyone had their tea in Christmas mugs that had been painted by the Weasley kids when they were younger. Gifts littered the ground around the large, overly decorated tree, the twinkling lights adding to the holiday ambiance.

Y/N smiled and pat the couch next to her, signalling she had saved that spot for Fred. He poured himself a quick tea and sat down next to her, placing his hand on her thigh to hopefully take his mind off of the events that were about to unfold. He tried hard to keep his mind away from what he would say and how she would react, but there was no way he could keep distracted for too long.

George looked over at him and winked, knowing fully well that he was the only one who knew what was going to happen. Fred tried to avoid the tinge of pink on his cheeks, turning his head down to face the carpet.

Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Harry (who probably arrived overnight as he wasn’t there yesterday), along with the rest of the Weasley family sat around the tree, all still talking, until Molly stood up and clapped her hands, a big grin on her freckled face.

“Shall we get started, then?”

A mumble of agreement made its way around the circle, so Molly went over to the tree and picked up the first box she saw. It happened to be a bunch of boxes, actually, because she handed one box to everyone, clapping her hands.

Y/N smiled at the box on her lap, waiting for everyone to start opening theirs before she picked at the ribbon, letting it fall to the ground and then ripping the paper off of it.

“Oh, wow, mum,” Ron forced a smile, unfolding the furry jumper with a giant green R on the front, “It’s almost the same as last year’s.”

Molly waved her hands, “Oh, Ron. You know they’re your favourites!”

Fred unwrapped his, eyes widening at the large baby blue sweater with FRED W. knitted into it with orange, “Mum, blue clashes with my hair.”

Y/N giggled, taking hers out next. Hers was the opposite of Fred’s, the orange knit with baby blue letters of her initials in the middle, making her grin.

She folded it neatly and placed it in her lap, “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, I love it.” Fred gave her a look as to say ‘are you mental’ before tossing his behind him on the couch and using it as a pillow. Molly rolled her eyes at her son, smiling kindly to Y/N before walking back towards the tree.

“Wait, mum, I think Fred has a gift he'd like to give Y/N next,” George piped up, causing the colour to completely drain from Fred’s face. Everyone turned their eyes to him to see what the gift was going to be, making Fred nearly a million times more nervous than he actually was.

“Thanks for putting me on the spot, George.” Fred said through gritted teeth, turning his attention to Y/N next to him who looked at him with curiosity in her eyes. He pulled his hand away from her thigh, not wanting her to feel how clammy and sweaty it had become in the last five seconds.

“Go on, then, Fred, which one is it?” Ron looked under the tree, trying to find a gift with Y/N’s name on it but having no success.

“It’s not under the tree, Ron.” Fred glared daggers at his younger brother, his nerves getting the best of him.

He once again turned to face Y/N, who had her undivided attention on him. He was nervous as hell, sure, but when he looked into her eyes and the faint smile ghosting on her lips, he knew how badly he wanted this.

He wanted her forever.

“Y/N,” Fred started, his voice shaky, “I remember when I saw you for the first time. You walked into Potions class looking pissed off because Snape failed you on an assignment that you were certain you did perfectly. You walked in there, told him off, rendered the class speechless, and sat in your seat for the rest of Potions with this proud smirk on your face.”

Y/N giggled slightly at the memory, thinking it over in her head. She had later found out that a certain Slytherin who was on detention duty had hidden her assignment from Snape and that’s why she had failed.

“And I remember when I spoke to you for the first time. It was right before a Quidditch game, I bumped into you by accident and I was ready for you to go off on me with that same passion you had in Potions, but you were so quiet and shy, it was like you were a whole different person.” Fred continued talking, his voice still shaky but he barely noticed, all of his attention on Y/N.

“And then I couldn’t get you off my mind. I was obsessed. I asked you to come to Hogsmeade village with me one weekend and my heart was yours. There was no one else for me. Just you. We sat in the Three Broomsticks and talked for four hours about everything. I went to bed that night thinking of you.”

Y/N gazed into Fred’s eyes, forgetting about everyone else in the room. Her heart was beating faster than she’d ever felt it before, and her mouth felt dry, as if every word in the dictionary had vanished from her vocabulary.

“When you became mine, I knew it was meant to be. You helped George and I with pranks, you’ve supported my idea to open a shop, you've gotten along brilliantly with my family, and you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met — sorry Hermione.” Fred turned to face the other witch for a quick second before turning back to Y/N.

Y/N felt as if her entire body was putty in Fred’s hands. She probably looked like a fish out of water, her mouth agape and her eyes bulging out of her head, redness creeping up onto her cheeks.

“What I’m trying to say is that — I can’t imagine a day without you by my side. Though the good, the bad, the ugly, you know the saying. I want you with me until my last breath.” Fred finished, standing up and taking the ring out of his sweater pocket, getting down on one knee in front of her.

Y/N’s hand flew to her mouth, and she could faintly see Molly Weasley gripping her husband’s arm for dear life.

“Y/N Y/L/N, will you do me the biggest honour in all the world and become my wife?” Fred asked, opening the tiny box and revealing the ring. His hands were shaking, and he felt as if everyone else in the room had vanished, the two of them being the only ones remaining.

Y/N stayed speechless, her eyes staring into Fred’s as if she could see her future in them. Which she could. She loved Fred with every ounce in her body, and didn’t want any one else by her side for the rest of her life.

“Yes.”

She had said it so quietly Fred wasn’t even sure he heard her.

“What?”

“Yes!” She jumped up, landing on him and wrapping her arms around his neck. Fred let out the biggest sigh of relief, placing the ring box on the couch and engulfing her with a hug. He could hear his family cheering around them, but all he could focus on was her. She pulled away from him, the biggest smile he had ever seen plastered on her face, her eyes shining brightly as if he had just given her the sun.

“I love you.” She smiled, leaning closer to him and pressing a light kiss on his lips. He smiled against her touch, reaching behind her to pick up the ring box off the couch. He held it in front of her and she smiled, holding out her hand for him.

He picked up the ring and slid it gently on her finger, his eyes locked with hers the entire time.

“Freddie, you put it on my middle finger.” she giggled, holding it up to him as if she were flipping him off, the dazzling ring sitting proudly.

“My bad.” he chuckled, sliding it off and placing it on her ring finger, where it belonged, and where it would be sitting comfortably for the rest of Y/N’s life.

“I only got you a notebook and a pen holder,” she smirked, admiring the jewel. Fred found himself laughing, pulling her in for a hug once more.

Molly stood up, clapping her hands, “Yay! This calls for celebration! We have a new Weasley!”

Y/N Weasley. Fred really liked the sound of that.

#fred weasley imagine #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley one shots #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley #harry potter imagine #harry potter imagines

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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years ago

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infinity, and beyond

He remembers the first time he kissed Janus. He remembers the way they were curled up against each other, the lights dimmed and the television on low volume, neither of them paying attention to the images on the screen. It was messy and terrible, as far as kisses go, and Patton loved every moment of it, and when they pulled away from each other, they were both breathless, smiling, and he knew then that what he felt, Janus felt too.

He remembers, too, the moment he heard about Virgil.

It's not every day that your husband's long-lost kid breaks into your house. It's not every day that you find out your husband of four years is an alien.

Patton's just trying to roll with the punches.

Content Warnings: threats of violence, mild body horror, brief, non-graphic panic attack

Word Count: 7,168

Pairings: Moceit, parental Anxceit

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

Patton’s day begins with a teenager holding a knife to his throat.

Technically, the day has already begun; it is mid-morning, the sun inching steadily toward noon. But Patton has barely been awake an hour, has been sitting at the kitchen table with his mug of coffee, staring at all the final exams he has yet to grade as he waits for his brain to start functioning. He likes Saturday mornings; he would go so far as to say that they’re usually his favorite part of the week, because usually, Saturday mornings mean sleeping in, wrapped in his husband’s arms, and later, a big brunch and a lazy day. But today, an emergency called Janus into the office, and he has a backlog of grading to finish this weekend, so here he is. Squinting, bleary-eyed, and with a sad lack of a husband to keep him company.

That is when the teenager appears.

Appears, because there is no better word for what happens. There is no break-in, no slamming of doors or shattering of windows. One minute, he is alone, and the next, there is another person in the kitchen, a young person who can’t be any older than seventeen or eighteen, and Patton barely has time to process that before they lunge for him, knocking him from his chair and to the floor, pinning him against the cool tile.

It takes a second to process the bite of cold, sharp metal against his throat, but as soon as he does, Patton wakes up very, very quickly.

“Please—” he tries, but the teenager hisses at him, actually hisses, and through the panic that is filling his mind and drowning out all logical thought, Patton realizes that something about this isn’t right. Something beyond the fact that there is a knife against his throat and oh god oh god oh god there is a knife against his throat—

The teenager opens their mouth, their face set in a harsh, threatening glare— and it’s their face, there’s something wrong about their face but he can’t quite— but the sounds that come out are gibberish, something guttural and rasping and nothing like any language that Patton has ever heard.

“Please,” he gasps, his voice thin and high and terrified, “please, I don’t know what you’re saying, I can’t—”

He breaks off, because he thinks that if he tries to say any more, it will come out as nonsensical crying, and somehow, he doesn’t particularly think that this person will be swayed by something like that.

The teenager’s lips twist into an impressive scowl, and with the hand not holding the knife, they reach for the pocket of their— hoodie? If it’s a hoodie, it doesn’t quite look like one. It’s something about the fabric, something about the way it moves as they do, but Patton can’t spend energy on figuring that out right now. He tenses as they root around in their pocket, clearly searching for something, and muttering to themself in that same garbled speech pattern. They come up holding something, and Patton can only catch a glimpse of it— what looks like a small, silver disk— before their hand is moving, clapping it against and then inside his ear and—

There is a moment of sharp, almost blinding pain, starting with his ear and shooting through his skull, and then nothing, and he struggles to regain his breath.

“I said,” the teenager growls, “where is he?”

Patton blinks. The sounds they are making are still the same, are still strange and incomprehensible, only, they’re not exactly, because they resolve into recognizable words inside his brain, and if he hadn’t been panicked before, this would definitely be enough to do the job, because what exactly did this person just shove inside his ear?

“What—” he starts, and then the words themselves catch up to him. “Where is who?”

The teenager growls— and it is truly a growl, like an animal would make— and presses the knife in closer. Patton valiantly resists the urge to whimper.

“Don’t fucking play with me,” they snap, and somewhere, back in some hysterical portion of Patton’s mind, he is tempted to chide them for their language. “His DNA signature is all over this fucking house, so where is he? What’ve you done with him?”

Patton can only stare.

Part of his mind has devoted itself to putting the pieces together, no matter the impossible picture they form. Part of his mind is taking in the pale skin that isn’t white at all, but rather a light purple, the way their facial features are just a bit too sharp, a bit too angular to be those of a typical young adult, the way that the spots under and around their eyes aren’t makeup, but instead move, twitching to and fro in unison with their gaze, and that alone is almost enough to send him spiraling, to draw him toward a conclusion that can’t possibly be true, that he can’t possibly comprehend.

The rest of his mind devotes itself to being astonished.

“Are you talking about Janus?” he asks, and he can’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

He doesn’t know which seems more unlikely to him, that this strange, violent, maybe-probably not human person has broken into his house and is threatening him with a sharp knife, or that this strange, violent, maybe-probably not human person is looking for his husband. His husband, who makes him breakfast in bed in the mornings and tea in the afternoons, when he has too many essays to look over and a headache pounding behind his eyes. His husband, who bristles and snarks at everyone around him, who works a corporate job he dislikes and comes home exhausted and irritated at the end of the day and still smiles, that soft, sweet smile that is meant only for him, that nobody else is privileged enough to see. His husband, who he has been married to for four years now, the best four years of his life, who he fell in love with in coffee shops and movie theaters and in the rain, that one day when they were caught out in the park without their umbrellas and had to run all the way home, soaking wet but giggling, grinning and knocking into each other.

His husband, who refuses to talk about his past beyond a sentence or two, here and there, brief anecdotes that never reveal much at all. But Patton has never needed to know his past to know him, and even now, when it seems that his secrets have burst into their shared life in the most violent way possible, disrupting all sense of equilibrium and turning the world on its head, he refuses to believe that there is any secret so great as to force a divide between them.

The teenager— if that is what they are, if the appearance of youth is an accurate indication at all— bares their teeth, teeth that are too sharp, too pointed, teeth that scream predator. “Who else?” they demand. “I won’t fucking ask again. Where is he?”

“He’s not— He’s not here,” he manages. “He’s at work, I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Please, let that satisfy them. Please, let them leave. Please, let Janus come home. Please, let Janus not come home, let him stay at the office, far away and safe. Please, let him come home and tell me what’s going on, why this is happening, who this is and how they know each other. Please, please, please.

He doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know that he wants to know what he wants.

“Yeah, right,” they say, and he would be insulted by their skepticism if he had room for any emotion other than fear. “That’s likely. You could have him cut up in the basement for all I know.”

He gapes, stunned by the accusation. And for a moment, his indignation is enough to override all common sense, ignore all the impossibilities of the person holding him to the floor, ignore the knife pressing up against his skin. Because, well, first of all, he has no idea where that idea came from, but the very thought that he would do something like that at all, much less to—

“Cut—” he starts, and has to try again, because he can’t wrap his head around the notion, around the idea that that could potentially be something he would want to do, that that is the first thing this person thinks to accuse him of. “Cut up? Janus is my husband.”

Their eyes widen. “Your what?”

“My husband,” he repeats, the reaction emboldening him. “We’ve been married for four years.”

They blink at him, and it’s a motion that takes up their entire face rather than just their eyes, because those moving dots… those are eyes, too. Patton can’t deny it, can’t deny that this person, whatever they are, has eight eyes. Eight eyes, just like a spider, and his outrage fizzles out in the face of that realization, fades back into terror, into a racing pulse and breaths that come too short and quick, and he is confused now too, confused at what this person wants, because their words almost seem to suggest that they don’t want to see Janus harmed at all, that they think he is the threat. That they think he is a threat to Janus.

But Patton isn’t the one with the knife.

“Please,” he says. “Please, just, you can look around the house, there’s pictures of us. We’re together, we’re happy, and I don’t know what you want, but just please, please don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t hurt him?” they repeat, and somehow, whatever strange translation system is at work in his head manages to convey their disbelieving tone. “What the hell are you talking about?”

They seem surprised that Patton is making the insinuation at all, and Patton can’t help the incredulous noise that escapes him.

“You’re holding a knife to my throat!” he all but shrieks, the words ripping out of him at a much higher volume than he intends. “What am I supposed to think you want?”

They make a strangled sound, one that his mind doesn’t resolve into words.

“You—”

And then, they stop, tilting their head. A moment later, Patton hears it too, and dread forms a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. There is a clattering sound, a key turning in the lock, and the unmistakable creak as the front door opens. The teenager stands, suddenly, a fluid motion, but Patton is frozen in place, barely noticing the removal of the knife and the pressure holding him down, too busy trying to think of a way out of this, or to protect Janus, if worst comes to worst. He’s trembling so hard that he’s not sure how quickly he’ll be able to get up, but once he does, he’s in the kitchen. There are weapons here. All he has to do is grab one, no matter how ill it makes him feel to use his cooking instruments in such a way.

He won’t let this person hurt Janus. Not if he has any say.

“I’m home, love!” Janus’ voice drifts through the house, smooth and unconcerned. There is a familiar thump; that will be his briefcase hitting the floor, and then a rustle of clothing as he sheds his suit jacket. His footsteps draw nearer, and even as the person’s face shifts into an expression Patton has no hope of interpreting, he readies himself to leap to his feet, to fight if need be.

“I just love when idiots call me in for an issue that it would take someone with half a brain twenty minutes to solve,” Janus says, sounding terribly exasperated, and normally, this is when Patton would go to him and give him a hug, would lean his chin on his shoulder and hold him close, or at the very least call out to respond to him. But he stays still and quiet, and the footsteps pause.

“Patton?” He sounds uncertain now, but he’s coming closer again, and Patton finds himself staring fixedly at the entryway to the kitchen, raising his head from the floor to see. Oddly enough, the teenager stands stock still, making no motion to turn to where Janus will appear in mere seconds.

And then, there he is, and Patton cannot help the instantaneous flood of relief at seeing him, at seeing Janus, his husband, poised and confident and unharmed and here. He stands on the threshold, adjusting the gloves on his hands, and Patton watches as his face transitions from calm to confusion to something between anger and fear as he takes in the scene, the toppled chair and rumpled papers, the figure standing in the midst of it all, knife clutched in one hand. And then, he locks gazes with Patton himself, and his eyes blow wide with worry even as the rest of his face schools itself.

“And just who the fuck are you?” he demands of the person. To anyone else, he would sound completely collected, but Patton knows him too well to miss the tremor in his voice.

The person doesn’t move.

“I’d appreciate an answer,” Janus continues. “I’d also appreciate it if you’d step away from my husband.” Janus gives him a tight smile, one that is probably meant to be reassuring, and he returns it as best he can.

And then, slowly, the person pivots on their heel, putting their back to Patton. He can no longer see their facial expression, blank and unhelpful though it was, but he can see Janus’ perfectly well, and as such, he can see the way he holds onto his cool anger for all of five seconds, before it shifts into undiluted shock. His face pales, his lips parting slightly, and he actually takes one stumbling, hesitant step forward, and Patton’s heart begins beating triple time because he has no idea what could make him react like this.

And then, the person speaks.

“Janus,” they say, and the noises that spill from their mouth remain strange and unfamiliar, but somehow, Patton hears the wetness in the name, the fragility, the desperate hope. The knife goes clattering to the floor.

Janus makes a sound, wounded, astonished, and Patton has never heard anything like that come from his husband’s throat, and it scares him.

“Virgil?” he rasps, and evidently, that is all this person needs, because they launch themself forward, and Patton’s instincts scream at him to try to stop them, to leap at them or grab at their hoodie or do something. But Janus’ arms open wide to receive them, and then the two of them are hugging, holding each other tightly, and from here, Patton can see the way Janus’ hands fist in the odd material of the teenager’s clothing, the way he buries his face in their shoulder, and Patton has never been more lost.

Virgil. He recognizes the name, he thinks, and it only takes a moment to summon the memory from the depths of his mind, blurred with age and the faint buzz of alcohol and the heat of the summer night. But Virgil rings out in his mind as clear as a bell, somehow bringing more questions and few answers, because none of this makes any sense at all, because one night, two and a half years ago, Janus told him that he had a son, and that he loved him, and that he lost him, and that his name was Virgil, and then he refused to say any more, and Patton let it go in favor of holding him because the look of devastation on Janus’ face was like none he had ever seen before.

So, this cannot be Virgil. But surely, Janus would know the face of his own son, would never embrace a stranger, and would never embrace… whatever this person is, because Janus is sharp and Janus is observant, and he has most certainly picked up on all their unusual features, on all the ways that they cannot possibly be human. So that means that this must be Virgil after all, and Patton can only watch as they cling to each other, like they’re both afraid the other will disappear if they let go.

And Patton doesn’t know what this means.

-----------

He remembers the first time he kissed Janus. He remembers the way they were curled up against each other, the lights dimmed and the television on low volume, neither of them paying attention to the images on the screen. They stared at each other for a long time before he leaned in, before he dared to take the initiative, and he has never felt happier than in the moment when Janus met him halfway, pressing his lips firmly against his, their noses knocking into each other, their teeth almost clacking together as they sought more, more contact, more closeness. It was messy and terrible, as far as kisses go, and Patton loved every moment of it, and when they pulled away from each other, they were both breathless, smiling, and he knew then that what he felt, Janus felt too.

He remembers, too, the moment he heard about Virgil. He remembers, because he knows only fragments of Janus’ past, a past that he is certain is dark and full of sorrow, and that is why he has never pushed for more than what Janus is willing to give, content to gather up the bits and pieces he is offered and guard them close.

Most of the surrounding conversation is hazy, blurred by one too many glasses of fine wine and a summer heat wave that permeated every inch of the apartment they rented at the time, no matter the efforts of the air conditioner to banish it. But he remembers the way Janus quieted, all of a sudden, face still and contemplative and sad in a way that made his heart clench.

“Have I ever told you,” he said, “that I have a son?”

And he could only stare and shake his head; the answer, of course, was no, the revelation so unexpected that he had no idea how to react.

Janus smiled, small and bitter, like a gash in his face, bleeding him dry. “I do,” he said. “He’s beyond my reach, now. I won’t be able to see him again.”

He remembers he made a noise, tiny and shocked, and that he stretched a hand out, placed it on his, and Janus accepted the touch readily enough.

“His name is Virgil,” Janus continued. “I think he would like you. At least, I hope he would.” He tilted his head, eyes distant. “He’s prickly, slow to trust, abrasive in general. But he’s a good kid. Was a good kid. I suppose he’s not… well. It’s been five years, now.” He closed his eyes, bowing his head. “He would like you,” he repeated, sounding more than a little broken. “He would like you.”

And he didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know what to say at all, his words failing him. So he tugged him closer with both arms, leaning him against his chest and rocking him gently, holding him close, and Janus pressed into the contact and didn’t say anything else.

He drew the conclusion that Virgil was dead, died tragically young, somehow. Looking back, he’s not sure how he arrived there, when Janus used the present tense the entire time, quite clearly speaking as though Virgil was alive and well, just somewhere he couldn’t go.

He thinks he might understand that part a bit better now, at least, though most of it refuses to sink in. But the facts are these: Virgil, if this is Virgil, cannot possibly be human. No human looks like he does. And this fact, too, leaves Patton with far more questions than answers.

-----------

“You did what?”

Janus’ voice is loud, sharp, and it brings Patton back to the present in an instant. He doesn’t know how much time has passed while he ruminated, tried to fit all the puzzle pieces together while well aware that he only has about half of them, but Janus and Virgil have drawn back from each other, Janus’ face twisted in alarm.

“We did research before I came down here!” Virgil says. “I’ve seen what humans want to do to us! For all I knew, he’d locked you up in a room and dissected you.”

Ah. So Janus isn’t pleased that his son—his son, his son, this is Janus’ son, his husband’s son— threatened Patton with a knife. Patton would feel more gratified if he weren’t stuck on us, trying desperately to ignore the voice that whispers in the back of his mind, the one that says, well, doesn’t that make sense? Virgil’s not human, that much is obvious, so doesn’t that mean that Janus is—

“You—”

And for the first time since he recognized Virgil, named him aloud, Janus looks at Patton, and Patton looks back, unsure of exactly what emotion is showing on his face. Confusion, probably; lord knows he’s feeling enough of it right now. But for whatever reason, Janus’ expression crumples, and he gently places his hand on Virgil’s shoulder, moving him to the side.

“Virgil,” he says quietly, and for the first time, Patton realizes that he isn’t speaking English at all, but rather, that same unfamiliar language that Virgil has been utilizing, the one that morphs in his head into something that makes sense. “I… need a moment.”

“But we only just—” Virgil begins, turning so that he can see both of them at once. And then, he stops, something odd passing across his face, something that Patton can’t interpret at all. “So you really are… with him.”

“Yes.”

“But he doesn’t know,” Virgil states.

Janus closes his eyes. “No,” he says.

Virgil is silent for a long moment. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll just… go in this other room, I guess. Over here.” And with that, he backs out of the kitchen and into the living room, disappearing from Patton’s line of sight.

Patton glances back to Janus, who is just standing there, still as stone, staring at him, and he opens his mouth, fully intending to chide him for talking about him, or about something tangentially related to him, at least, like he’s not sitting right here. But no sound comes out of his mouth, and suddenly, he finds himself wheezing, gasping for breath as the events of the past few minutes crash over him, and oh god, how is he supposed to process this, reconcile himself to this, because he knew his husband had secrets and he still doesn’t think he understands fully but he does understand just enough to know that everything he thought he knew is not as it seems and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this and—

“Breathe, Patton,” Janus says, and a gloved hand appears in his vision. He grasps it thankfully, squeezing it tight, and the contact serves to ground him, allows him to calm his panic, little by little, until his mind clears enough to realize that Janus is kneeling in front of him, expression twisted into some awful combination of worry and apprehension and a hesitance that Patton has not seen in a long, long time, not since the earliest days of their relationship, when Janus seemed so uncertain that his affections were welcomed or wanted at all, and Patton had to work so hard to convince him otherwise.

But before he can do something to comfort him, Janus draws into himself, pulling his hand back and looking at the ground. “I suppose you have questions,” he says, and Patton almost laughs at the understatement, restraining himself at the last second.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and he wants to reach out, wants to take Janus’ hand again, but Janus’ body language is so closed off that he’s not sure any touch at all would be welcome. “So, uh, that’s Virgil.”

Janus nods.

“Your son, Virgil.”

Janus nods again, his eyes flickering up for a moment and then back to the floor again.

“I’m sorry he acted the way he did,” he murmurs. “He was scared for me, so he jumped to the worst possible conclusion.”

“There was no harm done,” Patton replies, matching his soft tone. “I mean, that was really scary. I was scared. I think I still am. But I’m not hurt, and everything’s turned out okay.” Even as the words leave his mouth, he has no idea whether he’s telling the truth or not. Have things turned out okay? Have they really? He feels like they’re dancing around the most important subject, the elephant in the room, and what’s more than that, they both know they’re doing it, neither of them quite willing to broach the topic.

But they need to. So Patton does.

“He’s not…” He pauses, taking a breath, marshaling all the courage he has left in him. “He’s not human.”

The statement hangs in the air between them, like a comma in a sentence, waiting for the inevitable continuation.

Janus shakes his head, just slightly, the motion so small that Patton might have missed it had he not been looking. “No,” he says, “he’s not.” And he falls silent, unwilling to elaborate, still unwilling to so much as meet Patton’s eyes, and that leaves the impetus of the conversation on him, doesn’t it? It leaves him to voice the rest, to dare to seek confirmation of a fact that half an hour ago, would have been too unbelievable to consider. Still is, to be frank.

“He’s… an alien. He’s not from earth,” he says, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. He stares at his husband, who he loves, who he cherishes, who he treasures, who he thought he knew. And he still does, surely, because he knows what Janus is like, knows who he is if not what he is, and that has to be enough. He’s determined to make it enough. “So… are you? An alien, I mean?”

The question is out there, now. There is no taking it back. And Janus looks up at him, finally, expression pained.

“Yes,” he says simply, and Patton has to take a moment to breathe, to wrest his spiraling thoughts back under control, because what exactly is he supposed to make of this? This feels too big for him, too vast and too shocking and too incomprehensible, and nothing, nothing has ever prepared him for this possibility.

“Okay,” he says, even though he feels like it’s really not. “Okay. That’s… okay. I need a second to, um. I just need a second.”

“Of course,” Janus says, inclining his head, and then he moves as if to stand, and no, that is absolutely not what Patton wants, so he grabs at his sleeve with one hand. Janus freezes, staring at the spot where his fingers connect with his shirt.

“That doesn’t mean I want you to leave,” he says, his voice coming out somewhere between cross and petulant. “I can have a second perfectly well with you here.”

“Oh,” Janus says, settling back on the floor. He looks more than a little bit lost, as if he can’t fathom why Patton would want him to stay, and that does hurt a bit, the implication that he thinks Patton might not want him anymore, because of this. Which, he supposes it’s a rational fear; it is, after all, a rather large secret to drop on someone four years into a marriage. But Patton just needs time to process, and once he has, he thinks he’ll be alright.

So, he closes his eyes, focusing on the texture of Janus’ sleeve against his fingers, soft and silky.

What does this change, really? A lot, obviously, but how much of that actually matters? Does Janus being an alien change the fact that he always eats the last of the ice cream, or that he insists on doing the dishes by hand, or that he cried when Bambi’s mom died even though he pretended not to so that he could comfort Patton? Does it change the fact that he’s a terrible blanket hog, or that he denies loving to cuddle but instantly latches onto Patton the moment they’re both in bed together, or that he always seems to know just what to do or say when Patton is tired and sad and all the world feels gray?

Does it change that he loves him?

No. No, it can’t possibly affect any of that at all. And he’s known that all along, really, the realization lurking just under the surface, waiting for him to have it on his own time. He feels relief flood him, because alright. His husband is an alien. It’s going to take a long time for him to be used to that. But he’ll be damned before he lets that come between them.

He opens his eyes.

“I love you,” he says, and he puts all of his sincerity, all of the reassurance he can muster into those three words. And he is prepared to say more, to go on at length about all the reasons why, but Janus winces, turns his head away.

“You can’t say that,” he says. “Patton, you don’t even know what I look like.”

He frowns. Janus’ tone edges on defeat, on something uncomfortably close to despair, and he doesn’t like that at all.

“I’m looking at you right now,” he tries, but Janus just shakes his head.

“I’m a shapeshifter,” he says, cold and biting and yet, still reluctant, as if the admission is being ripped from him. “I literally hide my true appearance from you on a daily basis. I’m not human, and I don’t look like one, not when I’m not trying to.” He turns back to him then, meets his eyes, and it’s almost like a challenge, as if he’s certain in his words, certain that Patton will turn his back on him over something like appearance. And it’s true, this new admission throws him for a bit of a loop, but he thinks if he can accept the fact that he is married to an actual alien, he can accept this, too.

Janus is a very attractive man. But Patton didn’t marry him for his looks. And no matter what sort of alien he is, no matter what he’s hiding, whether it’s tentacles or feathers or extra eyes or what-have-you, Patton will love him just the same. What concerns him most is that Janus doesn’t seem to know that, seems to think that this will be the deal-breaker, will be what sends Patton running. And he is expecting Patton to run; that is becoming increasingly clear with every passing minute.

He spent a lot of time, early on in their relationship, showing Janus that he cared about him, showing Janus that he was allowed to be cared for. He didn’t expect to have to do it again, didn’t expect to have to prove his affections once more, four years into a happy marriage, but he will do whatever it takes.

“Then show me,” he says softly, and pitches his words carefully, trying to make it seem like a request and not a demand, trying to make sure Janus knows that he doesn’t have to do anything at all, not if he doesn’t want to. “Show me what you look like.”

Janus laughs, short and sharp, like a razor’s edge. He passes a hand across his face, and Patton’s fingers finally slip from his sleeve. He removes his hat, and then, to Patton’s surprise, he begins to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it from his shoulders, and then follows that with his gloves. Patton watches as the garments hit the floor, suddenly anxious, though he tries not to show it. Whatever Janus is about to show him, it is crucial that he doesn’t allow himself to have a negative knee-jerk reaction, doesn’t allow himself to recoil before his head and heart catch up to his instincts.

Even if Janus turns into… a giant spider person, or something equally scary, he’ll still love him. He knows that, knows that there is nothing that Janus could do or be to make him stop, but what is most important right now is making sure that Janus knows that.

Janus doesn’t say anything else, just settles back firmly on his haunches, bracing his hands against his thighs, shutting his eyes. And his face slides into something blank, into something impassive, but for just a moment, Patton thinks he sees a flicker of apprehension, even of fear, and he wants nothing more to reach out, to insist that everything is going to be alright. But he knows that Janus won’t believe him right now, will shrug off any touch, so he restrains himself, and watches as Janus begins to change.

It’s slow, at first, subtle. His skin almost seems to ripple in place, and then it— flips, for lack of a better word. It reminds him of Mystique from the X-Men movies, or one of those sequined pillows or shirts that has another color on the other side, revealed when you rub the sequins the other way. His skin flips, and in its place is scales, smooth and gleaming, in dappled patterns all across the left side of his face and down his chest. And as Patton stares, utterly fascinated, they move and shift across his body, curling into different designs and reflecting different colors, green and brown and yellow. And where his skin is still bare, it seems to even out, any blemishes disappearing, and it takes on a slightly yellow tint.

And Patton is so occupied by this that he almost doesn’t see the extra arms, folding out of seemingly nowhere, two extra pairs, one resting limp at his side and the other curling around his abdomen protectively. Three pairs of arms, six hands, each one now tipped with sharp claws, and Patton gapes at them, allowing himself one moment of pure surprise before turning his attention back to Janus’ face.

It looks sharper, more angular, a bit thinner, just different enough to throw him off balance a bit. But looking at Janus, his eyes screwed shut and lips pressed into a thin line, as if awaiting judgment, he can only see his husband there, not the stranger he half feared would take his place.

And the scales, well. The scales are lovely. They shimmer and shine in the light, and Patton can’t quite tell what color they’re trying to be, nor if there is any meaning to their movements across Janus’ skin, but he is captivated by them, by their twisting, shifting beauty. They almost look as if they are dancing.

So, he does the only thing he can think to do, and reaches out to caress his face.

Janus starts, eyes flying open, jerking back, but Patton pursues him, tracing his thumb across his cheekbone. The scales there are smooth and cool to the touch, just slightly bumpy, and Patton runs his fingertips across them, learning their shape and feel. Then, Janus makes a whimpering sound, and he freezes, watching him for any additional reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Should I not do that? Does it hurt?”

“No,” Janus says, almost a stutter, “no. It— feels good. It’s just, I’m not used to—” He breaks off, shuddering, and he presses his face into Patton’s hand. His eyes are open wide, flitting across Patton’s face, and he realizes that his eyes have changed, too. One is the familiar, warm brown that Patton is used to, but the other is golden-yellow and slit, like a cat, or like a snake, and it’s quite possibly one of the most gorgeous things that Patton has ever seen.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “You’ve been so scared, haven’t you?”

At any other time, he thinks that Janus would deny it. Janus has never been one to admit to his own vulnerabilities, has always preferred to cover everything up in a layer of sarcasm and insults and misdirection, and on the worst days, even he has trouble getting him to admit that something is wrong. But now, Janus just shakes against his hand, his whole body trembling, and says nothing at all.

“I’m so sorry you felt like you needed to hide this,” he tells him. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“I have six arms,” Janus says hoarsely, as if he thinks Patton can’t see them. “Patton, I— I have scales, I have six arms, I have—”

He cuts off with a strangled gasp as Patton grasps one of his hands, one of the new ones, one of the ones hanging at his sides, and brings it up to his lips, planting a gentle kiss on his knuckles.

“They’re very nice arms,” he tells him. “And I think it’s ridiculous that I could have been having six-armed hugs this entire time. Don’t think I’m not going to have you make up for that, mister.”

Janus laughs wetly, and this time, it’s more genuine, and laced with surprise. There are tears in his eyes, Patton realizes, tears in his eyes and beginning to streak down his cheeks, and he reaches out to wipe them away on autopilot. Janus shivers every time he makes contact with a scale, but his eyes never leave his face.

“I love you,” Patton says. “I love you, all of you, no matter what you look like or what planet you’re from. I’d love you if you were a slimy tentacle alien like in the movies. I’d love you if you had an extra head, or, or a really long neck, or if you were secretly two feet tall and bright blue. And I told you on our wedding day that I would follow you to the ends of the earth, do you remember that? But I only said that because I didn’t know that going further was an option.”

He scoots a bit closer, removing his hand from Janus’ face so that he can grab two hands at once, not paying attention to which ones. Janus’ breath hitches.

“If you honestly think,” he says seriously, “that you could ever do anything to get rid of me, you’ve got another thing coming.”

And at that, Janus lets out a sob, loud and messy, and throws himself forward, colliding with Patton’s chest. It’s an awkward angle for a hug, but Patton is too preoccupied to care, is too busy bringing his arms up to hold him, rubbing circles into his back and tracing the scales he finds there. And he’s basking in the sensation, too, drinking in the fact that there are six arms hugging him right now, clutching at him tightly, holding onto the fabric of his shirt for dear life, and he has never felt so safe, never felt so warm. So he relaxes into his husband’s embrace, embraces him in turn, lets him weep and shudder against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Janus gasps out, “I’m so sorry I doubted you, I—”

“It’s okay,” Patton murmurs. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve--” He stops, his attention suddenly distracted. “Is that a tail? Do you have a tail?”

It certainly looks like one, snaking its way out of Janus’ pants, long and thin and scaled, and how he missed that, he has no idea. Janus pulls back a bit to look him in the face. His eyes are red-rimmed, his skin flushed orange rather than pink.

“Yes,” he says. “Is that… alright?”

Curious, Patton extends a hand. The tail wraps around his wrist snugly, tugging at his arm, and he giggles a bit.

“Oh goodness,” he says, in lieu of a real response, not bothering to stop the delighted grin that spreads across his face. Janus relaxes, untensing, and slumps forward again to rest his head on his chest, releasing a long, heavy sigh.

“I’m still sorry that I kept this from you,” he murmurs, and Patton glances down at him, carding his free hand through his hair.

“You don’t have to be,” he says.

“Maybe not, but I am,” Janus replies. He shifts in place, angling himself to be able to meet his eyes. And Patton once again finds himself fascinated by his heterochromia, at the contrast between the eye he knows well and the eye that is new. It’s almost a comforting sight, once that reminds him that no matter his appearance, Janus remains the man he knows and loves.

“Did you mean it?” Janus asks. “When you said that you would go further than the earth, if given the option?”

A thrill runs through him. “Are you giving me the option?”

Janus hums. “Virgil is hardly going to be content with leaving me here,” he says, and then twists around further to stare Patton full in the face. “But I won’t leave you,” he insists, voice growing vehement. “And I won’t ask you for more than you’re willing to give. If you want to stay here, then we’ll stay here. The choice is yours.”

And Patton leans forward and kisses him on the lips, soft and short and sweet. “I’ve told you,” he says. “Where you go, I’ll follow.”

And he means it. He means it more than anything else he’s said in his life. He means it with the weight of all the years they’ve spent together, all the love he has to offer. Where Janus goes, he will follow, to the ends of the earth and beyond it, and there is a whole universe out there, waiting to be explored. He will have to make arrangements, of course, will have to contact his school and figure out something to tell his parents, and perhaps he should be dreading that, but all he can feel is exhilaration. Because his husband is an alien, has surely seen so many things that are so much bigger than their little lives here on earth, and yet, he is willing to stay here, with Patton, for Patton, and all Patton would have to do is ask.

But just as Janus has chosen him, he has chosen Janus. And for Janus, he would go anywhere.

“Because you know,” he continues, “I think you’re pretty out of this world. In fact, I’d even say that you’re a real star.”

Janus snorts, messy and undignified, and Patton smiles, pleased by the reaction.

“So, how about you introduce me to your kiddo,” he says. “Without the knives, this time. And you can tell me what I should pack.”

And Janus smiles at him, sweet and joyful, one of those expressions that no one else gets to see. Despite everything, that smile is still the same.

“Okay,” he says, and stands, pulling Patton up with him. “Let’s do that.”

And Patton clasps one of his hands, and lets Janus lead him onward.

----------

End Note: There are plenty of things that I would like to explore in this ‘verse, including putting proper focus on the anxceit, having Virgil deal with suddenly having another dad, Patton continuing to adjust himself to the new circumstances, and whatever the other sides are up to. So, I’m tentatively going to label this as a series. Future installments will be under the tag ‘it’s a space opera (and oh how the arias soar)’

General Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii@severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease

#sanders sides #ts sides #moceit #parental anxceit #patton sanders #ts patton #janus sanders #ts janus #virgil sanders #ts virgil #long post #my fic #it's a space opera (and oh how the arias soar)

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yanderenightmare · 4 years ago

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YANDERE ! BAKUGO KATSUKI x FEM ! READER

goodiebag WARNINGS: ableism, abuse, anxiety, blood, drugs, narcissism, slavery, torture, trauma, noncon/dubcon, yandere

PART ONE

SAFETY - part two

INDISPUTABLY MINE

She didn’t know how long she’d been out for. The remnants of a suppressed panic festering in her chest, simmering like charcoaled embers in her heart, still partially subdued due to the drugs still swimming about in her system, however ready to catch flame any second.

The sun was only slightly farther down the sky now as it was before. Whether that was an indication of how little time had gone or how much, she didn’t know. His teeth marks were ever present on her neck and chest the more consciousness she gained. Even though she had no way of seeing them. She felt them. Not only because they stung, but because they made her feel dirty, and weak, and fragile, and owned.

The more she squirmed the more she recognized other nips and pecks littered across her body, trailing down lower than just her chest. A sudden dreadful realization ran through her, the feeling cold and burning beneath her skin. Her clothes no longer adorned her body, and seemed foreign and unsalvageable in their singed state, where they were carelessly scattered on the floor next to her. What had replaced them was glistening drool that felt stiff but still wet, coating around the blossoming bruises he’d left in his wake.

“You look perfect like that.” The unmistakable tone seemed so strange and eerie and dangerous and gut-wrenching now. Making the thin hairs on her arms rise in cold-dreaded fear, as she met that crooked grin. Those vivid blood-irises and pupils alike blackholes, sucking her in and keeping her there with a death-grip. The other half of a hero she respected, looked up to even, despite his brash nature. “With my mark all over you.” She didn’t see a hint of that hero in the man before her. “Indisputably mine.” A villain had taken his place. A villain who ran his tongue over his lips, inspecting his victim.

In her increasing fear she nearly passed out again upon seeing him in the similar condition she was in. Bruises, or… rather deep unforgiving scars, some still healing, marring his sand-colored skin. Intimidating evidence that he’d survived far worse than she could ever imagine, ever even hope to have lived through. But, the state of his skin was only a mild concern that wavered over her, not exactly what caused the tremors ruining her. The fact that there was so much skin, too much skin without any coverage. He was nude, and proud; confident despite her obvious dread. Licking his lips like some beast. Admiring her from the threshold of the door. She would have felt disgusted if it weren’t for the thundering terror that rendered her sick worthless, as she was being looked up and down by the predatory heat found in his eyes. She still felt the nausea brew inside her, drawing her legs closer, not daring to look away as his large hand lazily rubbed up and down on his intimidating cock. His lingering gaze viewing her as though she was something already owned, already his, a resolution to prove it also evident among the drowning of crimson.

The cuff around her ankle suddenly felt that much heavier now as she was aware of its presence. How it would keep her from running. How it would keep her trapped, in his bed, naked, with him, just as naked, however infinitely less vulnerable.

She felt the spit bile up in her throat, eyes stinging. When he pushed himself off the wall and took a step further, she was soon spluttering out sobs that seemed to wreak though her with determination. His free hand stroking up her thigh with ease. She tried kicking, but her feeble struggles were nothing short of pitiful as he placed himself between her knees. The sinking of the bed mirroring seasickness, as she felt the overwhelming urge to throw up.

It was all so very consuming, the way her stomach seemed to fold in all those special types of fear people often go their entire lives without ever having met. Her guts turning, churning, winding like snakes inside her. Hiccupping, choking on her cries uncontrollably as his calloused hands once again found her waist, only now she didn’t have any fabric to separate them from her delicate skin. The thought that he’d touched and groped and played with her while she was drowsed out crept into her thoughts and shook her beyond what she could handle.

It was violent, Katsuki thought, looking down at the fragile creature beneath him. Beautiful. It was a prideful glee more than a sadistic one. It fueled him to think she was entirely at his mercy. To think she could do nothing to stop him, utterly defenseless, yet so very… beautiful. Why do Gods fall in love with such weak things? He pondered, while examining the contrast between his hand and hers, seeming massive and deadly against the elegance of her small one. She was something so untouched, so very soft, especially under the callous soles of his fingers. Naïve. Sweet. Cute. So very adorable. So small and weak and made for him. It was endearing, the way she didn’t even have the wits with her to protest or to beg or bargain. She barely even struggled, the strength of her cries too vehement for her to focus on anything else. She quaked instead, each sob more frantic than the one before, staggering through her body. Bound to tire herself out. Katsuki amused himself with the thought while containing her wrists easily in one hand pinned above her head, although it seemed exaggerated; unnecessary. He wasn’t really sure if he would at all feel it if she tried to pry her hands out of his grip. Touching her lovingly with the other hand, stroking down her chest, liking how her tits bounced with each of her heavy, earthshattering cries. He didn’t feel ashamed for his growing arousal. He was a God. It was in his right to do as he pleased. To reap his offerings.

His tip teased her entrance, precum smeared over the lips of her pussy. Not serving as enough wetness for him to push through, but his strength couldn’t be quarreled by the weak barrier. However, he was in no hasty mood. He was going to enjoy himself, thoroughly.

She’d wrenched her eyes shut, but as his fingers started ghosting tickles over her folds, sliding the tips through them every so often, she made to look down in horror. Her sobs had subsided enough, though she was far from being calm or collected, still consistently quivering. Her cheeks stained with raw, red wetness. Eyes spiraling from looking up at him to his teasing fingers as she tried twisted her thighs closed, but he kept her perfectly spread with his knees propped up under her. Eyes so bright and glossy, flecked with red; bloaty, just like her lips. With fingers still delving between the lips of her pussy, he licked up her cheek, swiping up at the salty, tender flesh. His tongue; boiling against the sensitive skin, before his teeth made to tug at her puffy lips, grinding the soft, plump chunk between them. The whimpers that followed sounded wet. Wet and mushy and delicious for his ears to receive. He deepened the kiss, growling as a threat for her to oblige him, something which she did when she felt the burning threat his hands provided against her delicate wrists. Hesitant kisses met with his brutal, overpowering ones. His tongue fighting against any resistance left in her mouth, only to be met with pitiful and delectable sniveling. “That’s right…” The words poured into her mouth. “Just obey.” She didn’t dare refrain.

He wanted to test that timidity, breaking apart from his assault on her mouth to plunge his fingers as far down her throat as they could reach. Smirking an open-wide grin as she choked, coughing spit all over his digits. Giving her no time to breathe before his mouth was back on hers. His fingers dipping playfully into her folds again and again before he decided to test out her tightness. One finger entered and he felt her jolt against him, sobbing a moan against his lips.

“You like that, don’t you?” She twisted unenthusiastically, whining while crying, trying desperately to wiggle away from him burying his finger knuckle-deep inside her. “You like my finger inside you?” He didn’t really expect an answer as he started pumping in and out. “I know you do.” He decided to reward her by stretching her pussy out with yet another digit inside her. She cried out this time, visible pain in her sewn-together brows. He only laughed while curling and scissoring his finger into the warm, spongy walls inside her, drawing out wetness and more woeful moans and gasps and whimpers.

Not wanting to disrupt those mouthwatering sounds escaping her lips, he made to bite and kiss at her neck instead. Her hands growing numb above her at how hard he was gripping her wrists. She wondered for a moment why he hadn’t tied them up instead, but found the unsettling result that he must draw an inane amount of pleasure by being the sole reason she was left so utterly defenseless. Tying her up would keep him from that satisfaction.

“You’re not paying attention.” He growled when the strained whimpers died down and grew more controlled than he’d like them.

Her musings were cut short as he added yet another finger. At this she shrieked. “Please…” She begged, whimpering and mewling. He felt the sounds reverberate beneath her skin, torrenting on his tongue and lips on her neck. He growled a groan into her ear, before it broke out into a low, patronizing chuckle.

“Believe it or not, I’m doing you a favor…” She was too distracted to feel the smirk up against her throat, or to detect the smugness in his tone. Wincing and gasping at how all three of his big fingers stretched out the ring of muscle inside her. The aching tender flesh sending sharp shoots of pain to rocket through her abdomen. “How on earth are you gonna survive me, huh? If you can’t take three fingers inside you, I wonder how loud you’ll howl when you take my entire cock.” She began sobbing again, crying through her moans. “Poor little baby…” He kissed down her breasts, sucking and biting at the nimble flesh. Taking her nipple into his mouth and pulling at it with his teeth. “Let me kiss it all better.” There was a growl present in the sentiment, and it shook her to the very core.

His hand let go of her wrists as his fingers quit their unrelenting pumping in and out of her, to assist in holding her spread open for him when he moved down to lick between her folds. She pushed at his head with her newly freed hands, but the struggle was short-lived when he grabbed each wrist in a new deadlock in each of his fists, as he propped her up under his arms. She made a series of protests and pleas. Begging, pleading for him to stop, but he simply replied by teasingly dragging his tongue agonizingly slow up between her slick folds, only to flick off at her clit. The act earning him a shaky moan which his ears fluttered upon hearing.

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head about it. Your hero’s gonna take good care of you.” He twirled his tongue around the sensitive pearl, before flattening it on top, closing his lips around and sucking the skin into his mouth.

Her knees started shaking, weakening, submitting. He smirked up against her, swiping his tongue up and down in a quick pace, before moving back to her clit and flicking from side to side. And, despite her arms continuing to struggle, her lower half was melting beneath him; surrendering. He knew exactly what strings to pull to make her back arch upward and for the moans to come spluttering past her lips. Relentless in his conquest too. Lapping, biting, sucking, growling at the tenderness found at his mouth for him to devour, for him to conquer, for him to storm into surrender. And, just as she felt the guilty knot brimming inside her, he pulled away with a mellow kiss, a stark contrast to the earlier ravaging. Inching back up to place his throbbing cock at her drooling pussy. Planting his hand on her chest, just between her lungs, her useless fists weakly banging at his arm as he steadied himself. His other hand gripping his cock to better place it against her.

Her eyes wild and frantic as they looked up at him, shaking her head hysterically. “Katsuki, please-” Was enough for him to push inside her, all in one quick thrust, feeling her tight walls pulsate against him. He intended to go in slowly, but she was sending him over the edge with all her begging. To both their surprise the sound that escaped her sounded oddly pleasurable and not as though she was being defiled. Something in between the mix of a gasp and a moan, only barely a wince embedded into the wet noise.

His whole length inside her, feeling the warmth of the snug fit wrapped around him. She felt as though she could feel him up in her throat, as she choked. Her head spiraling, ascending.

His mouth hung upon, eyes closed in euphoria. “Fuck-” He pulled out slowly, letting her feel every muscle, every ridge, every vein of him inside her. Almost all the way out, he snapped forward again and this time she made a moan so pure, so sweet, so ambrosial. Again, he pulled back slowly as his hand dove to push down into the plush flesh of her breasts and started tweaking at her nipple roughly, pinching, her hands lazily holding onto his arm. She moaned so beautifully for him when he started lolling his hips into her, letting her get used to his size before increasing his tempo. “You take me so fucking well…” It was so far from ashamed, the way he groaned and moaned at her tightness enveloping him. As though made for him.

As it seemed her arms were rendered useless in the unwanted state of bliss she found herself lost in, he took the opportunity to grab under her knees and push them flat against the bed. This way, he could better slot his head in the crook of her neck as he started thrusting, rolling his hips into her harder and faster for each time he bottomed out inside her. His heavy balls slapping against her ass served as yet another lewd noise that filled the room, echoing off the deliberately barren walls. His ears perked up and perched right next to her mouth, all her little sounds so sheer for him to drool over.

She was again shocked by his painful thrusts back to reality, bringing her hands with her to push at his shoulder to get off. But, the tempo of which he now had adopted rocked her so violently, his weight unmoving on top of her. Her weak protests only aiding his determination to fill her up with his length. Her wiggles as well were constrained by his hands holding her thighs in place and only resulted in upping the friction and movement received by his cock pumping in and out of her. Her hands were her only means of weapons, as she made to scratch up his back in a feral attempt to make him stop, but he rather enjoyed that type of pain above what he would usually face in battle, it seemed in a strange way a type of affection he lusted for, especially when accompanied with her tight pussy clenching around his shaft, in what he thought of was needy and clingy and loving in all the right ways. “Pretty kitty has claws now, does she?” He chuckled, the labored breaths and grunts fanning over her chest, causing goosebumps to spread like wildfire on her skin. “Well… this wolf’s got fangs.” His bite sunk into her throat, on top yet slightly ajar from the previous bite he’d gifted her with. She wailed, quitting her terrorizing on his back, digging her nails into her own palms instead.

“Katsuki…” She moaned and he moaned in return at the sound of his name drip so sweetly off her tongue, removing the pressure his teeth had around her neck. “Please…” He licked up her throat, sucking up the taste of metal he’d made surface, biting at her earlobe when he reached it.

“Are those the only words you know?” He snickered in her ear. His weight nearly suffocating her, his thrusts so deep and so fast and so hard and so very crucial. “Have I melted your brain that much already, huh?” Groaning and moaning and grunting savagely into her neck. “That’s right… those are the only words you need to know. That, and telling me how much you love me, how much you adore me, how much you love being mine, how much you love my cock, how much you love it when I fuck you into oblivion…” He continued rambling, each word barked out as he pushed his twitching cock inside her welcoming warmth and comfort, her pussy pressing around him in a tight embrace.

“Please, Katsuki…” She said again, her voice a mix of a whisper, a whimper and a moan. “Go slower… please.” Her begging was so sweet, but he couldn’t possibly relent now, not when she clung to him like this, his body melting into her, her thighs sticking to him in sweat and juices, he needed this, she needed him, he wasn’t going to stop.

“Beg me some more.” It was low and guttural whisper, more of a prayer than a command. He couldn’t help it, not when she was clenching so tightly around him, sucking him in. Not when she was so wet, dripping, drooling, around his cock, just for him. She did as he said, begging with his name spilling from her lips. He responded by hoisting her one leg over his shoulder to free his hand, moving it down to her clit, thumb rubbing rough circles upon the highly sensitive spot. She gasped and moaned, clinging to him harder, saying his name again and again until he really couldn’t hold back any longer. Thrusting quicker and harder, building up into one last time with one loud and heavy moan, hitting even deeper inside her, emptying his balls into her quivering pussy as he nuzzled soundly in her neck. Heavy panting against sweat-slicked skin.

His drool coating her and running down her chest, relaxing to feel every bit of his orgasm, savoring it. He made a couple more, slow and careful pumps into her, feeling his cum drip down his shaft at each movement. She uttered something about how he was a monster, but he chose to ignore it in his bliss, keeping on rubbing those quick patterns over her clit, feeling as she wiggled under him.

Taking ahold of her throat, as he kissed down her chest once again, licking up the taste of her sweat. “Beg me.” His words were muffled into her skin. “You want me to make you cum?” The condescending tone was unbearable as his thumb slowed its friction against her clit, his cock still biting at the sweet spot inside her.

Nipping at her nipples, tightening around her neck when she tried to wrench his head off her. “Yes… please, Katsuki.” She clawed at his hand around her throat, but it only resulted in him tightening his hold. “Please, please, make me cum, Katsuki.” His grip relented, content with what he had reduced her to. Keeping his cock inside her, his thumb racing over her clit again and again until she came all over him, her back arching into him in the softest from of gratitude.

She whimpered, obviously disgusted with herself, while the both of them panted their hot breaths onto each other’s skin. “So… fucking perfect.” He continued circling her clit with his thumb, despite her growing panicked restlessness beneath him. “Just for me.” Moving both hands to wrap around her neck, he growled at her to kiss him back. She complied with a whimper, trying her best to compensate his hungry kisses. “Tell me you love me.” He pressed on her neck, as she started crying again. Her orgasm still crippling and waving through her, she didn’t even want to look at him.

When she didn’t answer, he decided to pressure her neck even more. Sniffling and choking, feeling the soreness sting in her throat both from his iron-grip and from all the sobbing and screaming she’d committed since Katsuki decided she belonged to him. She managed to force the words out with a strangled struggle. “I, I… I love you…” He stopped his tight hold, biting her lip. Her legs still held up with him placed between her thighs. Skin to skin.

“Say my name.” He commanded softly, resting his forehead against hers, enjoying the slippery of sweat between them.

“I love you, Katsuki.” Her large, shimmering eyes stared into his crimson ones, the scent of caramel more overwhelming than ever. He finally pulled his cock out and praised her as he climbed off. Settling in beside her instead, pulling her body into him, chin resting atop her head. She heard him say it back, feeling his cum seep slowly out of her, knowing that she should be expecting the same thing tomorrow.

She cried, too scared to sleep as she felt the unrelenting, low growling from the monster behind her.

PART ONE

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suspiciouslypinkrosegarden · 3 years ago

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Chapters 3-5 of The Passed Out Princess

Pairing: My CMC (Uyu, Dan Byeol) x Suit Saeran See all chapters

Description: On days 7-9 of Ray’s route, the player is denied food as “Saeran” makes his presence first known. But, what if MC fell very ill under this method of torture due to a medical condition? Sadly, my custom MC, Uyu (full name Dan Byeol), would deal with exactly this dilemma.

Warnings and notes found in chapter 1-2

Without taking a second to assess the situation, he began his tantrum, entering the room without even a knock out of courtesy.

“Finally getting what you wanted and you’re laying down on the bed as if nothing matters! You should be grateful I even thought to check up on you!”

The door shut behind him with a slam.

“Well then? Up. Get up, toy. I didn’t come all the way out here to watch you sleep!”

Saeran made his way over to the bed, almost in a stomping manner.

Uyu let out a small groan, attempting to pick herself up to look him in the eyes, disobeying one of his direct orders on purpose even now. With some shifts, she made her way to sitting up at the edge of the bed close to him with a slouch in her posture. Moving about to face him signaled her forehead to throb again, causing her to instinctively lift her hand to touch it beneath her bangs, a wince escaping her mouth.

“Is that all you’ve got to show me how much I’m making you suffer? Tch. Pathetic! You suck. Take more lessons from Zen while you’re chatting with him so damn much. Maybe he can at least teach you to cry on command for me. Didn’t you take theater classes before or something?”

The tall man in black towered over her as he spoke, icy eyes glaring at her through marshmallow colored fringe which fell over them in his lean forward. His lips curled into a wicked grin before he broke the awkward silence again.

“Well then...what would you like to refer to this issue as? Tell me. You must have weaved quite the story in preparation for my arrival. Out with it!”

Uyu mustered up some strength to mutter out a little of what he needed to know, embarrassed having to explain herself and call for his help when he appeared to be nothing but cruel to her.

He had shouted at her. He had shoved her a little. He had pinned her against a wall and trapped her like a wolf hunting a small, doe eyed rabbit.

And now, here she was teaching him about one of her medical conditions. Needless to say, she wished it possible to pretend it all wasn’t happening.

“..I have chronic low blood sugar. If...my hunger goes unchecked…..it just drops...my blood sugar I mean... and I get sick….it’s undocumented as there’s not much else doctors can do other than tell me to eat..”

Oh the shame.

“Pfft-”

Saeran cackled, loudly, higher in pitch, his voice reaching a part of his lungs that made it almost wheezy.

“Seriously? I hate how your list of problems is so long a fool might have believed you. You’re so damn weak. Say... I wonder...should today’s playtime be me dangling food in front of your face, then? Come on. Let’s get you to stand first, hmm? Then I’ll fetch you something sucky...like raw carrots...and you’ll hop for me like a pet bunny in desperation. I’ll even be so kind as to help you to your feet. What do you say, princess? Would you like that? A gentlemanly hand extended to you from your master?”

He reached down, pulling her hand away from her forehead and clasping it in his right, intertwining her small fingers with his long and slender ones. She shivered at his touch, him being so much colder than she was, as if his hand had been resting in a freezer while apart from her.

“...No...Saeran I might throw up again-”

“Sure you will~”, he cooed, bringing his face to hers.

“Where is that vomit, by the way? Did you oh so conveniently make it to the toilet so it’s all flushed away and gone? Haha...it’s hard to play with a toy who won’t even stand…so up! I’ll help you now, giving you that sweetness you oh so crave. On the count of three! One...two…”

Uyu shook her head as she attempted to pull back away from him, but her hand was still trapped in his firm grip, growing stronger as she attempted to resist.

“Three!”

Saeran gave her a jerk forward, the pull almost sending her to hit the ground before she caught herself on his arm.

“Wow! She did it! She stands! See that wasn’t so har-”

Dan felt the blood seem to rush out of her brain and downwards in a waterfall motion as that hot and cold chill returned. Her legs teetered as she lost balance, falling before grasping at him, ending up in his arms entirely, Saeran trying to avoid being knocked over himself. She let out a “brrr” noise as she shuttered, so dizzy the room felt as if it were doing somersaults and tumbles as it tossed her limp body around.

“Toy? Toy! What the hell kind of a stunt...”

Saeran pulled her away from him to get a better look at her as her head rolled to the side feebly. He held the woman out by her shoulders in front of him as if she were a little rag doll he wanted to shake back and forth to somehow bring life back into her.

“Start speaking to me! It’s not funny! You can quit the act now…stop doing that…”

His tone grew softer as the sound of a stiffness in the back of his throat made itself known, gulping as if swallowing a ball. He spoke again through gritted teeth.

“Not funny….I’m getting angrier….pull yourself together, toy…”

And with a little jostle from him, her guts felt a sudden whirl before a solid drop as did her head, the color black with spirals seizing her sight as she could no longer sort of keep herself upright. Saeran let go of her shoulders, feeling her whole weight lean in on him, catching her before she could fall.

Dan had finally blacked out cold exactly at noon, leaving Saeran alone, drowning in a sea of his own panic.

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

Saeran held her close to him for a minute out of shock, his captivating eyes wide, stunned and not wanting to witness what he was responsible for. With Uyu completely slumped into him, he maneuvered his arms around her to allow her frail unconscious body to lean backwards. He didn’t want to believe he caused her to actually pass out, supporting her with his left arm and gently caressing her soft cheek with the back of his right hand.

A part of him feared he had caused the unthinkable.

He spoke in a strained whisper.

“Princess…?”

Not to his surprise, he received no reply, not even the slightest sign that she was faking. He huffed gently as his bottom lip began to quiver...his underlying worry that she wasn’t indeed fooling him appeared now true. He pulled her close to his chest again, his heart hammering against her as he cursed under his breath, thoughts racing so fast he felt a headache of his own coming on.

“Shit….”

Saeran went down onto his knees, still cradling her as her head rested in the crook of his neck, scooching her so she was sitting on his lap. His heart hurt...it physically hurt...a crushing squeezing pain that made him want to rip it from his chest entirely. It felt as if a rose bush had wrapped its way around it, winding an elaborate cage of thorns which pierced through like a million needles; the prettiest rose wilted in his hands because he couldn’t give it basic sunlight and water. The rose which bloomed within Ray’s heart...unlike Ray, Saeran wasn’t a nurturing gardener. Screaming at a flower for not growing into what you wished it to become will do nothing. Or...was it that the flower had already blossomed as he tried to force it closed, back into becoming a bud? Either way, he could now feel the dryness of its shriveled petals as his first tear spilled down his hot cheek.

“You don’t seem so tough now…..aren’t you supposed to be able to handle what I throw at you?”

He pressed his face into her hair, the smell of her floral conditioner he once insulted overwhelming his senses.

With heavy shame and panic, the built up water in his tear ducts came trickling down in little glistening, frequent streams upon his pale face. He shook like a leaf in the wind.

“...I did it. I defeated you. Damn you. This was supposed to be better….feel better. I was promised this was what I wanted...but you made it too easy. I hate a lack of challenge...”

He lifted his head before scooping her up bridal style, carrying her to the princess bed to lay her down somewhere comfortable. Upon her back with her hair partially sprawled out behind her, her position resembled that of sleeping beauty, the one who cursed her to sleep as well as the one who could save her life sharing the same body. Saeran’s kiss could not wake her as the one who made her prick her finger on that spinning wheel, and her prince charming was gone, banished away as he could not stand the cruelties of the dark castle’s dungeons. Or at least, that’s how he felt; that he was acting as the Maleficent of this long tale.

He stared at her for a while, breathing rapidly as his chest puffed up and down, bewildered, seething and puzzled as to why this all hurt him so. His savior promised knocking Dan down was the way to go...after all, she corrupted Ray, disobeyed the savior and caused Ray to do the same, made Ray have to be cleansed...she was no good for him; a liar and a manipulator. That’s what his savior told him, and she was never wrong, was she?

He tried to take her state in again as he watched her, drinking up her lifelessness, pushing himself to feel positive about it. It was a good thing. This was a good thing. The savior might even congratulate him for this. He might even receive praise for doing the opposite as Ray had done, feeding her well put together meals despite not even having the time to sleep. Or, would the savior scold him for besting her too early? After all, she was still essential to bringing down the RFA, as useless as he made her seem to be.

“Yes, that’s it,” he thought. He HAS to make sure she’s ok so she can carry out her job. But why did it seem like so much more than that as he felt a soreness seeing her hurt? He put his hands in his hair, tugging at the white messy tufts by the roots as he audibly panted, feeling himself being sent into a frenzy of angry and confused alarm. He gasped and shook as his eyes glazed over and color drained from his complexion, internally feeling a tug a war between his yearnings and what he had been told. A few broken “ahs” and whimpers left his open mouth as Saeran stumbled backwards, bumping his heel on the bedside table with a thunk. His tears would not cease.

It felt as if no matter how he rationalized what had just happened, matching it to his savior’s wishes and words she whispered into his ears, he couldn’t find it within himself to feel successful or triumphant in any manner. He whipped himself around to avoid looking at the passed out princess, his gaze meeting a vase with fresh flowers left by Ray which she slept beside every night. This room was so full of her...so full of him...so full of them and their time spent together. With a loud crash, he knocked it over, the smashed bits aligning the floor as the water lay in a puddle, the flowers undamaged, surrounded by the mess.

He chewed skin off his lip, leaving it pinker and salty in taste. To avoid his savior’s disapproval, for acting so weak and for making Dan so ill, Saeran decided it was best to handle the entirety of the situation on his own. He licked away the bead of red hot blood, brimming from where he bit off skin before collecting himself to a degree to clean up what he had done.

He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror for a while, analyzing his features and making certain his emotions were concealed. He needed to hide his trembles and sobs if he were to re-enter the halls, wearing the iron mask of the strongest believer.

—————————————————————————————————-

Locking the door to keep Dan alone and safe, Saeran made his way around until he reached the place’s kitchen, keeping his head low to avoid the need to strike conversations or bark orders. The believers knew by now that his brisk walking and low hanging head meant no one was to disturb him, as he was probably doing something of importance for the savior. Same went for Ray, even. This made his trip rather quick and easy, even with the glances and stares he received in the halls. He paid no attention to the whispers which followed them.

“I’m hungry. Whip up something and make it fast. Doesn’t matter what as long as it’s got all the food groups and doesn’t taste like utter garbage.”

After Saeran commanded the Mint Eye chefs to get to work on a dish specially “for himself”, he pulled out his android phone to do a quick Google search on what might help with Uyu’s condition. From that he was able to piece together that candy and sugar can help provide immediate relief, for just a moment, as it would spike her blood sugars.

“Do we still have any candies around here? I want a few of those.”

“Yes Mr. Saeran sir...there are some mint candies and chocolates in the cabinet by your head…to the right. We got them recent-”

“No need to point it out and ramble. I know my way around the kitchen. Next time, just a simple yes unless I ask you to say more.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mint Eye was rather used to not seeing Saeran or Ray at meal times unless the savior requested him to attend and sit by her side, so to them, him taking his dinner to go was more normal.

He opened the white cupboard door, seeing numerous clear jars they’d set out on display during meal times. He shoved his hand into the chocolates first, taking it out empty then deciding to go for the mints, remembering “the little thing can’t have dairy.” Grabbing a solid handful of the sweet safe for her to eat, he shoved it all into the pockets of his dark suit, then leaning against the wall, eyeing the chefs at work.

As Saeran himself requested a meal, it was going to be elaborate and made by a whole team in an effort to please him, worry that a mistake could send them to be cleansed acting as a great motivator. Two people off to the right made small garlic potatoes while another two prepared a red wine sauce, to go with the steak a different believer was making. This did not include the last pair, which made stir fried vegetables, one cooking and one cutting.

The kitchen was quiet apart from the sounds of the sizzling, chopping, and stirring; Saeran swallowing saliva as his adam’s apple rolled up and then down, feeling the weight of the fear the room felt towards him. Many times, he saw that kitchens were depicted as being so loud and fun, full of life and chatter unlike this one. Saeran commanded authority and respect, yes, but none of these people would even dare say more than a yes sir no sir to him, let alone smile and act friendly. Would they even smile and talk if he wasn’t there? Or, was joy something this place had always lacked, him just now noticing because of the horribly confusing pit in his stomach at the moment? For the most part, he was on his own, the kindness he received from the savior being all he had to look forward to. And it was always enough for him, as the anxiety he provoked just being in the same room as the believers usually filled him with glee. But then...Ray found someone else who’d show him sweetness. A different kind of sweetness. One that would make his face hot to the touch and heart glow, as if he were under the bright blue sky getting a sunburn, sugary treats melting and dancing on his tongue with new flavors he just wasn’t used to. It was nerve racking and yet so energizing at the same time, something to look forward to as he snuck around to see Dan for so long. Saeran at least could say he found her words to be rather interesting, keeping him on his toes the brief time that they properly spoke together. And by brief...he meant three times. That dork passed out after they had only talked to each other three times.

He was used to the feeling of people trying to tear up his body and soul with their nails from the inside out...but not in the way she did. She at least spoke such honeyed words and phrases, sugar coated in such an unlike recipe as did the glaze which covered his savior’s. Even when telling him something harsh, Dan clarified that his best interest was always in her mind. Ray wished for more of this as he asked her to wreck his head outright. A foolish thing really. Or so Saeran was told.

“Umm...Mr. Saeran...your dish is ready.”

He picked up his stare from the floor to the believer now speaking to him as his train of thoughts were broken off. No matter how much of a display he tried to put on, his mind was somewhere else, somewhere it shouldn’t be. Thinking about someone it shouldn’t be.

“Yes, good. I’ll take the plate to my room as I’m very busy with my important work. Bring me some silverware and a napkin. And a water bottle. And cover the food so it stays warm.”

“Yes sir. For eternal paradise.”

“For eternal paradise..”

The kitchen staff said nothing to his face about the redness which surrounded his mint eyes and the tip of his nose, but behind his back was a different story.

Next chapters All chapters

#ray mystic messenger #suit saeran #saeran x mc #saeran choi #Uyu #Dan Byeol #mystic messenger cmc

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suituuup · 4 years ago

Note

When Beca Mitchell is diagnosed with MS, she agonises over what it will mean for her career and more importantly, her relationship. But if there’s one thing Chloe Beale knows for a fact, it’s that nothing, including MS, will get in the way of their love.

for better or worse

Rating: T

ao3 link

Multiple Sclerosis.

Beca blinks at the doctor’s words as she sits in his office, the news shaking her to the core. The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of medical tests ever since Beca went to her GP after dealing for months with blurred vision, vertigo, pains in her hands, and general exhaustion.

She didn’t think much of it at first. Work has been crazy since the start of the year and Beca’s been too excited about Chloe’s pregnancy to focus on her state, but Chloe has been worried it might be more serious and insisted she got some tests done.

Beca’s heard of MS before, but isn’t sure of what it means or if there’s a treatment for it. “What-- um… How is that going to affect my life, exactly?”

She suddenly wishes she’d said yes when Chloe offered to take the afternoon off to come with her to this appointment, because she really needs a hand to hold right now. Beca assured her it would be fine, that it was probably nothing.

But now… she’s fucking terrified.

It doesn’t help that her doctor doesn’t have time to answer all those questions barreling into her brain at full speed, instead sending her home with a few pamphlets and the number of a specialist.

Beca’s walk home is a complete blur, her feet carrying her on auto-pilot back to their building complex. She spends the rest of the afternoon online, researching whatever she can on the disease. Her panic only grows the more she learns about it, and when Chloe steps through the door an hour later, Beca’s still sat on the couch with her computer propped against her thighs, pamphlets and handwritten notes sprawled around her as she stares blankly at her screen.

Two words have etched their ways into her skull.

No cure.

“Babe?” Chloe asks as she takes off her coat, hanging it by the door. “What did the doctor say? I got worried when I didn’t get a text after I got out of surgery.”

Beca snaps out of her daze, her gaze finding her wife’s as she rounds the corner to their living room. Chloe’s eyes drop to the documents laying next to Beca, and she takes it between her fingers, her silence deafening as she reads the title.

“Oh my god,” she eventually croaks out, her trembling hand blindly reaching out for the back of the couch as she lowers herself on the surface. “You should have called me.”

Beca shrugs. “I know you were in the middle of surgery,” she says quietly, puffing out a breath as her eyes roll towards the ceiling to keep from crying. “So this really fucking sucks.”

She knows a dozen of questions if not more are hindering Chloe’s ability to think right now, much like they did to her back at the doctor’s office, and Beca reaches across the pamphlets to cover Chloe’s hand.

“I have an appointment with a specialist next week, she’ll answer any questions we have.”

Chloe visibly swallows, blinking away the moisture in her eyes. “Right, okay.” A few tears slide down her cheeks despite her efforts to get rid of them, and she hastily wipes them off, swearing under her breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Beca requests softly, squeezing her hand. “I know it’s a lot.”

Chloe shuffles closer, draping her legs over Beca’s and snuggling into her side. “I love you.”

Closing her eyes, Beca basks into the comfort only her wife’s affection can provide. She knows whatever’s ahead of her, they’ll figure out how to live with it. “I love you, too.”

The next few weeks and months don’t bring much change to Beca’s daily life. She’s still tired and achy, but it doesn’t prevent her from going to work and getting the job done on her many projects. She can tell Chloe is trying her best to be supportive without crossing to the overbearing side of things.

Her first relapse shows up six months after her diagnosis. It starts with blurry vision towards the end of her work day and dizziness throughout the evening. She retreats to bed around seven and sleeps for twelve hours, waking up in more pain than she’s ever felt before. Her limbs feel exceptionally heavy and tingly all over, and it takes Beca a few minutes to realize the bedding underneath her is damp, and so are her pajamas bottoms.

Humiliation washes over her in a cold sweat when it dawns on her that she peed herself during the night. She can hear Chloe in the shower and is determined for her wife not to find out about that shameful episode, attempting to get up to change the sheets. Her body is not agreeing with her though, and the simple act of sitting up is too much for her weakened muscles that she soon gives up altogether.

The reality of her disease crashes into her all at once, the emotional turmoil she’s been trying to push down over the last few months spiraling in her chest like a tiny tornado. She bursts into tears right there, ugly sobs wrecking her from the inside out as she curls up into a fetal position.

“Baby?” She feels a hand on her arm and burrows deeper in the covers. “It’s okay, let it out.”

“I can’t get up,” she eventually manages, opening her eyes to find Chloe staring at her in concern. “I can’t get up.”

“Oh, babe…” Chloe strokes her hair gently and leans in to kiss her forehead. “I’ll call your work, okay? Tell them you’re not feeling well. You stay in bed, I’ll be right back.”

It takes Chloe a few minutes to do so, and she comes back with a glass of water which she sets on Beca’s bedside table.

“Do you want to eat anything?”

Beca shakes her head faintly. “Chlo…” Her chest tightens with shame. “I need to get up.”

“No, you don’t. Work can wait, alright? You need to take care of yourself first.”

Beca shakes her head once more. Even finding words is exhausting. It feels as though her brain is all fogged up. “I wet the bed.”

Realization and brief shock flash in Chloe’s eyes, but she quickly recovers. “Okay, that’s okay. I’ll help you up and change the sheets, alright?”

Beca whimpers; Chloe is her wife, not her caretaker, she shouldn’t have to do this. But It’s not like they have much of a choice right now.

“Come on, I’ll help you into the shower.”

With Chloe’s help, Beca manages to slowly shuffle towards the bathroom. She sits down on the toilet, more tears leaking out of her eyes as she takes in her current state.

“Hey,” Chloe whispers, kneeling beside her and cupping her cheek tenderly. “Nothing to be ashamed about. It’s not your fault.”

Beca remains silent, keeping her eyes fastened on the bathroom tile.

“I’ll go grab a chair so you can sit in the shower, okay?”

“K,” Beca mutters.

Chloe returns less than a minute later and helps Beca undress, then helps her into the shower. Beca is thankfully strong enough to wash herself so Chloe doesn’t have to do it for her, though it feels like a work-out of its own.

“Chlo?” She calls out ten minutes later. “I’m ready.”

“Coming!”

Chloe’s obviously seen Beca naked more times than Beca can count, but not like this; frail and weak and unable to fucking take care of herself. She wraps a large towel around Beca’s body and guides her back to the toilet.

“I took today off, too,” Chloe says as she rubs Beca’s skin dry.

Beca wants to argue with that, but she can’t; she doesn’t know how worse it’s going to get throughout the day and doesn’t feel like she can deal with it on her own.

“Thanks,” she croaks out, sniffling. “‘M’sorry I’m like this.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Chloe murmurs, glancing up. “You hear me?”

Beca puffs out a breath and eventually nods. Chloe helps her put on a clean pair of pajamas, long sleeve shirt and a hoodie, and Beca settles down on the couch with a blanket, preferring to be in the living room.

She weaves in and out of sleep for the next few hours, waking up just after lunch claiming she’s not hungry. She does accept the herbal tea Chloe makes her, and Chloe settles at the head of the couch once she’s done drinking it, Beca propping her head onto her lap.

“Maybe you should think about telling your boss?”

Beca has avoided doing so since finding out, because she didn’t see the point of making a bigger deal out of it than it was up until today.

“I know, I just…” She sighs. “I’m afraid the label might give me shitty projects if I tell them. What I’m doing right now, it’s been my dream for so long, Chlo. And I finally have it and now--” She inhales sharply, forcing the lump in her throat back down. “I’m terrified it might crumble. Not only my job, but our marriage whenever it becomes too hard for you and--”

“Baby,” Chloe interrupts softly, stroking Beca’s forehead with the pad of her thumb. “That is not going to happen. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that,” Beca croaks out. As much as she wants to believe Chloe, neither of them has a crystal ball to predict the future. “We don’t know how bad it might get. I could lose my sight, or not be able to walk anymore or-- we have a baby on the way. I just, I can’t be a burden to you.”

“We’ll learn to live with it,” Chloe murmurs, sliding her free hand in Beca’s. “This is all so new, we need to find our footing. You just started your treatment, and the relapses aren’t going to last forever. We’ll find professional help for whenever you do have them, and losing your sight or ability to walk is not going to make me love you any less, Bec.”

Beca swallows. “Promise me you’ll put yourself first if it becomes too much, okay? Promise me.”

If the disease were to ruin her life, Beca doesnt want it to ruin Chloe’s or their child’s as well.

“Okay, I promise,” Chloe whispers, blinking back tears. “I love you so much.”

Beca closes her eyes, letting those words wash over her. “I love you, too.” She twists her head to press her lips to the gentle swell of Chloe’s belly. “And you.”

She’s bedridden for four days, and requires the use of crutches for a week after that as her balance is really off. There’s no more avoiding possible in telling her boss about her condition, but he proves to be incredibly understanding and reassuring about Beca’s future with the label.

Over the next few months, she works with a personal coach to strengthen her balance, and finds a neurologist who specializes in MS. It takes a little while, but they eventually manage to find a treatment for which the side effects aren’t too heavy and which considerably slows down the progress of the disease.

Chloe is incredibly supportive, not that Beca is at all surprised, and somehow, learning to live with MS brings them closer and strengthens their bond.

She relapses a few months after Micah’s birth, and Chloe’s parents move in for the couple weeks it lasts as Beca can’t do much to help out. Micah’s presence keeps her from falling in a depressive state over that lapse of time where getting out of bed is difficult, as her entire right side is paralized. He often naps with her, or hangs out on she and Chloe’s bed during tummy time, his smiles and gurgles keeping Beca afloat.

“Hi,” Chloe whispers as she rounds the corner, hearts flashing from her eyes as she takes in the scene before her. Micah is fast asleep sprawled across Beca’s torso, his fingers curled around loose fabric from her top.

“Hey,” Beca attempts a smile, though it comes out crooked as she can’t control the right side of her mouth. “How was work?”

Her speech is slurred, too, but Chloe manages to understand her most of the time.

Still clad in her scrubs, Chloe gently climbs into bed, settling on her side beside her family. She kisses Beca’s cheek. “It was alright. I missed you guys, though.”

“Missed you, too.”

“My parents just went out to get groceries,” Chloe lets her know. “How’s my sexy pirate doing?”

Due to vision loss in her right eye, Beca wears an eye-patch to lessen skewed vision. She should regain her sight once she’s in remission.

“Feeling very unsexy,” she replies with a soft chuckle. “Same old. My leg’s been tingling though so that’s progress.”

“You’ll be walking again soon,” Chloe states, smiling softly. “And the three of us can have a fun day at the park.”

“Mhm, that sounds perfect.” She sighs as Chloe’s head finds her shoulder, and twists her head to kiss her hair.

As Micah grows up, he learns that sometimes his Mama has “bad days”, which means she can’t get out of bed much. One of his things whenever he’s home during those times is to move his toys to Mama’s room and play quietly on the floor so she’s not lonely. He also naps next to her and reads stories to keep her entertained, and sometimes wears an eye patch when she has to, so he can be a pirate himself.

He and Chloe are Beca’s sunshine, always there to battle the clouds with smiles, laughter and hugs, whenever they get too dark.

#bechloe

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ombreblossom · 4 years ago

Note

Whatever you do don’t open your eyes” for the prompt!

So, I’m not entirely sure what one says before posting fanfiction on Tumblr, but here we go! This is decidedly not horror at all, but uh. Maybe more fitting for something posted on the eve of Act 3, which will inevitably destroy us all.

I’ve never posted fanfiction before, and this is the single longest creative work I’ve ever written, fanfiction or not. Not to mention I haven’t written anything creative, really, in almost a decade. All this said, I hope you enjoy!

The Ins and Outs of Surprises

Content warnings for panic attacks, dissociation, and tooth-rotting fluff.

Summary: In which Jon has a little bit of a rough time with knocking and then goes on to have an unquestionably fluffy evening. Featuring: kitties, the author projecting mightily onto Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist (as is tradition), good-natured teasing of everyone involved, and loads (and I mean loads) of affection.

(An AO3 link will be added to a reblog.)

Jon whipped his head up from his laptop screen at the loud knocking on their front door. This was a situation in which The Beholding would have unhelpfully supplied information about acute tachycardia and panic attack onset signs—if he and Martin hadn’t averted the apocalypse and banished the fears, at any rate. They could scarcely believe their luck some days, could scarcely believe that they’d both managed to live to see an after, to see time march on once more unperturbed by cosmic terrors.

These days, Jon had to recognize the symptoms of an imminent panic attack and allay them himself. Well, Martin helped, kind and loving soul that he was. That Martin had stuck around after they’d ceased being two of a handful of fully conscious people left in the entire world was another thing Jon couldn’t believe sometimes, but he couldn’t be happier that he did.

The knocking continued to barge in on his thoughts every several seconds as he sat stock still at his desk, flanked on both sides by bookshelves filled to the brim of his and Martin’s books and various knick-knacks: Polaroids of the two of them with their friends leaned up against the spines of their books, souvenirs purchased from museums around London, and a collection of small ceramic cats of different breeds and colors. A brief vision of everything on those shelves coming tumbling down in what is solidifying as an inevitable scuffle ratcheted up Jon’s anxiety even more.

He was tempted to get up and look about their flat for anything that could serve as a weapon, but there wasn’t much other than perhaps a chef’s knife, dull with constant, loving use, that Jon was likely to find, and he was just as likely to harm himself with it as the intruder. Jon’s hands found their clumsy way to his upper arms, gripping them tightly enough that surely there’d be half-moon divots left where his nails bit into his skin. His chest was starting to feel tight, as if someone were sitting on it in spite of Jon’s verticality.

On one hand, he wished desperately that Martin were here because surely they’d be much more capable of taking on an impending intruder together now that Jon was “powered down,” so to speak. On another hand, he was so grateful that Martin wasn’t here to possibly get murdered. Better him than Martin, who’d been through so much (and largely on Jon’s account).

All this, and someone was still loudly rapping on the front door. The regularity with which the knocks came didn’t suggest an urgency or an immediate threat, so why hadn’t the knocker announced themselves? Maybe this mystery person was just trying to get his attention? But who could possibly know The (former) Archivist lived here? Was this even related to his status as Doom-Bringer? Jon remained in his seat where he’d been sending correspondence to the copyright holders of the next drama he was arranging for his theatre club to perform, paralyzed by indecision and a million swirling questions.

The person demanding his attention pounded their door once more, but this time a voice rang out, clear as a bell in crisp winter morning air.

“—you please open the door? I had to leave my keys in the car!”

His heart stammered and shuttered in his chest—much like Jon himself when he was excited, talking in stops and starts about the latest subject that he’d found interesting, but there was everything wrong with this kind of excitement. Martin had always found it endearing, or so he claimed, but he was sure he wouldn’t find this endearing, seeing Jon wavering on the precipice of panic. Jon, mouth gone bone-dry, croaked a response: “M-Martin?”

A little louder, Martin shouted, “Are you there, Jon? I don’t remember you saying you were going out today.” He audibly jerked the door handle, clearly checking to see if the door was locked. Even knowing who was on the other side of the door didn’t stop Jon from panicking. All sorts of gruesome scenarios danced through his mind. What if someone was using Martin to get at Jon, making it seem safe to leave their home only to ambush him once he was exposed?

Suddenly, all noise outside stopped, and this sent Jon spiraling further. He hadn’t really been taking note of his breathing this whole time, but he felt the encroaching fuzziness that he knew came with dropping oxygen levels.

“Mar...tin?” Nothing still. Martin hadn’t returned yet. Gripping his cheap particle wood desk that carried none of the same gravitas his elaborate oak desk had at the institute, Jon stood up. It was a precarious thing, his legs shaking and threatening to send him to the floor if he moved too quickly, but he needed to know what happened to Martin.

Just as he had been about to take his first wobbly step toward the door, Jon heard the faint sound of a key sliding into a locking mechanism. In no time at all, his dear heart was in front of him, saying something Jon couldn’t parse.

“—okay to touch—Jon?” He sounded worried for some reason, his voice pitching up just that little extra bit, something Jon knew happened when Martin felt powerless in the face of someone in danger.

Where was the danger? Who was in danger?

Something light brushed against his shoulders and stayed there. In the back of his mind, he was sure Martin had meant it as a comfort to focus on instead of the menacing fuzziness. “Why don’t you sit down, Jon. Everything will be all right. Hey—hey. It’s okay. Just sit down, love, and breathe.” So Jon did.

For a while, he drifted, sightless and senseless save for the tightness in his chest.

When he came back to awareness, Martin was there; he’d pulled another chair up close to Jon and pulled him into a loose embrace, loose enough that Jon could escape with very little effort if he needed to. Soft shushing noises filled the room.

Jon lifted his head from its position buried in Martin’s chest and immediately lost himself again in Martin’s eyes. Dark and speckled as soil and just as full of life. Jon had read enough comparisons to celestial bodies in his lifetime (and made similar comparisons himself once upon a time when their relationship was new and Jon had no idea how to close the distance between them, so up on a pedestal Martin went) to think them useful now. Martin’s beauty didn’t come from being a lonely, unreachable, incomprehensible light in the night sky. Martin was beautiful for far more mundane reasons. He celebrated life and the ups and downs of it all. He sowed seeds of happiness whenever he could and hardly anyone left his presence the poorer. Certainly, Jon recognized, he was somewhat biased, and, no, Martin wasn’t a perfect human being and had his bad days when being around people was too much to bear, when he’d snap and sneer and hide, but those bad days were fewer and further between as time went on.

Martin was talking to him, as it turned out. Maybe he should pay attention to that? Push through the words upon words criss-crossing and overlapping in every direction and orientation. Like microcurrents in the ocean just off the coast of Bournemouth. He’d been warned off from swimming too far from the coast by his grandmother when he was younger. Not that he would have regardless (too many tourists, too many people looking to see only what they wanted to see of his shore-side city), but Jon’s wanderings only made her more fearful of what lurked beyond their small bubble.

Focus, Jon. Focus.

“Are you with me? I’m starting to get more worried here.” Ah, there’s the helpless sarcasm.

Not able to speak just yet, he leaned back, loosening Martin’s hold on him. Without really comprehending the in-between, Jon’s arms wrapped around Martin’s middle. There was a rather inviting spot on his chest that perfectly pillowed Jon’s head when the opportunity arose, but now wasn’t the time. He’d be lost for hours in the comfort of it all. Instead, Jon looked at him.

“I’m with you,” he said, the gravel that rumbled around in his throat more pronounced than usual.

A full sigh blew out of Martin as he glanced away from Jon. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I totally forgot about the knocking….” This was when the guilt set in. A momentary indulgence, Martin told him once when the world was still Wrong. Time to put a stop to that.

One of Jon’s hands pulled Martin’s face back into view and stayed flush against his cold cheek. “Martin, it’s all right. Most days it wouldn’t bother me, but today…. Something about today has me a little on edge. It feels like something’s about to happen, but I don’t know what.”

Martin still looked worried. “Something is happening today, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Mirroring his gesture, Martin raised his own hand up, thumb following the path of Jon’s cheekbones, gently passing over the scars left by Jane Prentiss’ worms.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. I promise it’s a good thing, though. No traps, no ulterior motives, no earthy manifestations of eldritch fear entities. It’s completely terror-free!”

“You promise, huh?” Jon said with a teasing lilt.

“I mean, as long as you discount the constant low-grade terror of living in a city with several million people and where anything can happen to you at any time.”

“I must say, Martin, you’re exceptionally reassuring today.”

“Thanks! I try.”

Jon just hmmed.

With a hand still stroking Jon’s cheek and the worried look on his face softening by degrees, Martin said, “How are you feeling?”

Jon took a moment to honestly assess himself. He’d been trying to do that more often since distancing himself from the institute and everything it had represented to him. No more unreasonably late nights of work when he could just as easily spread his work out over the next day or several, and even when he couldn’t, Martin helped him make sure he stopped working no later than seven o’clock each evening. And while his pushing aside his bodily needs was a complicated matter with multiple causes, he’d been working on communicating when he needed to rest, when he was on the verge of pushing past his limits. (He’d been slowly coaxing Martin to do the same, though he’d just as often brush it off when Jon brought it up to him.)

After some examination, Jon replied, “I’m a bit tired, I suppose, but I’ll be all right once I get moving again.” He half-smiled at Martin, hoping to convey a sense of earnestness. Martin trusted him, he knew, and would take Jon’s words at face-value, but it didn’t hurt to lay it on thick sometimes.

The hand on his face was so soft. So pleasant a feeling it was, Jon nuzzled his face into that hand, eliciting a light-hearted giggle from Martin.

“Well, then,” he started, “Up we get! I’ve got something to show you. It’s a little chilly outside, so let’s grab your coat.”

Jon looked puzzled. “Outside? What’s outside?”

Martin gasped loudly. “It’s a surprise, Jon! How could you possibly ask me to spoil a surprise? The sheer audacity—I can’t believe it,” he exclaimed, clutching his chest and a look of profound offense on his face, completing the ensemble of mock outrage.

A warmth settled in Jon’s chest. This silly man was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, no matter how long that ended up being. He let himself be overcome with affection and took the hand Martin had been using to stroke his cheek and brought it to his lips, placing a sweet kiss onto his palm.

“Oh, Mr. Blackwood, whatever can I do to repay you for this betrayal?” Jon crooned, that sloppy half-smile morphing into something a bit more mischievous. He would take any opportunity he could get to coax Martin’s infamous blush into existence, a handsome spreading of color across warm tawny skin, reaching as far as the tips of his ears.

With the expected flush rising on his features, Martin eyed Jon with a mixture of equal parts amusement, affection, and disdain. He gently removed his hand from Jon’s hold and walked over to their coat closet. “What you can do for me, Jon, is come over here and let me help you into your coat!” There was no heat in his words—no, Jon would tease that there was none left to imbue Martin’s words because it was stuck preciously under his skin—and Jon chuckled as he rose from his chair and followed Martin over walked over to where Martin was waving Jon’s pea coat in front of him expectantly.

“All right, all right,” he said, turning around to face the direction he came from, back to Martin, allowing him to guide one woolen sleeve then another over Jon’s arms. (Their bookshelves were intact, if disorganized, to his mild surprise.) Martin tugged on the collar, a signal for Jon to face him.

Though he managed to retain most function in his right hand, despite Jude Perry’s desolate flame ravaging it, it was sometimes painful to flex his fingers. Thus, it became customary for Martin to help him into his outer layers. Buttons were especially difficult some days, but Martin would grab Jon’s lapels and bring him in close enough that only several centimeters separated them and he’d fasten Jon’s buttons for him. Today was no different, though today it was more about the casual intimacy that underlaid the gesture than it was about the practicality of it.

Almost ready to face the damp cold outside, Jon asked, “What’s the rush about, Martin?”

A royal purple scarf suddenly in hand, Martin said, “Well, it’s getting late, and Georgie is still waiting outside with—well, waiting outside, and she and Melanie have a date soon, so we can’t keep her waiting.” Martin curled the scarf around Jon’s neck just so. “Not to mention how miserable it is outside. And I had to turn the car off to take the keys when you wouldn’t answer the door, so it’s probably cold by now, and….” He trailed off, looking at the ceiling with a far-away expression as if contemplating what else to tell Jon in this moment. “In any case, we are in a bit of a hurry, so get your boots on and let’s go!”

Aforementioned boots on and otherwise bundled up, Jon cocked his head to the side. “But, why is Georgie—” He stopped. He didn’t need to know right then. He knew Martin would answer his questions when he felt he could. This was knowledge that could wait. “Lead the way, then, dear.”

They turned toward the door hand-in-hand. Before opening the door, Martin looked back at Jon and said, “I meant it when I said this was a surprise, Jon. I want you to close your eyes and not open them until I say to, okay?”

The proposition of keeping his eyes closed for an indeterminate amount of time didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he trusted Martin. Before he could provide his assent, however, Martin pressed on.

“I know you don’t feel safe when you can’t see anything, but it’s only for a short walk to the car, and I’ll be there every step of the way to make sure nothing happens to you,” he assured.

Jon could let himself be caught in Martin’s gaze forever, sunny and bright as it was. Now wasn’t the time, he realized. Later on, Jon would lead him to their overstuffed couch by hand and drape himself over Martin and press kisses underneath the line of his jaw and down the line of his throat, as he knew Martin loved.

“I trust you, Martin.” Jon closed his eyes and used his unoccupied hand to gesture to them with a flourish. “Lead on.”

A blast of cold, saturated air assaulted them as Martin opened the door. Taking their first steps outside, Jon tried to place the temperature, figuring it was no warmer than five or six degrees. It was still kind of novel, not having the exact knowledge he was looking for beamed into his head without his consent.

“Hold on, Jon. Stay right here for a moment. I have to close the door. Don’t want our heating bill to go through the roof.” Jon did as he was told, resisting the urge to open his eyes in spite of Martin’s insistence and already missing the solid presence of his hand. As if he were the one with omniscience, Martin yelled back, “Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes!”

Thoroughly thwarted, Jon waited for Martin to take his hand again before moving.

They parted the slow-moving air around them as they walked. Not forceful enough to be considered wind in his book but enough to siphon some of the scant amount of warmth his body produced away from him. People breezed by them, heeled shoes clacking against the sidewalk and snatches of conversations not meant for them drifting in and out of focus. “You said Georgie was here, right? Where is she? I don’t hear her at all.”

“Georgie has been sworn to silence. Come on; we’re almost there.”

Martin pulled him forward, careful indeed to guide Jon around deposits of snow, soon to be gone, and depressions in the uneven sidewalk filled with slush. London and the surrounding area often got like this in the dead of winter; it didn’t snow overmuch, but when it did, rain soon followed, the temperature never remaining cool enough to sustain large amounts of snow for very long.

“Okay, Jon. We’re here. Keep your eyes closed for a little while longer.” Jon heard the tell-tale sound of a car door opening. The anticipation was roiling in him now; it was hardly bearable. He alternated between centering his weight on the balls of feet and then his heels—and back and forth—trying to dissipate some of the unease.

Just as Jon’s anxieties were building in intensity to a roaring crescendo, Martin spoke again: “You can open your eyes now, love.”

In front of Jon was a cat carrier—no mistaking it. He knew their shape intimately from all the hurried trips to the vet after The Admiral had gotten into food he shouldn’t have. The time The Admiral had eaten a sizable chunk of cold margherita pizza Georgie and he had left out on the table came to mind easily. Several frenzied Internet searches later, words like pancreatitis and anemia rolling around in their minds, they rushed The Admiral to an emergency vet. (It turned out that he hadn’t really eaten enough of the pizza to really worry about it, and the vet had a laugh at their expense, but the experience stuck with both of them.)

Someone had thrown a blanket over the carrier, making it difficult to make out what (who?) was inside, so Jon crouched down to get a better look. He could only imagine the look on his face right then.

A Maine Coon cat stared back at him, its amber eyes searching his and its head displaying a rich coat of golden yellows and deep browns. Jon was nigh speechless. “Who is this, Martin?” he whispered reverently.

Martin crouched down with him. “Well, as far as I know, she doesn’t have a name, not an official one anyway. I started feeding her a while ago on my way back from Tesco, and eventually she started following me back home. I wasn’t sure if she was actually someone’s cat or if she was a stray, so I always shooed her away before we got close to home.”

“That doesn’t answer why she’s here.” He wanted desperately to open the door of the carrier and run his hand through her fur, but Jon settled for poking his finger through the grate. The yet-to-be-named cat sniffed his finger from a couple angles and proceeded to rub her nose and face all over it. Jon nearly wept.

“I can answer that one,” Georgie interjected, having been nearly forgotten by the other two. She came over and kneeled down with them, eyeing them both with mild concern. “Remember those couple times Melanie, Martin, and I all took off while you were working? Well, this guy was waffling on what to do with Goldie here”—Jon mouthed “Goldie? Really?” at Martin, who could only shrug helplessly—“and came to Melanie and me, your resident cat parents, for advice.

“We discovered pretty quickly that Goldie was a stray, or at least not microchipped. That made the decision that much easier. I walked him through all the different tests he’d want to get done to to make sure she was healthy and spayed and all that. The vet figured she’d been a house cat at some point, seeing as she was fairly clean and decently-well fed, even taking Martin feeding her into account. But no microchip, no tags, and no other indicator of who she belonged to, and the several weeks this guy had been asking around the area to try to find her owners with nothing to show for it?”

Martin shot her a look. Georgie laughed, saying, “Oh, there was no way I wasn’t going to mention that. You talk a good game of resisting her charms, but you knew you were going to try to bring her home. You exhausted all your options trying to find her owners before we even showed up! The point is, we figured Goldie would find herself in good company with you two. Plus, I know how much you’ve missed The Admiral, Jon.”

This was too much to take in. He hadn’t been aware of any of this happening. In one sense, it was relieving: another piece of evidence to add the mounting pile that The Beholding had truly lost its grip on him. But how could Jon have missed all of this? Surely he joined Martin often enough in his London travels to have noticed him asking around about this cat.

“Hey.” Martin bumped their shoulders together. “I know what you’re thinking. I tried very hard to keep this from you in case it didn’t work out. I didn’t want to tell you about Goldie and get your hopes up only to find out that she had a loving family looking for her. And you’ve been so preoccupied with your theatre club’s new show; I wanted this to be a pleasant surprise.” Jon remembered the playbills scattered around his desk, a cursor left blinking, hovering over a supplicating email.

“You doing all right there, Jon?” Georgie leaned in closer to him, eyebrows furrowed. “We should get Goldie inside soon. It’s awfully cold.”

He’d heard enough. Standing up without warning, Jon waited for the other two to follow suit.

There was a moment when nobody moved.

In a (in hindsight) hilarious attempt to force both Georgie and Martin up to their feet, Jon grabbed a hold of their collars and pulled, not too hard as to choke but enough to make his intentions known.

Jon advanced on Georgie first and threw his arms around her shoulders in a tight hug. This was familiar; this was safe. It took them a long time to return to a place where they would love each other like this after everything. He’d thought once that it would be impossible, too many misunderstandings and too much unintentional harm a seemingly unending flood under the bridge of their relationship, but here they were.

Pulling away slightly, Jon pressed a brief kiss to Georgie’s dry cheek, a pleasant contrast to their overwhelmingly wet surroundings. He stared deep into her eyes and said, "Thank you for your part in this, Georgie. For helping bring—heh—Goldie to us."

Eyebrows shockingly close to the edge of her hairline and eyes wide, she stuttered out, "Oh! Yeah, sure."

He turned on Martin next, who stood stock still close by, watching the scene with rapt attention.

“Martin.”

Jon didn’t give Martin a chance to respond, stealing his words with a kiss. Several kisses, really, all short and soft and sweet, with little regard for location. Nowhere was safe: Martin’s nose, cheek, temple, jaw, hair. All had kisses laid upon them in pretty short order.

As if just realizing he had an armful (and lipful) of Jon, Martin pulled him in closer. “What was that for?”

Jon let his smile take over his face. “For all the kindnesses you do me—big and small, extravagant and simple, whether you believe them to be or not.” And he pressed one more kiss on Martin’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” he said. Wobbly, he continued, “Of course, Jon.”

Passersby walked around them. How Jon managed to forget this was a London street where people other than him, Martin, and Georgie existed was beyond him. He only noticed them at all because the chill of the languid London wind was starting to make a home in his bones. Better to work on getting everyone inside before the cold became too much.

“Where’s Melanie? I know she’d hate it, but I want to thank her as well.”

“Oh, Melanie would have loved to be here, if only to laugh at the hilarious conclusion of this rom-com movie plot we’ve all found ourselves in. But a meeting with one of the families she’s been working with ran late.” Melanie couldn’t talk too much about her work for fear of violating the confidentiality of the people she worked with, but from what Jon understood, she had essentially created a career adjacent to social work, in which she helped people living with the aftereffects of the fears’ full emergence reintegrate into society at large. She reasoned she was in a good position to help others shed the influence of the fears, given that she’d spent the last almost year before the Change doing the same.

Georgie clasped Jon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, though! I’m going to be telling her a~all about this.”

“Are you trying to give me a coronary? Melanie can’t know I have feelings.”

Georgie threw her head back and laughed. “Consider it our payment for the invaluable advice we provided throughout this harrowing process that Melanie will get to tease you about how disgustingly cute you two are later.”

The two bickered for a little bit like this as the sun sank further further beneath the horizon, Martin occasionally chiming in with support for whomever would create the most chaos. He may have been the love of Jon’s life, but Martin could still be a little shit when the mood took him.

Georgie was right earlier. It was cold and starting to get colder, and, frankly, all Jon wanted to do right now was pet this cat that he was legally obligated to rename to something more dignified. Something like The Duchess or Empress Dowager Cat or something else of equal stature would do. He’ considered having Martin help him decide, but if “Goldie'' was anything to go by, then perhaps it’d be better to leave him out of the proceedings.

Starting to move the blanket away from Goldie’s carrier, Jon said, “It’s about time we brought her inside, don’t you think, Martin? I’d like to get her settled in before dinner.”

Georgie stayed a couple extra minutes to help get Goldie, some food she and Martin had picked up for her on the way back, and a few toys into the flat. Jon offered to walk her to the tube station, and Martin offered to drive her back to the flat she shared with Melanie, but Georgie refused both and sent the two of them on their way to go bond with their new furchild.

As Georgie rounded the corner of their block and left their sight, waving to them all the while, Jon and Martin returned to the warmth of their flat. And there she was, lying against the grate of the carrier, not a care in the world. He and Goldie would become fast friends, Jon was sure.

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

Outerwear hung up to dry and boots neatly sequestered on their drying mat, it was finally safe to allow Goldie to explore their flat, which she accomplished in approximately 5 seconds, zooming around from room to room in a series of excited dashes. She stopped in the middle of the living room floor and made several pointed sniffs into the air.

Martin looked over to where Jon stood; he looked positively gleeful with a loose fist poorly hiding a still obvious smile. Frizzy fly-away hairs haloed around his head with some plastered to his face and the rest of his black, silver mottled hair in a hastily-done up-do. It was well known that Jon's hair expanded a good thirty percent in moist air, and today was no exception. It was so charming, seeing this man so unguarded, so unmade compared to his historically meticulous appearance.

Choosing this moment of loving staring to make herself known once again, Goldie wound herself in around their legs in figure eights, rubbing her scent onto their closes and purring loudly. Jon couldn’t stop the high keening noise that escaped from his mouth.

"Are you all right over there, love?" Martin snickered.

"Quiet, you."

Jon turned to face him. It didn't happen too often, but every once in a while, Jon would gain an extra depth of color in a delicate line across his nose and cheekbones, a warmer brown than what otherwise lived there. Martin was wholly pleased to see the color now, and that it arose from something he helped make happen made his heart soar.

"This is your fault, you know," Jon said mildly.

"What's my fault?"

He huffed. "These entirely embarrassing reactions I'm having."

"Oh, is that all? Sorry that I can't find it myself to feel guilty, then. I happen to love all these embarrassing reactions you're having." Placing a kiss on Jon's temple, he continued, "You're adorable when you're like this, you know."

"I know you think that, you incorrigible man."

“You are!”

Jon laughed fondly at this. “There’s no sense in arguing with you about this, is there?”

“Not really!”

Seemingly sensing the end of their dispute, Goldie plopped herself down on Jon’s foot. It didn’t seem possible that she could purr any louder than she was a couple minutes ago, but Martin’s life had always taken one look at his expectations and summarily ignored them.

“Are you seeing this, Martin?” Jon whispered, the awe in his voice unmistakable. “Her Most Esteemed Empress Dowager Cat has deemed me worthy of her attention. I am honored to be in her presence.”

It took everything Martin had in him to not bark a laugh at that. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t quite hear you. What are we calling our cat?”

Their cat. Their cat that they’d be taking care of and cuddling together. Somehow the thought hadn’t occurred to him before, and it threatened to make him speechless now.

Jon muttered indignantly, “Like your name was any better.”

Martin gathered Jon into his arms easily, despite Jon’s defensive posture.

“Why don’t we come up with a proper name for her tomorrow. We’ll call her Goldie for now”—Jon started to protest, but Martin pushed on—“because that’s what she’s been answering to, but let’s just make dinner and enjoy her company tonight, hmm?”

A short moment later, Jon replied, “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

They debated the relative merits of whipping up a quick curry versus spending a bit more time on a soup with a homemade broth and eventually decided on the former. The sounds of chopping potatoes and the clinking of glass jars containing garam masala, turmeric, red chili powder, cloves, star anise, and everything else necessary for aloo kurma spread throughout the flat. And if Goldie leapt onto the kitchen counter once or twice, knocking over bowls of ingredients and leaving inordinate amounts of fur in her wake, well. That was just fine with them.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #georgie barker #fanfiction #rosy cheekx #ombre answers #ombre writes #panic attacks #dissociation #friends tag #ombre writes fic

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