#you can see me consider whether i should go with yellow or stick with her og color but i decided on yellow ultimately

[thisisyouridol]

aiba for my au :)

[thevindicativevordan]

On Kong Kenan/Super-Man

It should've been him. He should've been the Superman of 5G/Future State/right now not Jon, and he should be the one getting an HBO Max series not Val. Hell he should be getting a movie!

God this dude is literally the best legacy character Superman has ever gotten, wholly his own person with his own lore and status quo while still building on the idea of "Superman". I am so pissed at DC for essentially just dropping him after his ongoing ended, what the hell Lee? You keep trying to make the Wildstorm characters happen, I need you to get my man Yang another Kenan book.

Have to admit I was a bit nervous at first about whether or not Kenan would be a worthwhile character. Yang's New 52 Superman run had been a disappointment to me overall, with only the the arc where Superman has underground wrestling matches against forgotten gods really sticking with me. Now he was introducing a brand new Superman? Didn't feel like he had "earned" that yet. But from the first issue I was hooked on this new character.

Kenan was unlike any other member of the Superfamily. He wasn't kind or sweet, he was an asshole! He was a bully! He was fantastic! Right from the start Kenan was set up to undergo a very different kind of character journey than the other members of the Superfamily. Empathy, humility, respect for people weaker than himself, these are all traits most heroes wearing the S-shield already posses by the time they first don the crest, but not Kenan.

Like all bullies he was even a bit of a coward himself at first, trying to bail on the experiment meant to give him Superman's powers right as it begins. After "saving" Lixin (the kid he bullies and steals lunch from every day) from Blue Condor he demands all the money Lixin has on him as payment. He's not courageous or selfless either at the start, Kenan is as much of an opposite of Superman as you can get short of being Bizarro. Learning the appeal of these traits formed the basis for his growth over the course of his series.

Seeing Yang bring in a lot of recognizable "Superman" elements in the series, but with a twist, was also great. Kenan is the one who bullies "Luo Lixin" rather than the traditional Clark/Lex friendship of Pre-Crisis and Birthright. Initially Kenan develops a crush on intrepid reporter for Primetime Shanghai, Laney Lan, but she dismisses him as too young and Kenan eventually ends up pursuing Avery Ho (Flash) instead. Baxi the Bat-Man of China has a similar relationship with Kenan as the traditional Superman/Batman in terms of being vitriolic best buds, however Baxi is the one who has the most respect for authority while Kenan is the rebel. Kenan is a part of the "Justice League of China" which does not meet with the approval of the already established Chinese superheroes, the Great Ten. That contrasts nicely with the good relationship the Justice Society and Justice League have, as well as seeing Yang lampshade the "Chinese copy" trope and incorporate that into his storytelling.

One of the funniest differences is how Kenan chooses to immediately reveal his identity as Super-Man to the world by taking off the compliance visor he was forced to wear, contrasting with Clark's choice to hide his identity. He was so eager to impress people that he never gave any thought to the danger he could put himself or his family in by revealing his identity until it was too late, something Clark is well aware of and has taken great pains to keep his identity secret. Was a missed opportunity for DC to have Kenan comment on Clark copying him for once when he outed himself under Bendis.

But one of the most poignant differences between Clark and Kenan is the gulf in separation between their relationship with their parents. Clark has a loving relationship with Ma and Pa Kent, trying to live up to their lessons as best he can. In contrast Kenan's mom was believed to have died in an airplane crash when he was just a child, and he never really knew her. His father was distant from him after that and the two weren't really close despite Kenan's attempts to impress him. So Kenan lacks that strong connection while still clearly loving both of them.

Pa Kent's death is one of the most tragic examples of Clark's love for his parents, and I've always been a fan of takes where Clark promises his father to fight for the powerless on Pa's deathbed. Kenan gets a similar scene at the start of his career, his dad "dies" (after being exposed as Flying General Dragon, a pro-democracy "supervillain" from the Chinese authorities perspective) and wants Kenan to promise he'll fight for Truth, Justice, and Democracy. But because Kenan's dad never really bonded with him, Kenan doesn't know what those mean, and can only promise that he never wants to see people die, something his father takes comfort in at least. In classic comic book fashion it's revealed that Dr. Omen, Kenan's "boss" and the one who gave him his powers, saved Kenan's father, because she is Kenan's mother! Kenan's relationship with his parents forms a lot of the crux of his character arc, and seeing how Yang utilizes the classic Superman concept of family kept the storytelling exciting.

Yang's brilliant exploration of the concept of "Superman" through the prism of Chinese culture was a great way to differentiate Kenan as well.

I absolutely freaking love how he tied to the concept of Qi to the S-shield in particular. Connecting the shape of the shield with the way Kenan has acquired his powers along the path of the Bagua (eight trigrams used in Taoism that represent the fundamental principles of reality), with his octagon S-shield outline representing all eight principles together, was mindblowing! So was the idea of restricting Kenan's access to his powers unless he was actually acting in a Superman manner, that tied his character growth to his power growth in an entertaining manner. There were so many characters and concepts that meshed Chinese and DC lore together, like how Emperor Super-Man was Kenan's "Doomsday", they even recreated that iconic dual kill shot! The Chinese Wonder Woman Peng Deilan, being based on the Chinese Legend of the White Snake! There was even some Korean mythology referenced with the Aqua-Man member of the JLC "Dragonson".

Yang also managed to do a Superman Blue/Superman Red story with Super-Man Yin/Super-Man Yang!

Shameful that it took me a while to realize what Gene Yang was doing but once I caught on I was touched. You can tell how much Yang loved Superman and his mythology, and how he was excited to incorporate as much from Clark as he could, while still using it in a way that was solidly Kenan's. And not just Superman's mythology, but the history and lore of the entire DC Universe. I-Ching got to be brought in, fleshed out, and used as Kenan's mentor! The "Yellow Peril" villain from Detective Comics #1, the comic DC gets its name from was brought in and revamped as I-Ching's twin brother All-Yang! Hats off to Yang for taking a racist caricature and attempting to make him into something more.

This series was a beautiful attempt by Gene Yang to build a space for Asian heroes and villains where they could be more than stereotypes, Kenan himself being a defiant mold-breaker in every regard as the complete opposite of most Asian characters in Western media (a jock, a bully, loves his dad but not on great terms with him, a powerhouse as a hero, etc). So much thought and hard work was poured into this by Yang and his team of artist collaborators.

Especially the costumes, man Kenan had so many great looks. From his starting outfit (which is my favorite Superman variant not worn by Clark himself), to the one with the Yin/Yang shield he acquired later on, to his Super-Man Yin & Super-Man Yang outfits, Kenan looked damn cool. Part of me is bummed they didn't go with the Chinese character shield they toyed around with, but I loved how Yang used the "s-shield" as a plot point, so I'm not too broken up over it.

All that great work Yang did to build that space up has been more or less forgotten sadly. It was nice to see Kenan in the DC Asian Month Celebration issue. Avery is going to be in Justice Incarnate at least (unsurprising considering she was created by Williamson). So fucking bummed that Superman Family Adventures cartoon didn't happen, they were going to have Kenan and John Henry Irons in it! Would've been a dream come true for me to see Irons in animation again, and Kenan making the jump to outside media! Maybe that would've encouraged DC to let Yang keep writing New Super-Man, or at least encouraged them to use him elsewhere instead of allowing him fall into Limbo.

Unfortunately I'm not sure what the future holds for Kenan. Jon is being pushed as Clark's replacement in the comics, with DC keeping all the other contenders such as Kon benched. Calvin is leading the Justice Incarnate team likely due to the upcoming Coates reboot that will make Clark black. Val will probably get something once Taylor leaves Jon's book or once they officially announce the HBO Max show is happening. So where does that leave Kenan, my new favorite PoC legacy hero? Currently my only hope is that Yang is working on something for DC involving him. Yang left Batman/Superman, where I was hoping to see a Baxi/Kenan team up, to go work on "exciting other opportunities" per his Twitter. So fingers crossed that there's something in the works for Kenan!

One day I hope he gets his day in the sun again.

[sabraeal]

Consider: Obi is green-red color blind

A Color by Any Other Name

Written for @aeroplaneblues for a surprise birthday gift! Many months ago she mentioned wanted to see a colorblind Obi, and I said, WELL WHAT A GOOD EXCUSE TO WRITE THIS PROMPT JOANNA GAVE ME. I hope your birthday is a good one, filled with a lot more nice surprises!

“Are you ever going to introduce me to your guard friends?” Suzu asks around a mouthful of dumpling. “Or are you embarrassed?”

To say Obi is unprepared, would be an understatement; there’s a pork bun lodged between his teeth, his gloves not only coated in pig grease but also far less effective against steam than he’d thought they’d be back when he’d just grabbed a plump little blob off the stall. He’d laughed off Suzu’s concerns about protective equipment; after all, if smiths use leather gloves, they’ve got to be just as good as an oven mitt.

They aren’t. Not to mention the roof of his mouth starting to have a real good think about peeling off and having a vacation. Maybe even with someone who doesn’t eat entire dumplings straight from the basket.

“Wha?” he manages eloquently, nearly drooling spicy meat drippings onto the street.

“I know I’m not cool like they are,” Suzu continues, warming to his new thesis. If his sudden flush of confidence is any measure, he’s spent more of time composing his arguments for this than Obi’s ever seen him work on his actual defense. “And I’m no good with a sword. Or fists. Or really any implement that isn’t a scalpel, and any opponent that isn’t already anesthetized. But I am very smart.”

There’s a thoughtful pause before Suzu adds, “Some people do enjoy that, you know.”

What Obi knows is that this kid tried this conversation on for size in front of Yuzuri, and she didn’t even bother to warn him as a courtesy. See if he buys her any more meat-on-sticks when she’s ‘left her purse in the lab’ now.

“That’s not--” he takes a hurried minute to swallow-- “not what’s happening. I didn’t...”

Even know you knew I didn’t work for the pharmacy. His teeth clamp shut around that winner, and its friend, I didn’t think you lot would want to hang out with a bunch of men without degrees. Not only would that encourage Suzu to make a scene right here, right now, but if it got back to Jirou-- well, if he thought Suzu could turn any day into a disaster, the lieutenant would make that seem like a vacation.

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” he settles on instead. Similar enough in feel, if...creatively edited. “You scholar types tend to flock together.”

“Well, sure,” Suzu murmurs, stymied, “but we’re friends too, aren’t we? If all my friends are your friends, then all your friends should be my friends.”

Only an academic could talk about arithmetic with that amount of confidence, especially the kind that involved transitive properties and letters, and all sorts of things that made Obi’s head spin.

“Well,” he hums, one boot scratching his calf. “You would know.”

Suzu whirls on him, staring down his long fox-snout of a nose. “You mean it? You’ll really...?”

“Sure. If that’s what you want.” He twitches his shoulders, more casual than he feels. “It’s fine if it’s you.”

There’s always been a lazy lilt to Suzu’s eyes, but it disappears now, all the sleepiness gone to surprise. “Me? You wouldn’t want to bring anyone else?”

“Well, definitely not Kazaha.” The glares he’d get bringing that twiggy pedant into the guardhouse might be enough to drop him dead on the spot. “And Yuzuri would be too popular.”

Suzu grimaces. “The number of admirers she’d get from a wink alone...she’d be unlivable.”

He can see it now, her ponytail bobbing with a buoyant glee, giggling through every painstaking penned line from her fan club-- “Think of all the bad poetry.”

“Honestly, that might make it worth it. At least I’ll feel better about not knowing the difference between a quartet and a quatrain.” Suzu takes a thoughtful bite of him bun. “And you couldn’t bring Shirayuki, of course.”

“Right.” Not a one of them could be trusted to keep their lips sealed; she’d hardly have to take a breath and someone would call her Obi’s lady, or ask how they met, or whether she’s still Mistress behind closed doors--

But Suzu wouldn’t know any of that. “Wait, why?”

“Well...” He has the grace to look chagrined about it, whatever it is. “You know. Her hair...?”

“Oh.” Obi shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

“You guess?” Suzu stares. “Shirayuki has a non-zero amount of stories about being kidnapped for looking like a candied apple, and you guess there might be a fuss about bringing her ‘round to the guardhouse?”

“Well, none of you acted weird about it,” he snips, hiding his annoyance behind a bite of dumpling. “There’s no reason they will.”

“Of course no one at Lilias acted weird, Obi!” he squawks, arms flailing as he talks. “You couldn’t pay them to look at anything but their own project. But when a bunch of normal men with eyes and, uh, other working appendages see a cute girl with red hair and a soft voice, they’re gonna go crazy!”

His palm hooks around his shoulder, thumb digging into the hard knot at his collarbone. “Aw, come on. It’s not that special.”

“Not that--?” Suzu whips around, eyes round as dumplings. “Obi, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen with red hair.”

“You don’t get out much,” Obi deadpans. “No offense.”

“That’s not--” Suzu grunts, throwing up his hands-- “She’s the only person anyone’s ever seen with red hair!”

“Her dad’s is kind of red.” That observation wins him an unimpressed look, one that says you’re missing the point. “And Yuzuri had blue hair when I met her. That’s way more interesting--”

“It was dyed!” Suzu wobbles over to a wall, sitting with his head in his hands. “Shirayuki has a hair color so rare that the birth records in Clarines haven’t noted it in more than fifty years! And you think Yuzuri dying her hair with woad is more impressive.”

“Well, even her natural color is brighter than Miss’s. Not--” he waves a hand between them, quelling-- “that Miss’s hair isn’t nice enough. But I’d think that people would pay more attention to that.”

“...Brighter?” Suzu murmurs after a long moment, stilted. “Obi, could you tell me what color that sign is, right over there?”

“The one for the tea shop?” He wrinkles his nose. “Why--?”

“Just...indulge me for a moment.”

“All right.” He squints up at the moon cresting over a wolf’s head. “Blue.”

“Right, and, um, that coat over there.”

“Yellow.”

“Right.” Suzu’s voice is tight, stressed. “And what I’m wearing?”

Obi squints. This one’s a little harder, but he’s confident when he says, “Green.”

“Ah, right.” Suzu stands, a unsteady on his feet. “That would explain that, then.”

Obi blinks. “Explain what?”

“Obi,” Suzu begins, with all the gravitas of both a grim prognosis and a terrible joke. “You can’t see colors.”

*

It’s not the first time Obi’s played hound to his prey’s fox, but there’s something distinctly unsettling about it being Suzu that leaves him lagging behind, unsure of himself. Especially with the way he scurries through the concourse, bounding toward the mess hall with this idea caught between his teeth like chicken feathers.

“I can see colors just fine,” Obi informs him with far less confidence than he’d like. “Some of them are just hard to tell apart. Weren’t you and Yuzuri arguing yesterday about whether salmon is orange or pink?”

Suzu waves a hand at him, dismissive. “That’s different. Salmon’s both orange and pink, and what color it looks most like has to do with the composition of your eye-- and it’s pink by the way, with orange undertones--”

Between the two of them, Obi knows who he’d trust to know their colors. “Uh-huh.”

“You can’t make out red and green, which is different entirely, and--” the doors to the mess burst open beneath his hands, a noise lost in the din of a hundred scholars trying to share the same table-- “YOU GUYS WON’T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST FOUND.”

The whole of Shidan’s lab-- minus the man himself-- have taken up right by the door, bags and coats piled to save them their places on the bench. Suzu makes short work of the pile on his seat, haphazardly shoving them to the floor as he sits.

Kazaha peers at him and ventures mildly, “A new way to avoid finishing your thesis?”

“No,” Suzu hums between his grit teeth, “but I have found out--”

“I don’t think we need to do this,” Obi murmurs, handing Miss her muffler. “It’s not--”

“Obi,” he intones with far more gravitas than his name has ever strictly deserved, “can’t see colors.”

“Not at all?” Kazaha turns those sharp eyes to him, like he’s a specimen under glass. “Just black and white?”

“I can see just fine,” Obi huffs, tossing Yuzuri her coat before he slides onto the bench, knee knocking into Miss’s in a way that puts his heart through its paces. “Suzu is just making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Is that so?” he hums with a grin. “Then what color is Shirayuki’s hair?”

He stifles a sigh. It’s best to put all this to bed now, before he’s stuck playing what’s this color for the next two years. “Red.”

“What’s the point of this?” Yuzuri yawns, already bored. Obi shoots her a grateful look, glad that at least one of them isn’t going to play Suzu’s game.

It’s too bad he’s already puffed up with unearned confidence, like an evolutionist at a botany lecture. “And what’s the color of Ryuu’s cloak?”

He knows it by heart-- how could he not, when the two most important people in this city wear matching ones-- but still Obi glances up, anticipating a trick. Ryuu stares back, confused and guileless. “Blue.”

“Great, good.” Suzu’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Now what color is your scarf?”

Obi’s fingers knot in the fabric, the weft tickling the pads of his fingers. “Well, it’s...sort of reddish, isn’t it?”

This is the wrong answer.

“It makes so much sense,” Yuzuri murmurs in wonder. “You really don’t know how ugly Suzu’s outfits are. That’s why you still hang out with him.”

“Hey!” Suzu pouts. “That’s not very nice.”

“No, that has nothing to do with color, it’s the cut.” Anxiety spikes through him. “But wait, it is red isn’t it? My scarf?”

“No,” Miss murmurs at his side, cheeks flushes. “Obi, it’s...it’s green.”

He stares down at it, trying to imagine what that might look like. “Green.”

“It looks very nice on you!” Her small fingers wrapping in the fur at his elbow. “It’s your color, really.”

“Oh, sure,” he murmurs, faint. “I guess it matches my eyes.”

“Hey, what do you mean ‘it has nothing to do with the color?’“ Suzu’s hands fly to his hips, brows drawn tight over the long line of his nose. “My clothes are just fine.”

“They aren’t.” Obi leans in next to him, grin feeling thinner than it should. “But I hang out with you anyway, which means you know we’re really friends.”

Kazaha rubs at his chin, where his ode to Shidan’s goatee is failing to thrive. “You know what this also explains?”

Obi blinks. “What?”

“All the black.”

It’s not Kazaha that says it, oh no. That would be too merciful for a mortifying moment out of his life. Instead it’s low and feminine, and when Miss Kiki leans out from the other side of Miss, it’s like a siren emerging from the depths, teeth bared to tear a man to shreds. “What an interesting thing I’ve learned today.”

“Miss Kiki! How--?” He gulps. “Why--?”

“I came to deliver a message from Wirant,” she drawls, too pleased. “And it seems I’ve earned myself a fine tip.”

“No,” he breathes. “You can’t-- you’re not going to tell Master, are you? Or Sir?”

“Oh,” she hums, looking particularly hungry for manflesh. “I certainly will.”

*

“Oh, there there.” Miss pats his back, the sensation lost among the dozen layers of clothing between them. “I’m sure Kiki won’t tell them, not until you’re ready! You asked her not to.”

“I think that just means,” Obi mutters, voice muffled by his arms and the wall he’s throwing himself over, “that she’ll just enjoy telling them more.”

“Ah...” He doesn’t need to see her to know her grimace. “Yes, that’s...probably right.”

He lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh. It helps a little. So does a bit of flailing.

“They won’t make a big deal out of it,” Miss says, changing tack. “It hardly changes anything! I’m sure they’ll just forget as soon as she tells them.”

He peeps one eye over his elbow. “That’s easy for you to say, you haven’t spent the last half an hour playing What’s That Color.”

“Well,” she wheedles, “they are scholars.”

Obi groans, loud and long, which doesn’t help; but it echoes out over the rooftops, returning back to him, which does.

“How...?”

Miss hesitates, a gloved finger pressed to her lips. He sighs, already braced for the onslaught-- how didn’t you know? how did you go so long without knowing your colors? how do you find people if you can’t even tell what hair color they have--?

“How did you notice?”

Obi lifts his head, unblinking. “What?”

“How did you notice?” Miss repeats, more firmly this time. “You’ve spent your whole life this way, haven’t you? It must have taken something really special to realize there was more than what you see.”

“Uh.” It’s nice that it’s darker here, that it’s cold. He has perfect legitimate reasons to be flushed. “Well, it was Suzu really. He mentioned that--” his teeth clamp down around his words, not letting them out without a hasty edit-- “that people think your hair’s pretty special, and I said I didn’t get why...”

Miss stiffens beside him, a statue that breathes, and he hastily adds, “Not that you aren’t special, Miss. It’s just, the red...”

“Right.” The words comes out stilted, strange. “You can’t see it. You actually...haven’t ever seen it.”

A silence settles on them like a wool blanket; not one of those nice ones at the castle, or the fleecy ones Miss stockpiles like one day the North might run out of sheep, but the itchy, coarse-woven ones of his childhood. Uncomfortable and smelling faintly of animal.

“So,” he coughs, fixing his gaze out over the city. “What did Kiki want?”

“Oh...” Miss shifts, mouth pulling into a guilty grimace. “She came to tell me that the Queen Dowager has invited me to dinner. Tomorrow night.”

His brows raise. “Well, well.”

“Don’t,” she murmurs, head giving the barest shake. “It’s not like that.”

“Are you sure?” He shouldn’t press, but if he doesn’t, no one else will. “After you told Master--”

“I told him a list of reasons why I thought I would be a better ally as a friend, and not as a...” Miss loses steam, letting her words sigh into the air. “I’d like to believe this has to do with my work with Phostyrias.”

He watches her, careful. “But do you?”

“I don’t know,” she says, which is as good as any no.

*

Obi’s barely stepped into the Protector’s solar when Master asks, “What color is my jacket?”

His head swivels, delivering a glare so flat carpets would be jealous. Miss Kiki only hums, shoulder lifting in a disinterested shrug. “I said I was going to tell them.”

Fair enough.

“It’s blue,” he deadpans, flopping onto the cushiest divan. He’s too long for it, his boots spilling off one arm a idling over the floor. “Apparently I can see that one just fine.”

According to Miss, at least; she’d unearthed a slip of a book from the university’s library, outlining the limits of his sight. Little Ryuu had pored over it for a day before showing up at his door, flushed faced and nervous.

Garrack always told me I had nice eyes, he’d admitted, lingering at the threshold. I was hoping you could see them.

Cross as he is about the whole thing, Obi can’t regret that. He might not have Miss’s hair, or Suzu’s coat-- thankfully-- but Ryuu’s eyes would always look true to him.

“But not red.” Master’s mouth twitches, far too entertained. “Or green.”

“I do see them,” he protests. “They just...don’t look very different to me.”

Just another shade of yellow and brown, if those books are right. Which they are, since he’d always thought so. Subtly different, like the way Suzu and Yuzuri fought over salmon, or Master and Miss Kiki would dither over chartreuse. Just enough that he’d been able to eke by on keeping his mouth shut and a fondness for black.

Still, there’s nothing worse than finding out something new about yourself this late in the game. Especially when--

“What about the curtains?” Master inquires. “Can you see those?”

--Especially when it’s so endlessly entertaining to everyone else. “I can see them,” he grumbles, sinking further into the cushions. “Just because I can’t see some colors doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

“Then what about the note?”

Obi rolls his gaze to where Sir perches at his desk. “Huh?”

“To our red-haired guest.” Sir coughs, a flush working its way up his neck. “It’s just-- you wrote that.”

“Oh, His Grace told me that one.” A lifetime ago, it seemed. “‘The red-haired girl, you’ll know her when you see her, I’m sure.’“

Master winces. Obi can admit his talent doesn’t lie with impressions, especially ones of dour old men.

“Right,” Sir presses, voice oddly tight. “But you don’t see-- I mean, how could you find a girl that looks just like everyone else?”

“Ah...” He grimaces, scrubbing at the top of his head. “Well, I just looked for the girl who didn’t belong. It--” he hesitates, suddenly aware of Master’s eyes on him-- “didn’t take very long.”

Master’s frown belongs above one of those prie-dieu, to remind penitents that forgiveness isn’t absolute. “What is that supposed to--?”

“So what does she look like?” No one could say that after a decade of dedication, Miss Kiki doesn’t know how to do her job; she deflects Master’s brewing sour mood with the ease of a professional. “What does her hair look like to you?”

“Uh.” He clears his throat, tugging at his collar. “I wasn’t lying when I said I bought my scarf to match...”

There is a stillness to the room that is too much, too pitiful. Much as he hated it, Obi would much rather be a joke than a charity case.

“Huh,” Sir grunts, gaze still fixed to his neck. “Now I wonder what we all look like to you.”

“Well, I sort of wonder what you all look like to yourselves.” Obi let a sigh float wistfully through his lips. “At least I know that me and Miss still have the same eyes.”

There’s silence again, but this one buzzes, filled with words no one dares to say.

“What?” he laughs, nervous, pulling himself upright. “Don’t we?”

Sir grimaces. “Ah, Obi...”

*

Miss is quiet when they walk the walls home that night, the winter stillness making the silence and heavy as any drift. Her mouth is pursed, not with anything like anger, but something closer to consideration. As if there’s words back there she’s sorting through, trying to compose a thought that just won’t come.

Well, she should know: she won’t get anywhere if she doesn’t air a few of them out to look at. “Something wrong, Miss?”

She blinks, shaken out from wherever she gone away. Her mind palace, maybe. Suzu’d told him about those once, with busts and painting and curtained alcoves. What she’d do with a place like that, he couldn’t imagine, but if anyone asked, he’d put his money on hers having apothecary drawers instead, and gardens too. The kind with half crumbled walls, ivies curled around every stone. Cluttered desks piled high with books, and one of them with curtain drawn to let its owner nap the afternoon away.

“Oh,” she breathes, finally. “No, no. Nothing’s, um, wrong. I was just...thinking.”

He lifts a knowing brow. “So something is wrong.”

“That’s not what I said,” she informs him, primly. “I was going over my meeting with Haruto, and...”

Her lips snap shut around the words, distress narrowing her eyes. “And...?”

“She didn’t know about my work,” Miss huffs, arms wrapping tight around her chest. “Or, she did, but only what Zen had told her. Which...”

Was far less than the whole of it. He’d heard that part of her argument that night, try as he might not to. “So she invited you as Zen’s ally?”

“No.” The word is colder than any he’s ever heard fall from her lips. “That I wouldn’t mind-- I’m still trying to be his ally, after all, and if she saw me as an asset...” She shook her head. “No, she wanted to meet his...paramour, even if she didn’t say as much.”

Obi grimaces.

“And even that wouldn’t be so bad if...” Miss took a deep, steeling breath. “When I came in, after all the curtsies and pleasantries, she said, your hair is just as red as he said it was.” Her knuckles are white where they wrap around her elbows. “All those years, all those letters, and the only thing he thinks to tell his mother is that my hair...”

The rest is lost in a sigh, a cloud of mist swirling off the wall.

“It must really be something,” Obi deadpans, gaze following it off the edge. “Since it makes all these people forget how smart you are.”

She’s watching him; he can feel it as she sidles up to where he stands, hands unclenching from her arms and splaying on the crenellations instead. “Obi, you really can’t...?”

Miss hesitates, falls silent. He lets her; she’s put enough words in the air to sort through, and now all she needs is time. Obi’s happy to give it to her.

Especially since there’s a rabbit down there in the dark. A small one, moving slow, hind legs churning like clockwork winding up. It’s nose digs into the snow, snuffling around, searching--

“Can you really see better?” Miss asks, startling him back to the wall. “In the dark, I mean. That book said you could.”

“Well, after the past couple days, I’m a little shaky on what’s normal.” He jerks his chin over the edge. “Can you see the rabbit down there? Right by that sapling?”

She blinks, pressing in close. “The what? It’s just...dark out there.”

“Well,” he says, grin tight on his lips. “There’s your answer.”

Miss settles back on her heels, one hand already cupping her chin. “It makes sense. Without the distraction of color, your movement tracking must be much more acute...”

Obi only half-manages to stifle a laugh. “Seems like it definitely distracts everyone else.”

Miss goes quiet; almost too quiet, enough to make his teeth sit on edge. The seconds tick by, and Obi might play at patience, but it’s not in his nature. He glances down, just from the corners of his eyes, but Miss is already watching him, eyes strangely shuttered.

“Obi,” she says, so clear his name rings in his ears. “You don’t...? My hair, it’s not...” Her mouth works, quiet, before she manages, “It’s not anything to you?”

Anything special, she means. Because that’s what he said so stupidly last night, nothing special.

She’d tied it up tonight, finagling the strange looping knots that were partial to the queen’s court, but already some of it’s worn loose, slipping from its pins. “It is,” he murmurs. “I like it.”

She huffs, unimpressed. “But you can’t see it, not really.”

“Of course I can see it,” he laughs, weary. “Maybe not the color, but that’s fine. I like it because it’s yours.”

She ducks her head, and Obi might not be good at colors, but he can see her cheeks flush in the lamplight.

“Miss.” Her gaze lifts to his, no longer shuttered, just full. “Can I ask you something?”

Her breath catches. “Anything.”

“Be straight with me,” he pleads. “We do have the same eye color right?”

*

“Obi!” Miss‘s laughter bubbles bright with betrayal as she hops down the stairs after him. “Obi, please--”

“Let me grieve, Miss,” he grumbles, hands shoved in his pockets. “I’ve been a real champ about the rest, but let me have this.”

“Obi!” She catches him round the wrist, mouth twitching as she turns to him. “Is it really so bad that they’re gold?”

“No,” he mutters sullenly, shoulders slumped enough that with two stairs between them, they’re nearly the same height. “It’s just...”

Her eyes flutter wide with curiosity. “Just...?”

“It’s fine enough that they’re unique.” He spits the word with more venom than it deserves. “I just I wanted this one thing in common.”

“In common?” Miss blinks. “You mean, me and...?”

Obi would lay down his life for his mistress, but even she can’t ask him to do this, to lay down his pride for her to walk on.

“Oh!” She flusters, limbs fluttering in the air between them. He’s half-tempted to turn away again, but she grabs his face and holds him steady, her cold, slender fingers caught behind his jaw. “Just-- just one moment...”

“Miss?” he wheezes. This is entirely too close, too much--

“Yes!” He breath flutters over his lips, her own parting in a celebration of teeth. “That’s it. I see it. There’s a little, right there.”

He blinks. “A little what, Miss?”

Her teeth flash around the word, “Green.”

It’s cruel to throw a starving dog a bone, but he snaps it up anyway, heart nearly clogging up his throat with hope. “D’you mean it? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Really,” she promises, her nod serious and officious as any she might give Little Ryuu. “There’s a thread, right around the middle. Green. Just like mine.”

“Oh.” His own hands raise, leather muting the feel of her skin, but-- Master always told him about the red thread that bound him and Miss together, that drew them toward their fated meeting, but this-- Obi will take this too. “Thank you, Miss.”

She smiles, eyes shining bright in the lamplight. “No, Obi, it’s my pleasure.”

Not much different between green and red to him, anyway.

[watermelonlipstick]

Dean’s Jeans 2

What better day to post a sweet little family oneshot than Mother’s Day? This is the same setup as Dean’s Jeans, just a different late summer afternoon on your cul-de-sac with Dean, Sam, your daughters, and their cousin DJ. I already have bare-bones drafts of a few other installments for these cuties, especially considering this one got a little deeper than I had intended. Stay tuned!

Title: Dean’s Jeans 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 5561

Summary: Spending the afternoon working on the driveway with Dean, Sam, your daughters, and nephew.

Warnings: fluff, some family angst, minor injury, little dollop of smut at the end

           It was a big day for driveways and garages.

           You had been sitting in the apron of Sam’s drawing loopy pastel paths with DJ and your eldest daughter for your youngest to roll her cousin’s old matchbox cars down, watching adoringly as everyone’s palms and knees got covered in chalk dust. When the concrete was relatively full and the older two started getting a little antsy, you decided to try to stave off any bored bickering ahead of time.

           “Babe, is our garage unlocked?” you called over to Dean where he was trying to snake an extension cord out of Sam’s front door and down the porch.

           “Should be. Why, what’s up?”

           “I thought maybe DJ could take Picasso here over to the park to break in her new bike.” You turned to your nephew, sitting with his arms resting on his knees. He was just barely starting to fill out around the delicate Winchester features that had made him such an angelic looking child, the angle of his jaw seeming to sharpen every day, growing rapidly though you might still be able to throw him over your shoulder in a pinch. Hopefully it was a sign that he wasn’t destined for the late puberty you knew had frustrated Sam so much when he was younger; at least he could have one gift from his other parent, lost otherwise to the wind without as much as a periodic birthday card. Not the time for that thought, you reminded yourself, refocusing on the child’s glossy hair, carbon copy of his father’s with sun-lightened tips this late into summer. Dean would’ve taken him to get a haircut about a month ago, but as you and Sam both reminded him: not his hair, not his kid. It made you smile and likely made Sam proud that at his age, where so many kids were rebelling against their parents, DJ didn’t mind looking exactly like his dad. Somehow you had a hard time believing Sam would want to rush that process of teenage rebellion along. “What do you think, Deej?”

           Your elder daughter squealed and threw her arms around his neck, nearly tackling him onto the driveway. “Please please? Maybe Sarah and Davey can come too.” Her inclusion of the Fiore siblings into the mix was smart. They lived between your cul de sac and the park and were pretty similar in age to DJ and your older daughter. You suspected she thought on some level that DJ was on the cusp of being too cool to hang out with his baby cousin, but hanging out with the Fiores as a group gave them a little more social grace. Hopefully she’d realize, as you had, that DJ absolutely adored her and would likely rather catch some flack from his peers than drift apart.

           “Yeah but I’m not carrying your bike up the hill if your legs get tired,” he grinned at his cousin, who immediately took off across the street to get her bike from the garage.

           Sam and Dean had to move their whole setup from in front of Sam’s garage door so DJ could get his own bike out, the step ladder, extension cord, and electric drill going into the lawn next to the rest of their project, the basketball hoop. He almost got to the end of the driveway, swinging his leg over the seat, before Sam stopped him. “Nice try. Helmet, please,” he called out after his son, who reluctantly dropped the mountain bike onto the pavement and trudged back into the garage to pull a sticker-covered helmet out of a box and throw it on his head. By the time he made it into the street his cousin had done the same, yelling out over her shoulder for you to Mommypleaseclosethegaragethankyou as she tried to pump petite legs to keep up.

           You were thankful that your youngest seemed to be fully engrossed in the chalk patterns on the driveway and hadn’t seemed to notice the other kids’ leaving, not interested in having an argument about whether she was too little or not to go with them alone. Trusting the older kids or not, she was small and curious in a way that led to her sometimes running off to explore, and you didn’t want to add that into the mix. After a while, she picked up the green again, moving up the driveway to draw a picture of a dragon and immediately swipe hair out of her face, covering it with fluorescent dust. She got to her feet, and the amount of colorful powder on her made you beyond thankful that it was Dean’s turn to give her a bath that night. Crossing the driveway in a few skittering steps, she wrapped herself around Dean’s legs, practically leaving a silhouette imprint of herself on his jeans as he ruffled her hair. The way they had worn out and lost much of their dye over the years highlighted the contrast.

           “Daddy, come look! It’s a dragon!”

           Dean and Sam exchanged a smirk and Dean winked at you. “A dragon? Sounds scary.”

           “No, he’s a nice dragon,” she insisted, grabbing his hand and dragging him down the driveway, leaving Sam to drill holes into the wood above his garage door.

           “A nice dragon, huh? What’s his name?” Dean asked, grinning as he let her lead him.

           “Maurice,” she said, so matter of fact it made you laugh out loud. Sam did too, pulling the drill out of the wall to keep from wiggling the holes. “Can you do the fire?”

           “’Course I can, princess. How big are we talking?” He eased down to sit cross-legged next to Maurice The Dragon, accepting when you offered him yellow and orange sticks of chalk. You leaned back in the afternoon sun with a lap full of matchbox cars listening to the radio Sam had brought out to the porch, the chalk scratching on the concrete, and the rhythmic drilling of holes into siding for a few minutes.

           “Dean?” Sam asked, backing down the step ladder.

           “Got it,” he answered, putting a little flair on a lick of fire that went around Maurice’s nose and handing your daughter the chalk. “I need to help Uncle Sammy for a minute but I can come right back, sound fair? Your mom is better at scales anyway.” The girl seemed to consider it for a second then pouted her lips out in agreement, tilting her head to the side just like her dad did all the time. Dean got up creakily and brushed off his hands on his back pockets, the orange joining the other stains like an abstract painting.

           “You guys need any help?” you called over to Sam, who was trying to stabilize the hoop with long arms and struggling a little bit to keep it balanced in the light wind, powerful muscles rippling in his forearms and impressing upon you how heavy it must truly be if even he was having trouble with it.

           “Actually, yeah, that would be great,” he chuckled, jerking his chin to Dean to suggest his brother help him hold it up. He did, grabbing one side and having to reach up to his tip toes to match Sam’s stretch.  They were both standing on a kind of bastardized stool Dean had thrown together for this purpose, a few planks of wood balanced on some huge cinderblocks that had been in the garden holding up one of Sam’s compost setups. “It’s just those 12 screws, holes should already be lined up.”

           You climbed up on the ladder with the drill, having to crane to reach over even with the added height. When the last was in, the Winchesters carefully removed their hands. Seeing that it didn’t immediately fall, Dean grabbed the bottom corner and tried his best to rattle it to no avail. “Good job, babe,” he said, lightly smacking your ass as you backed down the ladder.

           “Watch out,” Sam said over your shoulder, and you saw him walking backwards a handful of steps down the driveway, being cautious to avoid his niece and her drawings.

           “Dude, there’s no way you can—” Dean started, cut off by Sam taking a running jump and leaping into the air, catching the rim of the hoop like nothing and doing a baby pull-up on the metal.

           “Can what?” Sam cackled, punching Dean’s arm playfully as he dropped to the pavement. “Don’t be jealous, old man.”

           “Jealous of Sasquatch? You can practically reach it standing, Lurch.”

           “Yeah, okay. Let me know when you can get up there without a stool and a trampoline.”

           You were giggling as Sam and Dean started putting all their tools way when DJ’s bike came flying around the corner. Neither he nor his cousin were wearing helmets, and she was wrapped around his chest like a novelty monkey backpack, her legs circling his waist and her arms clinging to his neck. He had to arch around her to see, but you could tell from the half-block length away that he was saying something to her. By the time they got close enough to get reprimanded for the lack of helmets, or for one of their dads to ask where the other bike was, you could hear the crying.

           Sam crossed over to his son in long, purposeful strides, holding his handlebars so he could dismount without letting go of your daughter. “What happened?” he asked, taking the girl from DJ’s arms and smoothing her hair back with a soothing palm. As he turned, you could see the blood trickling down her raw knees and elbows.

           DJ was visibly rattled, trying hard to calm his breathing down and tensing his bottom lip when it began to quiver. “Davey and I went down that big hill and, she—she was going too fast, and, um, she fell—I, I told her we could practice later but these guys were saying only babies couldn’t do it, I swear I didn’t know she would—” and then his voice broke, fat tears finally breaking through and crashing down his face. Sam nodded to you and Dean, murmuring some comforting things to your eldest as he carried her up the porch steps into his house. At the exact same time as if practiced—that same rapid, implicit communication they’d had on hunts now used to coordinate hugging their children in tandem, you thought to yourself—Dean wrapped his nephew up in a big bear hug, cradling the boy’s head and sweeping his hand up and down his back.

           “Hey, come on, you’re okay. She’s okay, she’s just shaken up, kid. Shhh shhh shhh, hey, come on, deep breaths. You’re okay,” he hummed into DJ’s hair. He gave you a tight nod over the kid’s shoulder to keep drawing with your daughter. Only a few steps away, you could still hear him as he continued. “I’m so proud of you, Deej. Got her all the way home on your bike, that’s pretty badass.” He waited for a few moments of silence until his nephew caught his breath a little. “Probably scared you, right?” he asked, his voice low and calm as DJ nodded through tears into the growing wet spot on his uncle’s chest. “That’s okay, chief, I would’ve been freaked too.”

           You noticed he was rocking a little, almost like he did when he was trying to get the girls to sleep as babies, and it really emphasized the way that no matter how wise DJ seemed or whatever signs of puberty he might be showing, he was still a child, still the same baby you’d fallen in love with when Sam had gotten that call however many years ago. It took a few more minutes for the crying to subside to hiccupping breaths and seeming to sense that the moment had passed in some way, your baby girl grabbed your hand gently. “Mommy, is DJ okay?”

           “Yeah, sweetie. He was just scared for a minute.”

           “That’s why he needs a hug?”

           “Exactly. Everybody needs hugs sometimes.” Just as she had before when considering your ability to draw cartoon scales on a dragon named Maurice, she tilted her head and pouted in agreement. When you realized what she was about to do next you almost had to wipe a quick tear away yourself, watching her get up to hug DJ and sandwich him between herself and Dean.

           “It’s okay, DJ,” she whispered, the high tender pitch of her voice like one of those unsettlingly extreme medieval harmonies with her dad’s but so much sweeter, the bright welcome sting of lemon juice in a dense poundcake.

           A moment later, Sam came out onto the porch with his eldest niece. One of her knees was wrapped in gauze but the other and both elbows had what looked from the driveway like a collage of Spiderman band aids. Sam appeared to have a matching one on his forehead, and both of them were giggling, though her eyes still looked a little puffy and red.

           Dean looked up and turned DJ to see both of them, cradling the back of DJ’s head in one palm. “See? She’s okay, just needed a couple band aids.”

           Sam winked at his brother as he walked over and patted his son on the back, taking the band aid off his forehead as he went. “Buddy, we’re going to go grab the bike and your helmets. Is there anything else you think you left at the park?”

           His son shook his head up at his dad and leaned back from Dean’s embrace to rub his eyes. “Are you mad at me?” he croaked.

           “Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?” Sam asked, crouching down to a squat to look up at DJ. You had noticed he tended to do this in sensitive moments with all the children, trying his best to seem less looming. The first time you’d identified it, it made you a little sick to your stomach, realizing it likely wasn’t part of how inherently good he was with kids but because he knew what it was like to have an angry man towering over you. Thinking of it now had the same effect, especially compounded by the emphasis Dean had put on telling DJ he was proud of him even if his daughter had gotten hurt, that he too knew a protective kid was still just a kid.

           DJ sniffled hard once more, finally able to take a truly deep breath. “I didn’t wear my helmet home because I couldn’t see arou—”

           “Aw, DJ. No way am I mad at you.” Sam hugged his son and stood up, planting a kiss on his forehead. “I’m proud of you for getting both of you guys home safe. That was really smart, to get her on the bike with you like that.” You caught DJ’s tiny smile of pride at his father’s praise, watched it deepen a touch as Sam kissed his hair again. “So just the helmets and the bike?”

           He nodded and rubbed his eyes before peeking around Sam a little bit to see your daughter. “You’re really okay?” he asked, as though he didn’t trust the adults to be telling him the truth and would have to ascertain her safety for himself. You wondered if Sam and Dean would find that nice or insulting, that ultra-fierce, trust-but-verify loyalty.

           She nodded sort of sheepishly. “Sorry I didn’t listen about the hill, DJ.”

           “It’s okay.”

           The moment seemed a bit heavy for a half-second before Sam wrapped a big hand around your daughter’s shoulder with a reassuring smile. “Let’s go find that bike.”

           After helping Dean get his wheels back inside, DJ went up to his room. You had to resist the urge to follow him, cuddle up with him like you used to when he was small enough to tuck into your lap. If he wanted to be alone, he was old enough to decide that for himself. Dean put the rest of the tools and things from putting up the basketball hoop away and walked over to you where you were laying on the ground so your youngest daughter could trace your body with chalk.

           “I think we need a pick-me-up around here. How do you feel about i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m for dinner?”

           You smiled, knowing you only had a bit longer of these spelling secrets left as your baby got closer and closer to proficient reading age. “Works for me. I think we have 2 or 3 kinds in the garage freezer.”

           He smirked down at you. “Can you bring him over in about 15 minutes? They should be back by then.”

           You tossed him a thumbs up and watched him walk across the street, the way the denim draped around his bowed legs as he went.

           It was only five or six minutes later when Sam came up to the driveway, jogging alongside your daughter with DJ’s helmet in his hand. Of course Sam would know that she needed to get back on that bike right away, and of course he’d come up with something to make her laugh all the way home, even if that meant he had to run the entire distance on a late summer afternoon. He was slightly out of breath when he helped her dismount in the driveway.

           “My kid okay?” he asked, taking the other helmet so your daughter could go back to what was becoming a pretty spectacular chalk surrealist piece spanning the driveway.

           “He’s in his room, I think he will be. Your brother’s got a very Dean style plan for dinner in a few minutes if you’re hungry.”

           Sam looked down at his watch. “Yikes, I didn’t realize we were even close to dinnertime. Let me go wash my hands and grab DJ then we can go over together?”

           “Sounds perfect to me. And hey—Sam? Make sure he knows everyone thinks he did the right thing.”

           He nodded, and you watched his Adam’s apple jump in his throat as he swallowed hard. Sam reached down and squeezed your hand, saying thank you without reopening the situation in front of the girls.

           They came out a few minutes later, Sam in a fresh t-shirt and DJ looking a little more cheerful coiled into his dad’s side. You bundled up the girls and walked over to your house, tipping your head in thanks as Sam opened the door. The girls were the first to see the spread and took off squealing into the kitchen, where Dean had effectively set up a tiny ice cream shop on your kitchen island. Sprinkles of all different kinds, those 3 tubs of ice cream you’d been right to remember were in the freezer, syrups and whipped cream and cherries and bananas and even chopped up peanut butter cups and Butterfinger bars from the stash Dean hid from the kids. He was already handing out bowls before you got into the kitchen.

           “Ah, ah! Hands need to be washed before anyone gets ice cream,” you insisted, shooting Dean a look of teasing reprimand.

           He rolled his eyes to your oldest daughter, sending her giggling conspiratorially to the kitchen sink. DJ, presumably having already washed his hands at his place, helped your youngest daughter reach by picking her up to the faucet when her sister was done. You crossed over to Dean, kissing him on the cheek and grabbing his hands for inspection. “Babe, you’re literally covered in chalk.”

           “You should be happy about me getting some extra calcium,” he winked, sticking out his tongue at you as you grabbed his ass on the way to the sink. “Mrs. Winchester!” he said in a faux-scandalized voice.

           As you washed your hands Sam manned the ice cream scoop, doling out much bigger bowls than he would normally, seeming to know as Dean did that a little levity might help the events of the day pass faster. After all the kids doctored up heaping mounds of ice cream and toppings to beat the band, you and the Winchester brothers stood around the island while they piled onto the couch to find a movie they could all agree on.

           “How’s our champ?” Dean asked, keeping his voice low.

           Sam shook up a can of whipped cream as he spoke. “He’s okay. Just feels guilty, I think. He says he should’ve stopped her from going down the hill.”

           “You think any kid of hers would’ve let someone tell her she couldn’t do anything?” Dean ribbed, accepting the gentle elbow you hit his side with.

           “I know that, but you know what it’s like. I think once he sees she’s really okay and no one blames him then he’ll be fine.”

           “Poor guy. Feels like that Winchester ‘weight of the world’ thing must be genetic.” You were partly joking but also partly not and they both knew it, looking pitiful and pitying for a beat before trying to cover with smiles. “He’s a great kid, Sam.”

           “Pretty much feels like you guys raised him as much as I did, I should be thanking you,” he murmured, drawing a lattice of butterscotch syrup over his whipped cream.

           You snaked an arm around his waist and gave him a sideways hug. “No, we’re lucky you let us know him.”

           Sam bent over and pressed his lips to your hair. “Seriously, thank you. I’m—I don’t know where we’d be if we didn’t, you know, I mean if we—”

           “Don’t strain yourself, Sammy,” Dean smiled affectionately, giving Sam a merciful out. “Tell you what, I sure wouldn’t have made it in damn Themyscira without you two around.”

           Sam chuckled down at the counter while you disentangled your arms. You took the chocolate sprinkles from in front of him and scattered a few in your bowl. “Themyscira? The hell is that?”

           Dean set down his ice cream exaggeratedly and rolled his eyes so hard he put a backwards bend in his spine, holding onto the island to keep his balance. “Babe. Themyscira. Home of the Amazons? Wonder Woman?”

           “Riiiight. I forgot I was married to such a dork.”

           “As long as you don’t forget how this ‘dork’ makes you screa—”

           “Dude, enough,” Sam groaned, exasperated. Dean waggled his eyebrows at you as his brother followed into the living room with the kids, taking the opportunity of temporary privacy to slip his tongue along your neck where it sloped into your shoulder.

           “Dean,” you hissed playfully, pushing his chest away from you. “They’re in the other room!”

           “You taste like chalk,” he smirked, before holding your gaze for a gooier beat than you would’ve expected. His eyes softened and he glanced down. “Thank you for letting me—letting us—take that, today. I know you’re better at the Mommy Dearest stuff or whatever, but it sometimes feels like, ah, getting a redo?” He cleared his throat where it had gotten a little thick. “You know, um, like proving that it doesn’t have to be the same?”

           It was a specific vulnerability he doesn’t often let you see, but you could tell by the softness both he and Sam had with all the kids, how they beat themselves up for days if they raised their voice for even a second, that they both thought about it all the time. In so many ways they were still those same little boys who wished they could’ve drawn on driveways with their parents, that their dad could’ve given them Spiderman band aids and told them everything was going to be okay.

           He didn’t have to explain further, and you gripped his hand to tell him so. “They needed you two, not me. For what it’s worth, I think you guys were a pretty great team today.”

           Dean smiled, and it was almost like the sleepy thankfulness he had on those nights when he got home and you’d charitably done a couple of his chores for him. He closed his eyes in invitation and you leaned forward, meeting his lips with the smell of ice cream in the air. “So come on, Super Dad. Let’s go watch a movie with these great kids everyone keeps talking about.”

           The ice cream had gotten put back in the freezer immediately to keep it frozen, but the toppings had all been left out during School of Rock. Sam and DJ had left a bit after the movie, playing a round of LIFE that had been pretty ambitiously started, considering the time, and ultimately abandoned when all the kids’ yawns started to sync up. You came downstairs after trading with Dean for bath/shower duty to get out of cleaning up all the sticky dishes, the girls falling asleep too quickly for a bedtime story after you’d made sure they were thoroughly scrubbed clean and any wet gauze was replaced.

           He was rinsing some bowls in the sink, the majority of the toppings slid to one side of the now wiped-down island. You sauntered up behind him, putting your chin on his shoulder. “Your jeans are still covered in chalk,” you sighed into his neck.

           “Your kid was practically using them as a napkin, so I’m not surprised.”

           “Like father, like daughter.”

           You felt the rumble of his laugh through your chest where you were pressed up against his back. “Can’t argue with that. They asleep?”

           “You’d think I drugged them.”

           He chuckled again, putting down the last bowl in the sink and shutting off the water before drying his hands on a dishtowel deliberately. When he turned around, his face was inches from yours. “Is that right?” he asked, and his voice was as smooth and silky as any caramel drizzle you could’ve eaten that night. You nodded into a smile as Dean slid a washing-warmed hand to the nape of your neck and wound into the hair there, pulling you into him where he leaned against the sink and slipped his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like maraschino cherry and chocolate and you pushed up into his kiss hard, jamming him into the counter in a way that made him groan into you, tug that hair tighter. “Careful, baby. Been thinking about scandalizing the mother of my children for hours,” he growled, smirking through a voice rough like the sandpaper calluses of his hands.

           You bit his bottom lip and dragged it back, leaning away from Dean just enough to reach over to the island behind you, finding the whipped cream and starting to shake it fast. “That’s funny, because I’ve just been thinking about sundaes,” you purred into his ear, nipping at his earlobe before tipping back. Dean’s eyes practically glittered as his pupils blew wide. His shirt was off so fast you almost didn’t see it, feeling like you blinked and opened your eyes to him already yanking his belt open to shuck off those chalk-covered torn jeans. Before he could, you turned over the whipped cream on top of his collarbone, dripping a stream of white foam down his chest and letting it drift for a second, melt down his skin then lapping it up with a tongue flattened wide.  You shook the can again, draping a strip onto Dean’s stomach that trailed to his belly button and laying a palm on his chest, leaning him back to the counter on his elbows to watch as you licked the whipped cream with lazy swirls until you were at the hem of his boxers, sinking to your knees and taking them down his legs along with his now-opened jeans. He was already hard as rock when you took him in your palm, laying one last spray of whipped cream along the length of him and humming in delight at the “holy shi—” that punched out of Dean and fizzled into the ether when you sucked it off.  

           It was only a few minutes before he couldn’t take it anymore, bending down to kiss you rough and dirty, tongue darting out to get the little dribbles of cream around the corners of your mouth and dragging you to your feet. With one hand Dean flicked open your jeans, using the freed slack to dive into your panties, middle finger dipping into you as he held your jaw with the other palm. He breathed hot and sticky along your jugular. “Not even close to how wet I want you.” The viscous pour of his words onto your neck sent goosebumps spreading over your skin in a delicate fan and you couldn’t help but smile as he scooped under your thighs and lifted you easily onto the island, slipping the denim off your legs as the same time he stepped out of his. You relaxed onto your elbows, watching those long eyelashes drift open and closed as his kissed a path down your abdomen, gripping handfuls of your t-shirt to get to skin. A lazy hand offered Dean the can of whipped cream.

           The smirk he gave you, bare shoulders between your thighs as he kneeled on the kitchen floor, might as well have been through a time machine for the way it made you see the cocky playboy you’d first met over a decade ago, before the faint wrinkles of years in sunny cars and staying up nights with colicky babies that accessorized his big doe eyes now. It had the same effect on you in a t-shirt that was older than DJ as it had when you were pounding through shots with eyeliner artfully smudged by the power of hangovers: pooling all the blood in your stomach and making you lightheaded. He slowly bit his bottom lip. “You taste way too good to be adding anything,” he rumbled, and when you threw your head back in a shaky laugh his tongue reminded you exactly why smudged-eyeliner girl was ready to drop her independence, jump in the Impala and follow that mouth to the end of the world.

           Dean built the earth up and cracked it into pieces beneath you twice perched on that kitchen island before grabbing the counter edge to haul himself up. “Were these tiles always so fucking hard? Feel like I just took a hammer to the kneecaps.” He shook out each of his bare legs, spring of his erect cock as he did looking silly and out of place with the glisten of his lips and chin, the sultry cast of his eyelashes on angled cheekbones. The juxtaposition made you laugh, breathy as it was with muscles that had been turned to jello, thrown in a blender, and scattered about the room by the deft movements of Dean’s tongue and fingers.

           “You’re thinking about your knees right now?”

           “That’s how hard these fucking tiles are,” Dean chuckled, deep and still sexy somehow, bending forward to catch your lips. When you reached down to stroke him, a hand wrapped around your wrist. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, I’m nowhere near done with you,” he murmured through kisses, a shade of playful challenge in his throat.

           You giggled, leaning back as he dragged a wet path of suction down your neck. “I don’t want to torture those legs, old man.” Running a hand through hair you’d sent spiking in all directions in your writhing, you dragged Dean’s head back on his neck, giving you a chance to meet his eyes, still the same dusted olive they’d been since that first wink. Long past the honeymoon stage when it was appropriate to do that kind of thing, you’d been content to spend hours searching them, cataloguing every spindly muscle of iris for posterity, trying to gather up every grain of him for when he inevitably was lost forever to a hunt or the solitude of the road.

           But here he was still.

           Here you were still. Living a life—living two selves—you never thought you’d get, lucky to have grown in and around each other like mangrove roots. Those eyes still every inch as beautiful, every spark of that electric heat still there now cloaked in layer after layer of what you’d built together: the complete trust and fanatical admiration he had of you flowing out like fountains of sunlight, strong enough they streamed through any raunchy waggle of his eyebrows.

           No time to think about it now with a hungry coil of desire tightening in your stomach. You traced the length of him with your fingertips, feather-light and teasing. “If you give me fifteen seconds to get my sea legs back I’ll show you who’s got tougher knees.”

           “All right, that’s it,” Dean said. He tipped his head forward and bit your bottom lip with that impossible pressure that made you whimper. “I’ll show you how old these knees are.”

           Before you could react, he’d put his shoulder below your sternum and thrown you over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. When you squealed he smacked your ass. “You’re going to wake up the girls,” he buzzed, starting toward your bedroom without a stitch of clothing on, you draped over his back.

           “Dean, Jesus Christ,” you giggled. “Get the clothes at least!”

            “Don’t need any jeans for what I’ve got planned—quit—squirming—or I’ll give you something to squirm about,” he continued, lowering his voice to a lascivious whisper and giving one of your upper thighs an impish bite as he headed up the stairs.

-

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[bosspigeon]

if you're still bleeding

Pairing: Jax/M!Merc

Words: 2657

Summary: Jax should know better. He should know to mind his own damn business. But, unfortunately, he's well beyond "knowing better" now that he's gone and gotten tangled up with an unhinged mercenary with more knives than sense, and the scars that say the chances of him finding any sense are slim to none.

and if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones.

'cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone.

we're setting fire to our insides for fun.

collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home,

it was a flood that wrecked this home.

- "Youth" by Daughter

CW for: implied/referenced sex, sexual humor/innuendos, references to blood, violence, and trauma, and implications of kink

Knox is a man with scars.

Jax has plenty of his own, of course, but Knox has a lot of scars. There's a story to most of them, too, and he's never shy about telling them. Hell, half the time he tells those stories completely unprompted, whether you want him to or not.

There's a scar on his chin from where Royal told him he couldn't knee slide the entire bar. There’s the ugly knot of scar tissue where his left arm used to be, where the port to his prosthetic is grafted on. There's the scar in his stomach from the mook Jax had to help him bury. There's a scar on his lip where he bit himself too hard with his freakishly sharp teeth trying to keep quiet while Jax bent him over the hood of his car outside Saints and Sinners in the wee hours of the morning.

He's particularly happy to blab the story about that one to anyone who'll listen.

But he doesn't talk about the scar across his throat.

As little clothing as he tends to wear on the day to day, ("As little as I can get away with," he says with a sleazy wink) his neck is always covered. High-collared shirts, a jauntily knotted scarf, decorative chokers and heavy leather collars always keep it covered. He'll flash his tits before he'll show his throat—but in all fairness, it's not really all that hard to get him to flash his tits.

Jax didn't even see the scar until the fourth or fifth inadvisable hate fuck, at which point he was beginning to think he didn't hate the merc quite as much as he thought, considering he kept letting the little bastard in when he showed up at the door out of nowhere—and didn't shoot him when he decided to forgo the door entirely and come in through the window. (Jax still can’t be sure how he even got to the window, seeing as Jax lives in an apartment well above ground level, but he figures he’s better off not asking.) He didn’t think to ask about it until he’d actually lost count of how many inadvisable hate-fucks there’d been, and when they’d progressed somehow from inadvisable hate-fucks to still pretty inadvisable but otherwise amicable casual fucks.

Knox was loose and relaxed, quiet in a way Jax didn't even think was possible when they first met. And, to think, all it took was shoving him face down into the pillows and thoroughly wearing him out. Usually, he rolled out of bed as soon as his legs could hold him again, commandeered Jax's shower, and used half a bottle of his expensive conditioner before he disappeared without so much as a thank you. This time, he stayed. He sprawled gracelessly across Jax's sweat-stained silk sheets, arms stretched over his head, eyes half-closed and his ever-smirking mouth curled into something softer... almost sweeter.

Jax doesn't know what possessed him to roll over, to reach out and touch, but he did. He started at the inner thigh, the bruises he'd left with teeth and then fingers, a rumbling of possessive pride stoking the banked coals of satisfaction in his belly. His knuckles skimmed the soft curve of the merc's belly, the angry red scar tissue of that knife wound, then higher still. Inked into his sternum is a coyote skull, surrounded by boldly outlined flowers that curve along the underside of his breasts. Jax was almost surprised by the softness of the design, especially in comparison to the rest of the merc's ink, like the crude stick-and-poke perforated line and little pair of scissors right above his prosthetic, or the dirty pinup of some generic muscled pretty boy on his bicep, or the peach on his inner thigh that bears an artful addition of a T-dick very much similar to Knox’s own.

He wondered vaguely if the flowers meant anything to Knox.

Before he could dwell on the uncomfortably tender direction his thoughts had taken, his fingers travelled upwards, flicking absently at one of the heavy, angular piercing through Knox's nipples. Knox huffed a rough laugh, watching the progress of Jax's hand through eyes narrowed to dozy, yellow slits.

He traced Knox's collarbone, and his body was all but melted into Jax's bed, soft and pliant. Like he belonged there.

And then Jax’s curiosity got the better of him. He saw the scar, a thin line, pale with age, but standing in stark relief against Knox's tanned skin. It sits at a bit of an angle, slicing across the middle of the merc's throat.

The second his fingers made contact, skimming that raised line of flesh, he knew he'd fucked up.

Knox's body went taut for a split second, and that was all the warning Jax got before Knox was twisting his wrist hard enough for the bones to grind together and snarling in his face like a wild animal. If his knives weren't two rooms away in his discarded pile of clothes, Jax knows he would have lost fingers.

For once, Knox didn't say anything. For once, he was dead silent, mouth a grim sneer, eyes flat and hard. He shoved Jax roughly off him and rolled out of bed. He didn't look back once, stalking out of Jax's bedroom naked, every inch of his compactly muscled body vibrating with tension. Jax heard the rustle of clothes, the jingle of buckles and zippers and a half dozen knives, and then the front door slamming shut.

He didn't see Knox again until Orla called them in for another job, and it was as if nothing had happened. He was his usual smug, annoying self, not a single break in his usual facade of irreverent humor and Napoleonic bravado.

And maybe some of Knox's reckless stupidity is rubbing off on him, because Jax can't shake the curiosity that grips him, even now. He shoves it down, naturally, because he doesn't want the batshit merc to get twitchy on him again when he's got enough knives on him at any given time to outfit a military squadron. Hell, for all Jax knows, that's the end of it. He's not going to go crawling back to Knox (even if the sex is really fucking good—it's always the crazy ones, isn’t it?) and he knows Knox won't come to him first.

Except he does, dragging Jax into one of the back rooms after a meeting with Orla, shoving him against the wall, and dropping to his knees. Things go right back to normal after that, or as normal as they ever are with Coyote Fucking Knox. And as normal as they can be once Orla oh-so-sweetly reminds him there are cameras in the back rooms, and if he doesn't want stills of his dick forwarded to the entire Mirage gang, he'll keep his and Knox's exhibitionism where she doesn't have to see it.

So Knox continues to invade Jax's privacy, steal petty shit from his apartment and/or pockets, and loudly demand that Jax fuck him hoarse (-er) if he wants him to shut up.

And he winds up tangled in Jax's sheets again, sprawled out on his belly with one leg tossed over Jax's thigh, his face smashed into a pillow, one smug yellow eye watching Jax try to catch his breath beside him.

He could let it be. It's not like this is anything but a convenience. Some fun between… well, they're definitely not friends. Coworkers, if anything, and even that's pushing it. For a while, Jax considered it a fair trade for dealing with Knox's bullshit constantly. Now, it's becoming a pattern, and when it comes to semi-regular sex with a stab-happy mercenary, patterns can be dangerous.

But he can't kill the curiosity.

He figures his best bet is being blunt. And maybe getting ready to dodge in the very likely event things go south. He doesn't touch this time, at least not where they aren't already, Knox’s knee between his legs, the skin feeling a bit feverish and clammy as the sweat cools. The urge to touch is still there—he left some nice bite marks on Knox's shoulders he'd like to reacquaint himself with—but he ignores it for now. He rolls onto his side, meets that one yellow eye with quiet consideration, and props his head up on his hand.

Knox must read the change in his face, because he goes from cat-got-the-cream contentment to a warily curious tension. Jax just goes right for the throat, so to speak. “Any chance of hearing the story behind that one?” he says, casual as anything, and nods in the vague direction of Knox’s neck.

There’s a growling noise building up behind Knox’s teeth, but he bites it back. He smiles, but it feels feral, like an animal baring its teeth looks like a smile, but it's really a threat. It looks brittle, like it'll shatter if he tightens his jaw any further.

Jax gives in to the urge, reaching out to touch, fingertips skimming down the mercenary's spine. A shiver ripples across the skin. He’s not sure if it’s the right move, but at this point, if you’re going to Hell...

“I don’t know,” Knox says flatly, and Jax is almost shocked he answered at all. There’s no inflection, no mirth. Just that broken-glass smile.

Jax snorts. Knox never fucking shuts up, that much is true, but Jax isn’t stupid. He knows when someone’s talking a lot and saying nothing of importance on purpose, and he also knows when Knox can’t deflect, he lies his ass off like he was born to do it. Even Orla barely knows anything about her least favorite favorite merc or where he came from, though the chances of her caring enough to even try to find out are slim to none. Still, he has no idea what the mercenary even has to gain from lying, especially here. "If you don't want to say anything, just tell me to fuck off."

The knife edge smile stretches wider. Tips closer to the breaking point. "Fuck off," he echoes like a parrot.

Something starts to uncurl in Jax's gut, something burbling and acidic, a nasty niggling feeling he can't quite name. "You're serious," he says, and he doesn't want to believe it, mostly because he can't imagine someone like Knox taking that sort of… personal unknown well. “Nothing?”

The smile cracks, and Knox lifts his head so Jax gets the full effect of it. His eyes are wide, wild, and suddenly that smile is too big for his face. Slowly, he sits up, and there's the scar. Old and faded, but splitting his throat neatly and boldly from east to west. He drags his thumb across it, digs it in hard enough the white scar tissue goes a bit pink. He laughs. He's never had a pleasant laugh, rough and raspy and mean. Somehow, this one is worse. “Not a lick,” he drawls, and the effort it takes him to sound so casual almost makes Jax cringe. “There’s a reason Orla found me in the fuckin’ bargain bin.” He taps his temple, his messily painted nail clicking against the chip in his head.

Jax’s eyes flick down to the scar, frowning deeply. It doesn’t make sense. Knox is deflecting again, he has to be, but there’s something in the way he’s holding himself, the tension radiating from him, the way he slumps against the headboard of Jax’s bed with his knees pulled up, not quite close enough to hug to his chest, but more like he’s thinking about it, resisting the urge to physically hold himself together and risk looking weak.

"I have nightmares, sometimes," he admits, so soft the syllables catch on the rough edges of his ragged voice. "They never make any fucking sense. I'm just… I'm choking. Something’s cutting into my neck, and there’s someone behind me, and I know them, but— But I'm guilty? I don't know for what." He laughs, bitterly brittle. "Could be fucking anything. Got a lot to be guilty for that I can remember, never mind what I can't."

He inhales, and it sounds like it hurts him, like his breath is made of shards of glass. He drags his hand down his face until he can curl his fingers around his throat so the scar doesn't show. "I just know there's this perfume Orla wears that makes me want to climb the fucking walls and I don't know why. I think I know how to play the piano, but I can’t even look at one without wanting to smash it to pieces. Sometimes I hear some… some fucking opera song, or some shit? And I know the words, and I want to sing along, but then my voice just—just cracks, and I feel like… like a broken fucking wind-up toy? It's like my head doesn't remember anything, but the rest of me does and it makes me so fucking angry. What am I missing? Why does it matter?” His voice hitches dangerously, and there’s a stab of panic in Jax’s belly, his hands twitching like they want to—to reach out? “Why can’t it just leave me the fuck alone?"

Knox squeezes his own throat so hard the skin dimples around his fingers and bleeds white where he’s cutting off bloodflow. His shoulders tremble. There's something in the furrow of his brow, the twist of his mouth, that says angry isn't the only thing it makes him, but he either doesn't have the words to say it, or he just won't, not even to himself.

The silence falls again. Jax always thought he preferred silence where Knox was concerned. Turns out he was wrong. This silence is brutal, heavy and choking and just… wrong. When Knox does see fit to break it, it's with a loud exhale that almost makes Jax start.

"Would you look at the time," the merc says loudly, shaking out his bare wrist and looking at it critically. Jax could almost laugh. Knox tosses his legs over the edge of the bed smiling crookedly over his shoulder. "I should really head out, huh? Don't wanna overstay my welcome."

Before he can think, Jax snaps a hand out and catches Knox’s hip, squeezing. Not enough to stop him if he really wants to go, but enough to give him pause. Once again, Jax counts himself lucky they rarely make it to the bedroom before one or both of them are naked, which means all those knives are somewhere by the door, or scattered across his coffee table, or in the leather jacket tossed over the back of his couch. Coyote turns slightly, just enough to eyeball him. Just one yellow eye.

There's a lot Jax could say, a lot he even wants to, but there's something raw in that one yellow eye, something wary and broken that just wants to hide somewhere quiet and lick its wounds. They've been at this for way too fucking long at this point, Jax should know what to do with that, shouldn't he?

Maybe he does.

He snorts. "When the fuck have you ever cared about overstaying your welcome?" He smacks Knox's hip just on the wrong side of gentle, and rolls over. "You're not leaving until you help me change these sheets. Hell, maybe if I'm feeling generous, I'll let you back in bed after we shower."

He pushes up to his feet and stretches out the kinks in his muscles, allowing himself to luxuriate in the pleasant soreness leftover from their romp. Knox is quiet behind him, and he can't really think of when he actually started to trust the crazy bastard enough to turn his back to him.

Knox makes a rough little sound, something not quite a laugh. "Is that an order, Sir?" he asks, low and raspy-sweet.

Jax glances back with a raised eyebrow. "Do I need to make it one?"

[yeojaa]

ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)

He's never met you but you know how he sounds when he wakes up from a nap and his greatest fears.  You know the way he sings after a shower and that he could be mistaken for a dying seal when he's laughing too hard.  The best part?  You don't judge him for any of it - including the fact he's a filthy Widow main.  He might just love you.

alt summary.  Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

pairing.  jeon jungkook

genre + rating.  fluffy crack. general, for now.

warning / tags.  long-distance relationship, crushes, canon compliant (ish),  eventual happy ending, gaming, gamer!jungkook, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, overwatch.  tags are hard.  :( 

reading.   n/a.  a three part one-shot.

word count.  ~3400

part i.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Sunday, 10 November, 2019.  2:13 AM.

It’s 2:13 AM when Jeon Jungkook finally finds a match, the familiar in-game sound dragging his attention away from the illuminated screen of his iPhone to the monitor before him.  He studies the SR - 3779 and 3761, respectively - and skims burning eyes across the members on each team.  Four rocks, including himself, and two Masters.

One of them has a strange name - BIGMELON - that he stares at until he's zoning out, trying to make sense of it.  Was his teammate a pervert or just hilarious?

"Good luck and have fun, everyone!"  

Your cheer filters through his headphones crystal clear but he's somehow still surprised, head tilting curiously to the side.  He hadn't expected a girl to be playing Overwatch at quarter past two in the morning.

When there's no response - he notices no one else is in the voice chat, an oddity for such a high ranking game - he takes it upon himself to keep you company.  His username lights up as his finger glides across the ALT key, sleep-worn words breaking the silence.

"Thanks, you too."

Nothing follows until BIGMELON appears once again in the upper left-hand corner of his screen.  You have a nice voice, he thinks.  "Are you sticking with Widow?"

Jungkook takes in the team comp:  Sigma, Hog, Genji, and Lucio.  A little unconventional but not wholly un-doable.  They're on King's Row, too, which is one of his favourite maps.  Balanced enough that people aren't too salty when they get headshot but with enough coverage that he can get clear picks.  

"Should I?"

"If you want."  A pause and your hero slot is filled with Mercy's portrait.  "I can damage boost."

He thinks he can hear the teasing.  It's soft and sweet and a little rough - like you'd just woken up.  

"Who says I need it?"  Comes his immediate response, question chased out of his mouth by a laugh he can't help.  It echoes, filling the quiet of his bedroom.  He hopes you don't take it the wrong way.

"O—kay, Widow main.  We'll see if you get anything from me."

It's an empty threat because you're giggling along with him.  It's distracting in the strangest way.  The sound bounces around in his ears and he can't help but focus on it, realizing belatedly that he's still sitting in spawn as the timer runs down for setting up defence.  

"Are you going to join us?"  You quip, emoting right beside his stationary sniper.  "I didn't queue just to have someone go AFK."  

Mischief colours your words and he laughs again, snorting as he finally presses W.  Two sets of footsteps echo in game and he presses SHIFT once he's hit point - and with just a few seconds left to spare - launching Widowmaker's body onto the balcony overwatching it.  Mercy follows, Guardian Angel carrying her into the air to alight behind the blue-skinned hero.  

As the timer hits 0:01, Jungkook right-clicks, scoping in on the second-floor spawn door.

BOOM.

The kill feed reads DDEOKKOOKI x STRIKER007.

"I guess you didn't need the damage boost."  

He can't help the sound he makes - a marriage between a witch's shriek and a pig's snort.  It leaps out of his mouth, louder than he intends, and he feels equally bad for you and his hyungs.  He's definitely going to get an earful in the morning - or any minute now, when one of them bursts into his room to berate him for being so loud.  "I told you."

"Yeah, yeah."  The way you speak has him grinning from ear to ear, nose scrunching in amusement.  Mercy is flying across the map, healing stream trained on Genji as the cyborg ninja just narrowly misses an errant Hanzo arrow and dashes back to point.  "I'm gonna take care of the rest of our team.  Let me know if you need anything, O' Headshot God."

You're clowning him hard but he knows it's all in good fun.  Still, he likes the nickname and decides to keep it, effectively picking off the attacking team's stealthily half-hidden Junkrat and Ana right after. 

"Show-off!"   

Then he's dinked in the head - health dropping to 30 from the partially-charged shot.  He needs heals like yesterday.

Unfortunately, Lucio is up at choke with the tanks, skating circles around the base of the statue as they hold point.  Jungkook doesn't see you immediately - he’s scanning his screen for your witch skin (of course) - only realizing you've appeared at his side when his health bar begins to climb.  "Try to stay alive, yeah?"

"My bad,"  he drawls, scoping in the same instant the kill feed announces two more enemy deaths. 

There are only a critical Reinhardt and protected Zarya left.  The former falls the moment he drops shield and her bubble doesn't reset in time;  the Russian tank dies in the next instant, his charged shot firing the moment it hits 100%.  

"Thanks for the damage boost."

"Any time."

Then you're gone, off to support the rest of your team again while he grapples onto a different ledge and continues his oppressive gameplay.  He feels a little bad when the opposing team goes double shield tank and swaps their Junkrat for a Pharah.  He feels less so when he's slept out of nowhere. Four seconds feels like an eternity when he’s out in the open - vulnerable as a baby lamb in a den of lions.

"Looks like you're really making them mad."  You'd been relatively quiet when not tending to him - likely because it was only the two of you in voice chat - and he startles when your comment breaks the quiet lofi he has going in the background. 

"I don't know why.  I'm just having fun."  He's lying.  You're laughing.  

"Too much fun, I think."  

"Maybe they should be better."  Jungkook says this like he's commenting on the weather or the colour of the sky - offhand and nonchalant.  It makes your giggles come harder.  He can hear the scratch of your mic as if you've doubled over and it's now pressed into cotton clothing.  He can't help but pat himself on the back.

"Please don't tell me you're going to 'gg ez' them when we're done."

Now he's feigned offense, gasping at the mere thought.  "Of course not.  I'm not that rude!"

"Well, you never know."  You're right.  People could be the worst when it came to online gaming, spewing vitriol and hurling insults the moment their egos were bruised (or inflated). 

"I promise I'm not an asshole."  He's not really sure why he feels the need to make this abundantly clear.  After all, he'd probably never play with you again.  Korea's density of players was just too great - you were just one in hundreds, thousands, millions. 

Still, he smiles when you reassure him you don't think he is.  "I'm just teasing.  You seem nice."

"I am nice."  Spoken in the same instance he lands two consecutive headshots - one on the bouncing, wall-riding enemy Lucio and the other on the momentarily grounded Pharah.  You must see that, because you're mocking him in that dulcet tone of yours, caramel coating words and turning them soft like toffee. 

"Not according to them."  And not that you mind, it seems, because you're damage boosting him as he catches their out-of-position Rein in his sight.  He whoops in triumph, eliciting another bemused sound from you. 

"You know they're going to do everything to counter you when we go on attack."  Which was in sub-one minute, the timer counting down the last thirty seconds of your team's defense. 

"Who says I'm going Widow again?"  

You're scandalized.  "You mean you're not just a filthy Widow main?"

For a moment, Jungkook wonders if this is how his older members feel when he (and Jimin and Taehyung) mercilessly rib them.  He thinks it must be and oh, how the tables have turned.  He decides he doesn't really mind, though.  It's all innocent fun and it's keeping him awake, aided by the cold brew he'd chugged at midnight. 

"Woah - says the Mercy player?"

"Mercy is a respectable support, okay!"

"Sure, e-girl."  

"Take that back!"  How the words explode out of his headphones makes him momentarily worry he might've overstepped but by the way your laughter chases it forward, he knows he hasn't.  You can take it just as well as you can dish it.  

"Okay, okay.  You're a not bad healer."  Because he hasn't died yet and last he checked, neither had your tanks.  Genji had once or twice - to be expected, given his playstyle - and you had, but that was still pretty respectable.

He can practically hear you rolling your eyes.  "Oh, thanks."  

"Any time, BigMelon."  

"That's ‘daebak’ to you, pal."  Had he heard you wrong?

"What'd you say?"  

There's a long pause - he's not sure whether it's for comedic purpose or something else.  You sound muffled on the other end, as if you're repressing sound.  "Because watermelon?  Su-bak?  So big melon is dae-bak?"  Whatever you had stifled earlier disappears, torn away by the pride that shines bright yellow and boisterous in your peals of laughter.

It's such a bad joke that Jungkook feels like he's about to have an aneurysm.  Were you Jin moonlighting as a Master support player? 

"You're kidding me."  He wonders if you hear him above your own glee, giggles making it hard for him to hear himself think.  "What're you - a dad?"

You scoff now, parroting his words back to him.  "What're you - the pun police?"  

Another one?

He briefly considers ALT + F4-ing his way out of this match and away from your corniness.  Considers it but ultimately decides against it, instead remaining stoically silent and choosing McCree when the hero selection screen slides into place.  His silence will surely speak volumes.  

"You know that was funny!"  By the way he can practically hear your pout - it's endearing, much to his chagrin - he thinks you know where he stands.  

"Not the word I'd use."

"You just have bad taste, McCree."  You say it scathingly yet full of mirth, a sniff punctuating the end of your rebuttal. 

"Do not!"  He returns, just as quickly.  

"Prove it.  Laugh at my joke!"  You're shameless, confident, reassured - it makes him chuckle.  

You take it as his surrender though, your own laughter blending seamlessly with his.  It goes on for longer than is strictly speaking necessary, crowding like cotton balls in his ears as you leave sprays of your hero - Ana this time - across the spawn walls.  He wrecks every one of yours with his own, BAMF displayed in 1440p. 

"Hey - stop that!"  It doesn't matter that the round is about to start - you're spamming your melee button into him.  He immediately does it back, toggling between that and his voice line. 

The rest of your team is probably wondering what the hell you're both doing.  

"Stop distracting me!"  He barks into his mic, deep dimples on full display, nose scrunched adorably.  He doesn't really mind - it's clear by his hyena cackles that follow - and he likes when your chorus of shut up's pitch and leap with your giggling. 

As he navigates McCree out behind your tanks, he can't help but wish - maybe a little selfishly - that they'll lose this round and go into a best of three.  When the opposing team's healers both die - one to Ashe's dynamite and the other to Zarya's high-charged beam - he knows that's not going to happen.  Your team's going to cap point and then you're going to be gone - off to the next game and never to be matched with again.

"We did it, McCree."  You sound deeply pleased as the last of the defenders fall, leaving point uncontested.  The Lucio on your team lingers by the choke, ready to boop any last minute hoodlums;  Echo hovers just above the enemy’s spawn, dealing damage the moment any hero comes in view.  One of your tanks is already emoting.

VICTORY flashes across his screen.  

"We sure did, BigMelon."

The cards come next - they're all for your team, though he isn't surprised.  You'd gotten 37 defensive assists whereas he had 27% Infra-Sight uptime.  He's sure you both vote for each other, the remaining four going to your other support's Sound Barrier casts.  

"Thanks for the carry."  He doesn't mean it facetiously.  This is some of the most fun he's had in-game in ages.

"You're welcome,"  you chirp.  He thinks you'll leave right after.

Instead, you both sit in voice chat in silence, watching the timer in the upper right-hand corner. 

"Do you want to duo?"  You ask in the same instance he does, breaking the both of you into a fit of laughter.  It's more distracting than he realizes, the FINDING MATCH countdown replacing the end game statistics while you’re both still cackling.

Luckily, you invite him to a group right as he removes himself from queue.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Tuesday, 24 December, 2019.  11 PM.

It’s six weeks and a good three dozen games later - a feat for him, considering how much of his time is eaten up by literally every other obligation he has - when he asks for your name, not realizing the consequences of his action.  

“Most people call me Jinny.”  He thinks it fits you, bright and pretty and punchy.  “What’s your name?”

Jungkook's unprepared for the question, though he shouldn’t be.  Of course you’d want to know.  Anyone would, if they’d already given their own answer.

He's silent for the longest time, quiet stretching on and on over group voice chat.  He applauds you for your patience, how you don't press him on it when the hesitation has descended from appropriate to downright awkward.

"Uh."  The word drops like a weight, crashing through the tentative friendship you've built over the past weeks.  

"You don't have to tell me,"  you supply as softly as he's ever heard you.  It's the first time you've seemed uncertain - and it bothers him that he's the reason.  "I get that we haven't known each other that long."  

As if that's actually the issue.  He would've told you the night you spent four hours together, taking wins left and right, filling the time in between matches with silly banter that had his jaw aching from laughter.  He would’ve told you on that random Thursday, when you’d listened to him talk about his busy day, effortlessly keeping him occupied - and amused - while your SR nearly descended below 3500.  He would’ve even told you yesterday, when you’d said you were going to bed, only to be roped into another six games by Jungkook’s eagerness.

It has absolutely nothing to do with time - or the lack thereof.

But he can't say that - can't tell you who he really is - so he improvises as best he can.  "My friends call me Jay."

"Jay, huh?"  You turn the sound over on your tongue, like you're tasting it for the first time, trying to decide whether you love it or hate it.  He hopes you don’t hate it.  "Then I guess we're the best J-duo to ever exist."

"Woah, we?"  He's only doing it to rile you up, finding it cute when you huff and puff and threaten to let him die in-game.  You never make good on the threat anyway;  you just like to see him sweat, watching as his health bar drops to measly single digits.  "I don't think I agreed to that."  

It's your turn to mock him, that same edge turning your words into sour candy.  "Fine.  You can find yourself a new healer.  We'll see how your SR likes that, Bronzie boy!"  

Neither of you really take the game that seriously but he gasps like he's been shot.  

"No!  Don't leave me with them!"  The way he howls the plea is enough to return you both to your rightful place - one filled with boisterous laughter and things he never thought would see the light of day.

Because somehow, he's found somewhere he feels safe - a place he feels like himself, with no pretenses or expectations.  It’s where he can rant and rave, bouncing from topic to topic like an energizer bunny with no end in sight.  It’s, oddly enough, with you.  

Connected through voice chat and built by an endless stream of communication - sometimes productive, other times not - the space you’ve carved out together has come to feel like a third home.  It isn’t quite what he has with his family or his members but it’s just as nice.

Different, but nice.

"Fine.  You're forgiven."  You sniff in that peculiar way of yours and he snickers loudly.  "How was your day?"

And this is why it is - because it's ordinary.  It’s where Jungkook can rest his head and drift for a while without worry of what’s over the horizon, ready to swallow him whole the moment he takes his eyes off the calm blue sea.  He's not raised on a pedestal with you, all the weight of his choices resting on his shoulders.  He's just a normal guy playing games.  

It might not make up for all the years of normalcy he's missed out on - the movies after school, the street markets on weekends, the holiday parties with classmates - but it's enough.  

He eats it up like he's been starved of it.

"Busy.  Really busy.  I had dance practice all afternoon and forgot to eat so I'm dying now."  There'd been a time - about three weeks in - when he'd chosen his words more carefully.  He'd been worried he might let something slip but he's found what feels like the sweet spot now, where he can tell you about his day without thinking he’ll suddenly shatter the image you have of him.

It's not always easy - he has to remember to never mention names or intimate details - but it's better than nothing.  He can finally tell someone about his day like he wants - all of the good and the bad, too.

"You should make something to eat!"

He's used to your reprimands but he still laughs, crossing his long legs beneath him as he readjusts in his computer chair.  "But we're in queue."

"Jay!"  It comes out devoid of static, clear as the waning sunshine that filters through his blinds and reflects particles of dust that drift lazily through his bedroom.

"I'll make something after we win."  He knows what you're thinking - that he's gone and jinxed your whole night.  You’re weirdly superstitious, something he's learned only recently.

As if right on cue:  "Shut up!"  

Your words sweep his expression up with glee and giddiness, like a kid on Christmas morning;  lines dig themselves into the bridge of his nose and the delicate skin beneath his eyes.  Jungkook tells himself it’s the usual pre-game jitters but he knows it’s more than that.  

It’s you and that infectious giggle that careens through his headphones, making him see everything in a pretty haze of warmth.

He’s not sure when you’d started having this particular effect on him - maybe since the beginning? - but he feels it now, clearer than ever.  Every tinkling laugh makes his heart speed up, thump around his chest like a baseball missing its mark.  The sight of you logging in elicits the biggest, possibly dorkiest smile, all slightly too-big front teeth and deep dimples.  You have him rushing through his post-practice showers and devouring dinner in half the time he usually would just to get online a minute more quickly.  

There's just something about you. 

And sure - a part of him wonders whether it's all in his head (as if it could be anywhere else).  Wonders if he's seeing you through rose-tinted glasses, doing to you what so many do to him.  Was he in over his head, praying to a deity that didn't even know he existed?  

Sometimes it felt that way - a little out of reach, like childhood crushes and summer love and wishing upon a star.  Certainly far too much for a blossoming friendship of just a month and a half.  

But then you laugh and it's Pop Rocks fizzling in his stomach and he knows that no - it's there and it's real.

Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met. 

notes.  i love overwatch and i love jeon jeongguk.  what more can i say?  :)

[reinvent-and-believe]

for the touch prompts: with a promise! 😊

The fireplace roars before them, warming Yennefer’s face as much as the bottle of Everluce they split. The flickering firelight dances across Triss’s skin and brings out all its gorgeous golden tones. Her chestnut hair falls in soft, tousled curls that seem to bounce on her shoulders every time she dissolves into giggles.

Triss dissolves into giggles frequently with Yennefer. Always has. But Triss is vibrant and warm and full of life, Yennefer’s opposite in every way; no, making Triss giggle has never been a challenge.

That Triss somehow pulls unexpected, faltering chuckles from Yennefer is far more disconcerting. Somehow Triss can melt the ice queen’s heart, reduce her to a school girl, nervous and desperate to please.

The little house in Vengerberg has never felt so warm.

The air between them is pregnant, heavy with potential. It always is, somehow, but tonight’s amplified, tonight Triss’s fingers are lost in Yennefer’s silky black tresses as she bites her lower lip, a silent question in those honey-brown eyes.

And Yennefer wants her, has always wanted her, in truth, but her relationship with Triss is the only pure, uncomplicated friendship she has, the only person in her life who seems to stick around even after they’ve gotten to know her, even after they’re done using her for her power.

Yennefer traces Triss’s jaw, the perfect little indentation of her chin with her thumb. “Promise this won’t ruin us?” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. She hates the uncharacteristic vulnerability in her voice but can’t seem to tamp it down.

Triss fixes her with a soft, brilliant smile. “I promise,” she swears sweetly, and then she kisses her.

*

They lie side by side in the grass, staring at the stars and knowing that neither will sleep.

Not far away, the gathered forces of Sodden Hill, such as they are, drink and pray and carouse and prepare for battle.

The Temerians have not come, and Nilfgaard draws ever closer.

Triss shivers beside her, and instinctively Yennefer covers her, covers them both in her cloak. But it’s not the cold.

She curls into Yennefer, throwing an arm about her waist and pulling her close. “Promise me.” She lets out a choked little noise as she clings, her tears warm when they hit the skin of Yennefer’s neck but quickly cooled by the night’s wind. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid and sacrificial.”

Yennefer kisses the top of her head. Triss’s prodigious magical control of plant life makes such sense; beneath her tender, attentive care, watered by her tears, Yennefer thinks she could flourish, too. “Only if you promise the same.”

It’s a promise neither can keep, so they hold each other in silence.

*

It’s been an afternoon of fighting.

About everything, about nothing.

About the way the dishes are arranged in the cabinets. About whether they’ll need a shawl on this cool autumn day. About the candle left burning on the nightstand every night and how it’s going to burn the house down one day. About the properties of a particular spell. About whether they should walk or teleport to the market. About...

“I wish you would damn well tell me what it is you’re so pissed about or go bother someone else!” Yennefer barks.

Triss looks as though she’s been struck.

Yennefer turns away for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose. She hears Triss moving slowly, the quiet drag of a chair against the wooden floor. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Triss is sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her hands folded primly in front of her. “You have a family now. When it was just Geralt and the wish and all that, that was one thing, but now you have Ciri, too.” Triss sighs, burying her head in her hands with a moan of frustration. “I don’t begrudge you that, truly I don’t. I adore them both, and...she’s Geralt’s fate, his Child of Surprise, but she’s something more than that to you, Yennefer. She’s the child you chose.”

“Triss—”

“Let me finish,” she says softly, taking Yennefer’s hand. “I’m overjoyed that you get to experience this! Gods know family isn’t an option for most of us. I just don’t know that there’s a place for me in it.”

There’s loneliness written in the furrows of Triss’s brow, the downcast eyes.

Yennefer climbs into her lap, straddling her and taking her face in both hands. “Nothing ties me here but my choice,” she says. “You’re right. Geralt and I are linked by fate, now I have Ciri to consider. But I want everything, Triss. And I choose you.” She kisses her fiercely before burying her face in Triss’s lavender-scented hair, pulling her into a long, tight hug. “You won’t be rid of me that easily,” she murmurs into her neck. “Where there’s a place for me, there’s a place for you.”

She feels the long breath Triss releases, the way her arms tighten around Yennefer’s waist. “Promise?” she asks softly.

Yennefer pulls back and tilts Triss’s face up gently, locking eyes. “Promise.”

*

“It’s bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day,” Triss scolds, but there’s no heat to it. She faces away from the door, pointedly refusing to make eye contact in the mirror as she brushes a warm sunset red on her lips.

“Peasant superstition. I’ve seen you plenty of times.”

Triss rolls her eyes at that, but she’s smiling. “You’re incorrigible,” she says, but her dimple belies the chastisement. “Getting cold feet?”

Yennefer hesitates. “Not about you.”

Triss turns to look at her. Those kind eyes miss nothing. “But about the wedding?” she prompts gently.

Yennefer shrugs. “It all seems a bit superficial, doesn’t it? The pomp? The flowers? Gods, Triss, the flowers are out of control, have you seen what Jaskier’s done?”

“I like the flowers.” Triss stands, taking both Yennefer’s hands in hers. “What’s wrong, love?”

She’s beautiful. The flowing yellow gown, the glow of her tawny skin, the sparkle in her eyes, the crown of white and yellow and orange flowers in her hair: Triss Merigold is the most beautiful bride, and Yennefer forgets how to speak.

Triss just laughs, kissing her softly. “You’re afraid that once we’re married, things will be somehow different. That we’ll immediately know we’ve made a huge mistake, that we’ll stop making love and realize we hate each other as soon as we’re bound.”

“Not immediately,” Yennefer admits quietly. “Slowly.”

Triss brushes a loose strand of dark hair from her lover’s face. “I’ve no intention of tying you down, love,” she murmurs. “If things change, we’ll adapt, just as we always have. We’ll tell everyone to go home if you want, but the purpose of the wedding isn’t to lock you into something you can’t escape. All I want is to stand before our friends and our family and let them know how completely I adore you.” Triss rests her forehead against Yennefer’s. “I can’t promise that nothing will change, love. We’ve both seen far too much to believe such a thing. But we’re together and we love each other, and I think that’s something worth celebrating.”

Yennefer takes a breath. “This won’t ruin us,” she says softly.

Triss smiles. “I’ve yet to find anything that can.”

[deiliamedlini]

Whumptober 2021- The Darkness I Know

Chapter 3

No. 3- Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones But...

taunting | insults | “Who did this to you?”

Fic Summary: After the world as she knew it was destroyed by the corruption of Malice, Zelda allies herself with her saviors from captivity: a disgruntled former governor, an alert paramedic, a cocky pilot, an excessively overt optimist, and a blind strategist. While the corrupted, malice-filled Yiga Clan looks for revenge on them, Zelda has to learn how important it is to find family in others... and how much more dangerous the stakes become if she fails to protect them.

Previous/ Chapter Index/ Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zelda had choked before; it was almost impossible not to live in this new world and manage to escape without feeling the walls of one’s throat closing in after suffocating in clouds of Malice. While on the run, she’d been crushed under the grip of a crazed moblin. She’d felt people throw her down, and, of course, she’d choked on food before. Before everything, she even had a shellfish allergy, and knew how that could close a throat. She was no stranger to choking.

This was unlike any of that.

The man knelt in front of her as she dropped to her knees. His fingers toyed with a long chain around his neck, almost bored as he watched her clawing at her throat. His head cocked to the side. “You said you could survive, right? Show me.”

Eyes bulging in shock and fear, Zelda gasped in a small breath, barely enough to call it breathing.

Her food and drink. She’d taken it for granted, and now she was going to die for it. It had to have been poisoned. There was nothing else here, no Malice, no other reason.

But she looked around, not wasting any of the air she had left as it struggled to move in and out through her narrowing airway. It wasn’t the time to dwell on what caused her to stop breathing; she wasn’t going to survive everything she’d gone through the past few years only to die from this.

The man with blue hair in the cell was watching more intently now, but he didn’t look like he’d become much help.

The tall man was simply watching her with a patient smile. “And Dorian said you were worth my time,” he muttered, standing. “I suppose he was wrong.”

Zelda crawled forward and clutched the man’s sleeve, finding it hard to meet his eyes if he was someone who thought she wasn’t going to be weak. She wasn’t weak. She’d faced worse things than this. None that had her at the mercy of a seemingly insane tall man who was watching her die with every failed breath, but that’s beside the point.

With one hand, he leaned his elbow against his knee and toyed with his chain again, like a bored gesture, and with his other hand, he covered her hand in his, almost like he was giving her comfort.

“You made it further than I thought you would have. And if Dorian weren’t there, then you’d have been killed in the village with the others. So consider the extra time you had a blessing.”

Her lips moved, but no words were forming. She looked like a fish out of water, flailing around as it desperately tried to breathe.

“Only the worthy can join the Yiga,” the man whispered, caressing her cheek with a gentle touch, despite his imposing size.“Our Great Lord Demise has deemed that you are not.”

Mustering the strength, Zelda pushed his hand off her, but she rocketed forward into his chest. Her forehead hit something solid, and she blinked through a dark haze to see what it was.

A vial.

“Is there a test?”

“Everything is a test, Zelda.”

Without time to consider other options, or even the repercussions, Zelda ripped the vial off the chain that was around his neck. He pulled his hand away and allowed her tilt her head back to let the sticky substance slide down her throat, unable to swallow it, but managing to hold her breath to try to stop her natural reaction to gag the stuff out of her system as it warmed its way down.

The man sat back and let her go, a smile spreading slowly until his entire face was beaming. “Good thing you fell forward, not backwards.”

There was a chill of cool air on the back of her throat, feeling the breath she so needed returning to her, and she began to cough as she sputtered for air. That first breath tasted beautiful.

This man was insane.

Regardless of Dorian’s involvement with them, Zelda was no longer questioning whether these people should be trusted or not; the massive grin on his face spoke volumes.

She needed to find a way out of here fast.

Standing up, the man helped Zelda to her feet before gesturing for her to follow him down the long hall, away from the cells and the blue-haired man.

Dorian vouched for her with this man, yet here she was, just seconds from death. Her legs were shaking, and taking the steps required to get out of there was more difficult than she’d anticipated.

Dorian vouched for her.

She’d been so close to him; she’d worked with him every day. How could he be someone who would poison another person? How could he watch an entire village of people they were close with be slaughtered before his eyes? How could he hold her back while she tried to help?

“Who are…” she cleared her throat, still waiting for her breath to return fully. “Who are you?”

“Come,” he said instead, standing aside. “Let’s get you to a room.”

Zelda wanted to roll her eyes, but that almost seemed to belittle the position she was in. She hardly felt safe enough to blink, let along follow this crazy man into a room.

The blue haired man watched her through the bars of his cell, silently sizing up the situation with trained eyes, but before Zelda could mouth anything in his direction, he sank back into the shadows, and out of sight.

Zelda followed the man through a maze of corridors before ending up in a crowded, large room. It fell silent as they entered, and every eye turned to stare. People stood up from where they sat, fully attentive as they entered the room.

One man stepped forward, pale, with hair braided that fell in front of his yellow eyes. He had dark circles and bags under his eyes that he seemed to accentuate with makeup, and a deep purple hood that he kept over his head. Most jarring, though, was the glowing circlet on his head, an eye illuminated, much like the masks the others wore, but far, far more intense.

He knelt down and bowed his head deeply. “She passed, My Lord?”

“For now. Find her a room. Watch her.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

The tall, burly man passed her off and stalked away, earning many heads bowing in respect as he passed them. The new man grabbed Zelda by the arm and tugged her with him.

“I didn’t think you were worth the time,” the man admitted.

“Thanks,” Zelda muttered, trying to keep her feet. If she could just get them to trust her, if she could just survive that long, she could get out of here.

“Dorian said you were someone we’d need. Talented. I see a waste of time, but who am I? If Lord Ganondorf believes you can survive the Malice, then there may be some hope for you yet.”

“Lord Ganondorf?” Zelda breathed, turning to look over her shoulder, though the tall man was already gone. She’d heard that name whispered in fear. She’d heard what the leader of the Yiga Clan did to people who got in his way. “Is that who that was?”

“You’d do well to recognize your betters.”

“Then I best learn your name as well,” she said with a sarcastic smile.

He caught on to her immediately and shot her a disgusted look. “ You know that I can kill you and claim it was an accident.”

“Then face the wrath of ‘Your Lord’. Someone like you has to follow orders, since you’re clearly not at the top.” She was grateful that her voice was feeling better already, though there was a lingering ache that had settled where it had swollen and pressed together.  

Zelda found herself pressed into the wall, held with the man’s forearm pressing against her throat, reagitating it immediately until she began to cough and gasp for air.

Then, there was a blinding light, and she felt warmth burning the side of her face, leaving a white, blinding glow in her eyes. There was a metallic taste in her mouth, and a foul scent fouling her nose. She knew the stench of Malice well. And this man was harnessing it.

“I have the power and the authority to kill you, girl. I am Ganon’s second in command here, and if I deem you worthy of death, then you will die.”

She tried to kick at him, but he pressed his knee into her, stopping her from flailing. He jammed his foot against her shin, and dragged her by the hair until they reached a door.

“Get in.”

He tossed her inside, watching with a smirk as she fell to the ground, holding her leg. “Astor. Remember that name, too. I doubt you’ll forget it now.”

Zelda hissed in pain and annoyance as she looked up from the ground just in time for the door to close and lock with a loud click, leaving her in a new cell, and with one more enemy than she ever needed to make from this group.

[kiirokero]

Zephyr (MYG)

Zephyr: A soft gentle breeze; Comforting wind on a hot summer's day.

Part of the “Protect the Village!” Oneshot series.

Masterlist

Pairing: Florist!Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fluff, mentions of death (not major, don’t worry) Yoongles doesn’t know how to express himself, soft boi hours.

Note: Time for me to pass out. We’re back on schedule hoes. :)

Summary: First, it was flowers for your grandmother. Next, it was flowers for a sick friend. Now, its flowers because the handsome flower shop owner lives in your head rent free.

Word Count: 4.3k

      A dense, luscious forest surrounds Bangtan Village. Filled with sturdy oak trees and delicate blooming flowers. As far as the eye can see, it’s nature. Trees stretch to the heavens, touching the sky with their strong appendages. Flowers draping over the petrichor forest floor, gracing those who walk through its lush maze. 

      It’s magical, really. Some rumour that Bangtan Village is ancient, rivaling the Mayans. Local historians say that the people here were protecting something that lays dormant in the forest. What that relic is? A mystery to most. But town elders always warn against wandering in the woods. Whispers of a magical heart that keeps the town alive roles through the town every year after New Year’s celebrations. 

Because nobody knows why every year the village gets a new influx of natural resources

      But thanks to this odd phenomenon, Min Yoongi never runs out of flowers. Peonies, sunflowers, hibiscuses. Every kind of flower grows in that forest, regardless if it scientifically should. Everyone collectively dismisses the impossible things that go on beyond those trees. Ignorance is bliss.

So because of the logic defying forest, Min Yoongi always has the best flowers. Which, in turn, means you always know where to find spider lilies. 

      Any event. Birthdays, weddings, minor celebrations. They always called for flowers. That was your motto. Flowers make everything better. Roses here, daisies there. Nothing can go wrong with flowers. They can make someone smile, ignite love, mourn a loss. Flowers can do anything, and your glad Min Yoongi indulges your thinking.

She loved roses. 

      Your grandmother was a bit old-fashioned. Not the most tech savvy, would rather do things by hand, and was a sucker for a beautiful red rose. Maybe it was because those were the flowers in her wedding bouquet. Or maybe its because your grandfather always brought her one every single day before he passed. It doesn’t matter. 

What matters is your getting her those roses, one last time. 

      When you first walked into Min’s Flowers, it had a peculiar petrichor smell. Like the shop was in an endless cycle of spring. Solf showers and light rays. It was a comforting calmness that soothed the cracks in your heart. Every which was there was a flower resting in peaceful serenity. 

      All the flowers seemed to look dreary, or maybe the soft petals were acting as a mirror, reflecting the melancholy of the day. You wouldn’t know. The only thing currently on your mind was red roses. Red roses. You needed to get those red roses. 

      Walking deeper into the shop, the walls greeted you with blissful silence. Not a sound was made, not a person in sight, shopkeeper or customer. It was just you and the flowers. A cruel thing, really. Alone with beautiful works of art that couldn’t distract your racing mind with words, only looks. But everywhere you looked, memories of your grandmother lingered. You needed words to revive your slowly beating heart. 

      “Hey, can I help you with anything?” A gruff voice sounded through the hazy, quiet aura of the shop. Turning around, you saw a man with scruffy noir hair. He wasn’t the tallest, but wasn’t short either. He had sharp brown eyes that emanated a hidden warmth encased in cool glass. His skin was as pale as petunias and he wore a desaturated blue apron with flowers peaking out of the pocket. 

      “I’m looking for red roses...” You somberly informed, unable to keep the emotion out of your voice. His cat-like eyes slightly softened, flashing a look of sympathy for your lost soul. You wondered if he often encountered lost souls here in the shop, using his business as a pit stop in a wayward journey. “I have just what you’re looking for,” He said, gesturing me to follow him.

      He led you through the shop in silence, like a drifting ghost. He floated elegantly through his shop, uncaring of the twist and turns that appeared in his way, even if there were few. Soon, he led you to an area full of roses, all different colors. White, blue, yellow. It was a beautiful image. 

      But he walked passed them, going towards a door in the back. “Where are we going?” You asked, stopping just a bit behind him. “Those roses are pretty, yes, but I think you need something more,” He said, face unchanging from a stoic expression. He opened the door, walking inside to grab something out of the artificially sun lit room. 

      Reappearing, he held a bouquet full of two dozen bright red roses. The petals undamaged, their color as lush as the day they came out of the Earth. “I’ve been saving these for a special occasion, I think they’d be of use to you now,” The man said, handing you the bouquet, You held them gently, afraid to damage the perfect flowers. 

      “How are they so perfect?” You marveled, unable to peel your eyes away from the beauty of which you held. “A lot of odd things happen in Bangtan,” Was his answer, nothing more. “Go on, I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” He said, putting a soft hand on your back, guiding you to the entrance you came in from. 

      “But I have to pay!” You protested, but the man didn’t stop guiding you. “Consider it a gift,” He shrugged. “But I don’t even know your name,” You argued, looking at him incredulously. “It’s Yoongi, what’s yours?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. “Y/n,” You answered. “Well Y/n, it was nice to meet you. Now go on, I hope those roses bring peace,”

      You didn’t go back to Min’s Flowers for three months. You decided it would be best to mourn in your own way, by yourself. That didn’t mean your close friends didn’t keep an eye on you though, Jimin and Jeongguk would never let you forget that they were there for you. Whether it was late night junk food runs to Hoseok’s store or messing around with Taehyung at the bakery. They made sure you knew they were there, waiting for you when you were ready to be picked back up and put back together.

      Which you were. You picked yourself back up and hammered yourself together. Life didn’t wait for anyone. Seasons still changed, flowers still bloomed, zephyrs still came and went. Maybe the tape you used to patch yourself up was still a bit brittle, maybe the glue you used to fill the cracks in your heart hasn’t quite dried yet, but you were okay. 

      And Jimin was not. Poor bastard caught a nasty case of the flu and has been miserable ever since. Jeongguk and you have been taking care of him whenever you could, and when he started complaining about missing the outside, flowers seemed like the perfect remedy. “I really like yellow and white chrysanthemums” 

      Those were Jimin's words when you asked him what his favorite flower was, and by golly were you going to get him the prettiest yellow and white chrysanthemums ever. So that’s how you found yourself back at the shop which aided your once wayward soul. 

      The shop still had that same comforting petrichor scent. Memories of the pixie like world that the flower shop simulated came back to you as you saw the same flowers in the exact same places as last time. When you first came to the shop, you had a heart leaking with melancholy. Now, you have a heart with scars and a mission to make your friend feel better. 

      “Oh, you’re back,” A familiar voice said. Turning, you saw the same man as before. He had mint hair now, standing at the counter. “That I am, Yoongi,” You said. You don’t know why the name stuck in your head the way it did, but you couldn’t forget it. Every time you thought about getting some flowers, Yoongi popped into your head. 

      It surprised Yoongi that you remembered his name. He thought that the interaction between the two of you was significant to him and him only. But hearing your soft utterance of his name made him freeze longer than he should’ve. “I’m surprised you remember me,” He said, cracking the slightest of smiles. 

      “You’re memorable, I suppose,” You chuckled, taking a few steps deeper into the indoor forest that was Yoongi’s flower shop. “So what brings you here this time?” Yoongi asked, not taking his eyes off of you. “My friend’s sick, so I wanted to get his favorite flower to cheer him up,”

      Yoongi nodded, walking around the counter to stand in front of you. “Well, I can guarantee that I have it here. What are we looking for?” He said, voice unchanging from a dull tone. “Yellow and white chrysanthemums,” You said, and Yoongi didn’t need to hear anymore before he was guiding you once more through the shop. The floor was slightly wet, showing that Yoongi had watered the flowers recently. 

      Quietly, he led you to where he kept the chrysanthemums, gesturing one of his hands to the yellow and white ones. “Go ahead and pick. A dozen flowers are 9,000 won,” Yoongi said, walking away to do his shopkeeper things. 

      That day you stayed in the shop a bit longer than you expected. You and Yoongi talked for what seemed like forever. Maybe it was minutes, maybe it hours, you wouldn’t know. You didn’t care, Yoongi was like a breath of fresh air. A whispering zephyr during the summer solstice. 

        So you kept coming back, again and again. Every day after work you made your way to Min’s Flowers, eager to talk to your new florist friend. You would arrange bouquets with him, tell him jokes, watch movies on the tv he had in the back. No matter the day or the weather, you never failed to meet with Yoongi every single day. Sometimes with Jimin and Jeongguk, sometimes alone.

You couldn’t get enough. Yoongi couldn’t get enough, and that scared him. 

      Min Yoongi was a quiet man. He preferred to stick to himself, hoping to limit the amount of human interaction he had on a daily basis. It’s not that he didn’t like people, per se, but he just rarely got along with others. It was a problem for him since Kindergarten. Being overly blunt with peers or arguing with the teacher. 

      He just drove people away with his cold aura and “unforgiving” personality. Yes, Yoongi had friends. He had Hoseok, Namjoon, Jin, Taehyung, even Jimin and Jeongguk hung out with him from time to time. But he’s never had that certain type of connection with someone. 

     Yoongi used to think he was critically apathetic. That no matter how much he wanted to bounce off the walls in celebration when Taehyung met his business goal, he couldn’t. He couldn’t muster up anything other than a “That’s good, I’m happy for you,” And he was! He knew he was, but he didn’t quite express that he was. 

      It left Yoongi feeling inferior, like he was a bad person. What kind of friend comforts you after a breakup by saying, “Love is dead anyway,”? Min Yoongi, apparently. Yeah, Yoongi had feelings. Things made him sad, mad, happy, annoyed. He wasn’t entirely broken. But those feeling felt like they were dampened, diluted. 

      “Aren’t you happy? Sad? Mad?” Those were the words Yoongi dreaded, because the answer was always yes. Yes, he was happy that Jin got a girlfriend. Yes, he was sad that Jeongguk couldn’t find the person painting flowers all over Bangtan village. Yes, he was mad Jimin shattered one of his terracotta pots. He just didn’t express it well. 

But you never seemed to care.

      You took Yoongi’s blunt words at face value. You believed him when he said, “That’s funny,” at one of your embarrassing childhood stories. You didn’t question why he wasn’t crying during “The Notebook” even if the tragic story silently broke his heart. You took his small smile just as seriously as you would a full one. That made Yoongi happy, even if he couldn’t express that to you. 

      You didn’t treat Yoongi’s lack of expression as a bad thing. You didn’t think he was cold and uncaring, because you knew he was. Actions speak louder than words. When he bandaged your ankle after you slipped in a puddle one day in the shop. When he gave you half of his granola bar after hearing your stomach rumble. Or how he never fails to ask how your day went, even if it sounded rather uncaring to the average person.

      Yoongi didn’t know when it happened or how. Yoongi didn’t know why your simple touches turned smouldering to him. Or why your smile was a picture he’d look at forever. He doesn’t know when he started eagerly looking at the clock, waiting for 4pm when you’d undoubtedly would come visit him at the shop. Yoongi didn’t know when it hit him, when his horribly suppressed emotions made him feel something like no other. 

Yoongi didn’t know when he fell in love with you, but damn did he fall hard.

      “Alright Yoongs, I agree with you on most things, but mint chocolate ice cream is definitely not it.” You argued, poking his carton of green ice cream with your spoon. “Well, coffee-flavored ice cream is weird too,” Yoongi retorted, stuffing a spoon full of ice cream monstrosity into his mouth. You dramatically gasped, “Yoongi! Coffee is totally a valid flavor,” You laid your head on the table inside Yoongi’s back room, putting a hand to your heart, “You wound me,” 

      Yoongi rolled his eyes, going back to his pint of frozen goodness. “You’re ridiculous,” He said, shaking his head. “Hold on, I speak Yoongi. You just said that I’m funny and you love me,” You teased. Yoongi felt his face slightly flush at your words, but he cleared his throat, changing the topic. “Whatever, wanna arrange a wedding bouquet with me?” 

      You quickly sat up, stars in your eyes as you ecstatically nodded your head. “Hells yes!” Yoongi hummed, grabbing both pints of ice cream and putting them away in the mini refrigerator he had. “Let’s go then, I already have my work space set up,” He said, walking out the room to which you happily followed him. 

      “So, a marriage? Is it a big one?” You asked. Yoongi shrugged, sitting down in his work chair to which he already had a spare one set up next to it. “I guess, I mean, how big can things get in Bangtan Village?” He said, picking up roses and cutting off bits of their stems. 

      “I dunno Yoongs, remember that time you found a huge sunflower in the forest? Bangtan Village may have a small population, but things can get pretty weird here,” You chuckled, joining Yoongi in his somewhat tedious task. “Yes, you are correct. Many things in that forest surprise me.” He said, nonchalantly. 

      “Really? Are there fairies? White stags? Gremlins?” You asked, turning towards the man contently snipping away at the stems next to you. “You and your fairy tales,” Yoongi sighed, secretly finding your interest in the unexplainable cute. 

       The two of you worked together in silence, enjoying each other's presence as the artful skills Yoongi had with flowers created beautiful bouquets. But the silent atmosphere was suddenly broken when your phone rang. Fishing it out of your pocket, Jeongguk's face appeared on the screen. You excused yourself and answered the phone outside, leaving Yoongi alone in the room. To him it felt a bit colder now.

      A couple minutes later, you peaked your head in the door, gaining Yoongi’s attention with a smile. “Sorry to say this Yoongs, but I have to help Jeongguk with something,” You said. Yoongi felt disappointed, but his face remained unchanging. “Oh... Okay... Do you- Nevermind,” Do you have too? Is what Yoongi wanted to ask. He didn’t want you to go, he wanted you to stay and make pretty flower arrangements with him. But he couldn’t express it.

      “I’ll be back tomorrow, don’t miss me too much, okay?” You joked, bidding the gruff florist a farewell. Yoongi tried to. But he really did miss you. Not only that, he felt... Jealous... He found himself wishing he was Jeongguk or wishing that you left your phone on silent so you wouldn’t hear his call. 

      It was selfish, Yoongi knew that, but that didn’t mean the feeling didn’t go away. He didn’t like this feeling. His emotions may feel weaker than others, but jealously always came on strong. Why did he have to be like this? Why couldn’t he just admit his feelings for you, ask you out on a date, tell you all the things that ran through his head about you?

      He needed to do something. What if Jeongguk made a move on you? What if you guys were kissing right now? Or worse, on a date... Yoongi’s heart felt heavy. His heart was heavy and his stomach was queezy. 

      One good thing came from Yoongi’s less than normal emotional responses. It meant embarrassment and shame were less of a bitch. Still total bitches, but bitches on chill pills. “Alright,” Yoongi told himself, “Operation fuck my emotional response and ask Y/n out on a date is a go,” Yoongi immediately pulled out his phone, dialing his friend Jin. 

     “Hello!” Jin answered. “Hyung... I need your help with something.” Yoongi said, his voice deadly serious. “What’s up?” Yoongi took a deep breath, wiping his sweaty palms on his apron. 

“You have a girlfriend...” Yoongi blurted out 

“Yes...?” Jin chuckled

“And you asked her out,” 

“That is correct.”

“How did you do that?” 

      Yoongi heard Jin’s squeaky laugh through the phone. “What?” He asked, confusion clear in his voice. “How d'you ask her out...?” Yoongi asked again. “I told her that I had feelings for her and asked her to go out with me,” Jin answered, most likely shrugging those broad shoulders of his. “How were you able to express your feelings?” Yoongi sighed.

     Jin was well aware about Yoongi’s trouble expressing himself in a way that didn’t make kids cry from his scary, brooding face. He had even helped him on a few occasions when he had to apologize and look like he meant it, (Whether he really did or not) But expressing a feeling like a crush or even love, was different for everybody. 

     “Yoongi, are you trying to ask that Y/n girl out?” Jin inquired, hearing a thing or two about you from when Yoongi dropped hints here and there. “Yes...” Yoongi said, resting his chin on his hand in defeat. “Yoongi, buddy, there’s no “right way” to express your feelings to somebody, you just have to do it in a way that is right for you.” Jin advised. 

“But the way I express things isn’t particularly... Nice,” Yoongi said. 

“Yoongi, if she likes you too she’ll accept that your just you,” Jin stressed, “And if what you tell me about the way she treats you, I’m sure she’ll understand just how hard and serious it is for you to admit something like this,” 

    Maybe Jin was right, you’d get that he’s basically head over heels for you, right? You know how he operates. You always treated him like a normal human with normal expressive capabilities. Okay, he’ll do it. 

      Yoongi can’t do this. What was he thinking? Inviting you over at 9pm to “help him with flowers” was probably the worse idea he’s ever had. You probably think he’s a weirdo. More of a weirdo than he actually is. What is he supposed to do?

      Well, it was too late. Because you just came barging through the door with a bag of takeout and that beautiful, blinding smile on your face. “Yoongs!” You exclaimed, placing down the food and giving him a hug. “Another emergency flower order?” You asked, taking out styrofoam containers and disposable chopsticks. 

      “Um... No. Yes... No,” He said, unusually indecisive. Yoongi sighed, sitting down at the table and taking a huge bite of the food that you handed him. “Yoongs, are you okay?” You asked, brows creased in worry. “I’m fine,” He shrugged, but you knew better.

      “Are you sure? You seem a bit off,” You pushed, hoping he would give you the honest answer. “Mhmm. I just- uh... I’m just tired,” He answered, turning his attention back to his food. You frowned, picking your lukewarm dumpings.

     You liked to call yourself a Yoongi translator. You knew a lot about his body language and usage of words. “I’m fine.” Usually meant just that. He was fine and meant it. But paired with his odd behavior just moments ago, you knew something was up. 

     But you also knew that Yoongi wasn’t an expressive person. He didn’t show powerful emotions very often. Yeah, he’s genuinely smiled before and chuckled. However, that was few and far between. Yoongi wasn’t good at expressing himself, and now that fact only worried you more. 

      “Hey Yoongs, you know the meanings of different flowers right?” You asked, brewing up an idea in your head. “Um, yes. You revealed that embarrassing fact when you snooped through my old books.” He said, raising his eyebrow incredulously. “What are you planning?” He asked. 

      You said nothing, instead opting to grab Yoongi and drag him out into the store. “Tell me how your feeling, but with the flowers,” You said. Yoongi looked at you like you’ve grown 3 head, “What?” He asked, still sounding iconically unimpressed. “I know something’s bothering you. I know it’s hard for you to express things sometimes, so tell me without words,” You explained, urging Yoongi to do as you say. “You don’t know the meanings though,” He argued. “Wrong. I studied them for a month straight to impress you. It’ll be fine,” You gave him a smile, and he felt his resolve breaking. 

     Yoongi thought about it for a second. Originally he was planning on just forgetting his entire plan and watching trash tv with you in the back until the sun came up, but this could work. Does he want it to work? Will you understand what he means when he gives you a pink camellia? Will you be weirded out if he presented you with red chrysanthemum? 

It was worth a shot. 

    Yoongi sighed, giving into your admittedly smart idea. This could work. Yoongi ran around the shop, picking out flowers of different kinds and colors, coming back to you with a messy bouquet. “Okay, lets begin. You won’t have to talk or explain, you can just nod your head,” You said. Yoongi nodded, handing you his first flower. 

A yellow hyacinth. 

“Jealousy? Are you jealous of someone?” You asked, 

Yoongi nodded.

A vine of ivy

“...Friendship? A friend? Are you jealous of a friend?”

Another nod. 

Gardenia

      “Secret love... You have a crush on somebody?” Your heart stung a bit at that one, but you schooled your emotions. This was about Yoongi, not you. “Your jealous of your crush?” You asked, but Yoongi shook his head no. “Your jealous of... your crushes friend...?” You guessed, Yoongi nodded, stoic face still unchanging. 

A red columbine.

    “Anxious, your crush makes you anxious?” You asked. Yoongi didn’t answer right away, but he lifted his hand and made a “sort of” motion. You racked your brain again for a moment. “Having a crush... makes you nervous?” 

Yoongi nodded

“Is it because your bad at expressing yourself?”

Yoongi gave you a ‘duh’ face, holding out another flower. 

 A yellow carnation

“They rejected you?” Yoongi shook his head, pointing back to the red columbine, “Ohhh, you’re scared that they will reject you.” A nod.

      Yoongi had one more flower left, but he didn’t give it to you just yet. He hid it behind his back, away from view, so you opted to cheer him up a bit in hopes that you’ll be able to comfort him enough to express this last thing. “Yoongs, you’re a great dude! Anybody would be lucky to have you! Sure, maybe your not as dramatic as me, but you care in your own way. That’s all that matters,” You said, giving him a smile. 

     Yoongi looked away from you to the side. He wasn’t usually a nervous person. Why is he so nervous? Why is this the one emotion that’s cripplingly strong? He could do it. He didn’t even have to say anything, just hand you the goddamn flower. He’s psyching himself out. Quickly, he thrusted the flower towards you without thinking.

Chucking, you took it in your hands

A red rose.

I love you.

      “Yoongi, you should give this to your crush, not me,” You chuckled, but Yoongi didn’t move, just stared at you with unimpressed eyes. “Yoongs, you don’t mean...” “I love you,” He blurted out, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. “Y-You do?” You asked. 

One last nod.

      “Sup loser,” You lovingly greeted your grumpy boyfriend, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Yoongi rolled his eyes, wrapping an arm around your waist from where he was sat in his work chair, meticulously finishing up his last order of the day. “And you claim you love me when you treat me like that,” He said, voice gruff and scratchy from not using it for a while. 

      “Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” You chuckled. Yoongi bent down under the table and grabbed a flower, wordlessly handing it to you. “A red camellia?” You asked, taking a whiff of its pleasing aroma. “I’m expressing,” He said, and you nodded, understanding. 

     Yoongi’s gotten a bit better with expressing himself, but it can still be hard for him. As a solution, he talks to you in flowers when he wants to say something but can’t form the words. “You’re the flame in my heart too Yoongs,” You smiled, kissing the top of his head

Yoongi might not know the exact moment he fell in love with you. All he knew is that it happened swiftly and silently.

Like a zephyr on a warm day.

[emily-the-fae]

Sound of a Heartbeat

Part 5. Walking makes the road

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 6

Unbelievable, but I'm finally back with a new chapter. I've been going through a lot of stuff with my studies and personal life for the past month and here it comes. Finally done with the editing. Most definitely not the best chapter in the story, but it has to be here to keep the storyline together and moving. Anyways, enjoy. Like and comment if you do, I'm very happy to receive feedback.

PS Dracula back to the story soon:)

I still have no beta and English isn't my mothertongue.

Pairing: Dracula X OC

Warnings: probably none, skeletons on sticks...the usual stuff

Wandering into the lands ruled over by darkness itself has never been pleasant.

The next morning was freezing cold, just as the passing night - no warmth was brought by the little sunlight that came - and upon waking up Shari briefly wondered how she wasn't dead of the cold yet. Her mornings were something like crawling out of a tomb every time - the kind she imagined when she heard the stories of vampires awakening, though no doubt they must have still felt better than she did. Those bastards.

Morning light was dim and weak, there were torn scraps of greyish mist laying low above the ground and the forest was eerily quiet. Shari knew the sun had to be very low, but nevertheless up, which meant that she had to be on the move already, and yet she couldn’t force herself to move a single inch, as if the forces of the castle were sensing her approach and weakening her on purpose.

She hadn't entered any towns - in fact, hadn't seen any in the previous eight hours or so of her walking the day before - and though her food supplies weren't awfully low, her health seemed to be protesting and weakening at hourly rate, demanding normal human conditions and rest. She needed warmth and a bed, and she was sure as hell that where she was heading she would either get those only already in Dracula's den, or won't get it at all.

- So? Are you up? Heading? The faster you rise, the faster we'll be there, - Shari sat back against the tree trunk, taking a gulp of cold water from her flask - she wouldn't mind Trevor's whiskey right now, but the hunter took it all with him; Rodo was seemingly relieved that he was free of his duty of being her personal heater, he jumped up and ran around the forest opening, stretching his stiff muscles. At least someone had energy left.

- You know I'm really beginning to hate you now... - she yawned.

- I believe you have already mentioned that.

- Not enough, apparently.

- Oh, come on, you like my company. Besides I'm the only one helping you so hey...

- Ok, ok can I get my food at least?

- You can eat on the go! Come on! - she whistled for Rodo even though she knew he couldn't hear her. Shari stood up purposefully slowly and made the first hesitant steps to follow her guide. Oh where were those wonderful times when she could stay in bed almost all day if she was feeling under the weather? She could kill for such a possibility at the given moment. There was a screech of another winged demon somewhere in the distance, Shari shuddered, brought out of her thoughts and Rodo turned his head briefly, seemingly considering whether he should bolt to search for the other creature, but quickly averted his muzzle from the direction and followed Shari, jumping from tree to ground and back up.

It was going to be a long day.

- Did you walk the same way? First time you found his castle? - the scenery about them was dreadful to say the very least. The forest was greyer now, less green, less alive than on the route before. The few small villages they passed were seemingly abandoned completely for decades if not centuries and Shari felt rather than acknowledged that the farther she went, the worse it would become.

- Not quite, - Lisa replied, her voice all too lively for a ghost. - The direction I came from was a bit more disturbing than here, - Shari briefly wondered how that should have looked, if this desolation seemed lively in comparison. - And I also went alone you know, so...

- Oh, yes, thank you, my wise guide for leading my way... Probably to the dinner table of a very aggressive vampire, - Shari bowed mockingly, then coughed again, swallowing the blood the pooled to her mouth.

- Calm down. There won't be anyone there, I'm quite sure.

- A-ha! So now you are "quite" sure!?

- Don't be mean, I'm trying to save your life here.

- Exactly me for some reason, - Shari snorted sarcastically.

- For the same reasons you helped Adrian. Because I can't just walk past... and because I feel rather than know that helping you is more than just helping one particular person. Just like you felt about him - didn't you?

That shut the girl up for considerable time.

They walked all day long only making one small stop to rest during - at least what was supposed to be - midday (it was very hard to understand where the sun was behind the treetops, clouds and fog). Shari coughed up blood and swore like a sailor, but Lisa only let her sit down long enough to gulp down some food. If she wasn’t killed by some night creature, she would sure as hell be tired to death with such a guide pushing her to the limit. It was visible how the closeness of their destination made the ghost more and more agitated.

The dawn was already close and Shari was ready to give up the hopes of getting to her goal on that day - ever, to be honest, judging by the condition of her lungs – her body desperately wanted her to drop down and call it a night. The forest around them was dreary and dense, the mist had never lessened since morning; Shari was cold, slightly wet and unbearably tired and even Rodo seemed to lose some of his enthusiasm, even though the darkness should have empowered him. Maybe being around humans rubbed off on the creature a little.

- Shush, - Lisa turned to Shari as they walked on, gesturing for her to cut her whining and keep quiet. Shari stopped abruptly looking around in alert, trying to see through at least some reasonable distance between the tree trunks. Finally she understood what picked her companion’s attention: clearing began to be noticeable before them - it seemed that the woods were all of a sudden coming to their edge.

They carried on walking in silence for a few more minutes until they finally reached the end of the trees – the edge of the forest. The final border between the darkness of Dracula’s lands and the normal world. Shari gasped in surprise and horror: in front of her was a few feet sandy drop covered here and there in greyish grass that led to a whole field, dry and dead in dim yellow lights with no snow upon it, weak bushes appearing here and there. It seemed that the mere presence of the undead somewhere nearby sucked the life out of the lands. Peculiar graveyard formation occupied a part of the land - human skeletons hanging on tall sticks, all in varying poses, as if frozen in their deadly agony, dried with ages and falling apart. Whatever happened there, it was nothing good. If this was what the owner of the lands decided to expose to lone travelers, it was quite obvious there would be no “welcome” shield ahead.

There was no visible end to the field, at least the reddish mist coloured by the light of the setting sun made it impossible to see far in the distance. Shari coughed, dusty air tickling her throat, and looked back to the ghost in confusion. Was this what they had searched for?

- Are you sure this is…?

- My reaction precisely when I first saw this place, - Lisa was amused, watching the healer's fearful face. - Come on, we're almost there now.

- Wait! What, there? To those? - she gestured actively to the mass of aged corpses, but Lisa payed no attention to her reaction. - Lord, why do I always get myself into the deepest trouble I can find? Could've stayed somewhere safe and warm, healed a bit, but no-o I had to be right here, torn apart by bats and hell-knows-what-else-inhabits-this-place, - Shari mumbled to herself as they descended into the valley, her feet slipping upon rocks and sliding on the unsolid sandy ground.

- Oh, come on, it's not as scary here. You’ve surely seen worse - Lisa replied, - they were walking deeper into the field, navigating their way between the mutilated skeletons, as the reddish-grey twilight around them was darkening minute by minute.

- Maybe. Doesn’t mean I want to see more.

Just as the words left her mouth, there was a blood-chilling howl somewhere in the distance and a horde of great black bats, apparently awoken by the sound, appeared out of nowhere, flapping their wings above their heads rapidly; Shari yelled and dipped down in fear. Rodo on the contrary jumped up from behind her back, trying to reach the annoying loud things and succeeding in catching one of the creatures between his sharp fangs. Shari only crouched down lower, as she heard the struggles of the defeated being next to her ear. Then a snap - the animal stopped moving, as Rodo tightened his jaws, probably breaking the thing's stamina. Just as abrupt as it began, the flapping of the bats above her stopped too.

- Lisa? Are-are they gone? - her voice was slightly shaking, she awaited the dreadful howl to repeat even closer.

- Shari, stand up! Shari! - she heard Lisa's voice coming from behind her back and turned around, her eyes searching for the ghost, as she realized that Lisa has moved much further away than she expected. Shari was on her feet in an instant, finally noticing what stood behind the ghost's transparent form, her mouth fell agape at what she could see before her now.

A wide set of steps that led to doors so tall that she felt her head spin even looking up at it - the dark stone walls went up and disappeared in the low greyish mist. Her ghost companion was at the top of the steps already and Rodo was gladly running up to the doors, apparently recognizing the smell of his own home of some time ago. Shari followed behind him hesitantly, looking around for any sign of movement.

- Come on, don't be shy, - Lisa cooed, as if luring in a small child. Her greyish form paused on one spot, waiting for Shari by the door. The girl looked around one more time as she joined the ghost on the final steps,

- Are you... Sure? This doesn't look completely abandoned. I mean, can you be sure he isn't home? That he won't be back soon? Clearly you can’t, why am I even asking… This was a terrible idea straight from the beginning, - she was visibly shacking, clenching and unclenching her fists, stepping from one foot to the other. The whole journey suddenly felt like a big mistake that could still be possibly abandoned if she did not take the final leap. Shari put her hand on the door handle then pulled away in fear. She took a deep breath, putting her palm back more steadily on the door, but was still hesitant to push it open. She paused. There was once again the dreadful howl from before, now closer to them, the creature producing it still not visible. They were standing in almost complete darkness.

- Go! - Lisa pressed.

Rodo leaped on spot beside them.

Shari held her breath – and finally pushed the handle and jumped inside, scared to even look in forward and terrified of what was awaiting behind, diving head-first into unknown - if he is there, let it be, she'd rather be torn apart by him than by whatever thing outside that let out those blood-freezing sounds; Rodo slid in too, in a ghastly manner, his massive form unnaturally smoothly squeezing through the small gap in the doorway and the next moment the door was shut behind her with a loud blow. She was finally inside Dracula's castle.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

193 for... maybe nanahiko? Really just do whatever ship you feel like :D

193. "Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!" | VestigesTorino [Yes. OT8. The orgies are fantastic, and Torino is Holder bait, 8th and 9th exempt.] | WC: 2,222 of an OFA!VampireCoven!AU except op has taken liberties with worldbuilding.

TW: Blood-drinking. Outrageous flirting. Mildly spicy!

//

“Vampires,” Sorahiko echoes blankly.

He looks from left to right, trying to spot the differences between himself and the six adult men and one adult woman sitting at this round table. Most atypical appearances can be attributed to the strange and wondrous natures of Quirks, so Sorahiko could excuse the fourteen red eyes (every iris the identical shade) as a matter of Quirk heritage. However, none of the Shigarakis resemble the other.

They still might be pulling his leg.

The leader of the household (presumably) leans his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. “Torino-san,” he says in a gentle voice, “we greatly appreciate your timely rescue of our youngest. And believe me when I say I would have preferred you stay ignorant of my coven’s true nature.”

“But the boy wants to be a professional hero,” one of the men interrupts. His arms are crossed, and his hair sticks up in rakish angles. An X-shaped scar has been carved over the bridge of his nose, just missing the eyes.

He sounds dismissive of the kid’s dream.

Fair. When Sorahiko had stepped onto the moonlit scene, the kid was frantically scrabbling at a thick-skinned villain’s hand, trying to save his bag from being rummaged. The villain had planted a knee in the kid’s stomach in an attempt to menace him into silence.

Sorahiko pounced on the villain, called in the location to pick up the too-heavy bastard, and escorted the boy home. He fielded questions about heroics and U.A. High for half an hour before they finally reached the Shigaraki compound.

And now he is here, trapped in a gigantic dining room, being told about vampires.

“We agreed to let him try,” says the singular woman sharply.

“If you three hadn’t filled his head about saving the world,” a man with a spiky ponytail shoots back, “then we wouldn’t have this problem. And you too, Yoichi.”

“Nevertheless,” the leader says. His red eyes gleam in the low light, and Sorahiko feels his skin prickling at the attention.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Ah, who hasn’t heard of the toughest teacher of U.A.?” another man asks, sly and teasing. His voice is soft like the leader’s, but perceptibly younger. His coloring is similar to the woman’s, but he’s lean where she’s muscular. “Yoichi believes we should give you a head’s up. Toshinori is a good child, but even he will slip from time to time, and that will draw undue attention to himself.”

Sorahiko considers these seven faces. Slowly, he says, “You think he’ll be accepted into U.A.”

“Three of us are active pro-heroes, and we’ve been training him when we can,” the woman informs him. “I’d say he’s got a headstart compared to all of your first years.”

“My students have always been terrible. That’s what schooling is for.”

She flashes a smile at him, toothy and amused; his throat works through a sudden dry spell. Belatedly, Sorahiko realizes that every adult in this kitchen is eyeing him with intense interest. Even the ones that haven’t spoken yet.

Yoichi speaks again. “He’s smart, and he’ll be strong. U.A. will accept him. I ask you for your discretion and help, Gran Torino.”

He could refuse, but Sorahiko assumes they’ll simply kill him. Being blackmailed is a low possibility; Sorahiko doesn’t have much to be blackmailed about. And pro-heroes disappear all the time. No one really knows why. Principal Shi might demand an investigation on Gran Torino’s behalf (and possibly at the behest of Recovery Girl, who grudgingly acknowledges Torino’s efforts to raise the survival rate of U.A.’s graduates), but otherwise…

Still. Vampires. Another subset of humanity, among the Quirked and Quirkless. It’s weird enough to be true.

“Is this a verbal agreement?” Sorahiko asks.

A bark of laughter from the square-jawed man in the leather jacket, who leans forward and grins like a shark at Sorahiko. The light glints off the yellow lenses of his goggles, and the play of light and shadow highlights the muscle definition of the man’s shirtless chest. In a rich, low voice, he says, “We’ve got something better. A contract.”

“Using what?” Sorahiko bites back. “Paper and ink?”

“Skin and teeth, teach’.”

“Daigoro’s correct,” says Yoichi mildly, snatching Sorahiko’s attention away. “Torino-san, allow me to introduce my coven. I am Shigaraki Yoichi, second of my line. In the order of which my coven grew: Kenzo, Sanjuro, Hikage, Daigoro, En, Nana, and you’ve met our Toshinori.” As he speaks, he points to each person in turn.

He wonders when the kid got folded into this group. The kid’s affection for his home had been sincere, and he greeted the adults (well, Hikage had only come out of the forested grounds at Daigoro’s call) with merry cheer.

Is Toshinori even a vampire? U.A. conducts its business in the daytime.

Sorahiko nods in acknowledgement and doesn’t offer his full name in return. Instead, he says, “If I accept this contract, will you tell me whatever I want to know? About anything I ask?”

“Even vampires aren’t omniscient,” Yoichi answers.

Rolling his eyes, Sorahiko clarifies, “If the kid’s going to develop vampirism over the course of high school, then I need to know things. Like whether or not he’ll go feral over spilled blood. Or if sunlight’s going to be an issue.”

Yoichi’s smile is kind, and surprisingly not patronizing. “What we can tell, we will. The contract will have a mutual hold on us all.”

“What could break it?”

“A different coven, not that you should seek one out,” says Nana. “Trust us, we’re as nice as you get in the supernatural world.”

Sorahiko does not have many options. He hates the idea of agreeing to this without a safety net or a contingency plan. How can this woman ask him to trust them immediately? He’d have to be a gullible idiot, or a fool in lust, or...

He exhales. Sighing in resignation, Sorahiko tips his head to Yoichi and says, wry, “I accept the contract. Don’t kill me if your kid comes crying home about how mean I am.”

Yoichi shrugs, casual as anything. “Toshinori’s quite brave for his age, and stubborn, too. You’ll have your hands full training him.” He then stands from his chair; in measured, unhesitating steps, Yoichi approaches where Sorahiko sits at the opposite side of the round table. What he orders, Sorahiko complies with. “Take your cape off, Torino-san. Your gloves as well.”

“You may have to unzip the top half of your suit,” advises Hikage. “You won’t want the signatures to overlap.”

“Signatures,” Sorahiko repeats, pausing.

One glove’s already off. The flight suit’s sleeves extend up to his wrists, and they don’t have a lot of give. Similarly, the collar is skin-tight and provides ample coverage.

Daigoro playfully snaps his teeth at Sorahiko, once, twice. He says, “Paper and ink, skin and teeth. You forget already?”

The man barely flinches at the snarl directed his way. Seven pairs of eyes are honing in on the exposed flesh; Sorahiko shoves his self-conscious thoughts away. He focuses on the sheer outrage of being asked to strip by strangers, hissing, “Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!”

“I’ll make sure he stays in his room,” Nana volunteers. She winks at Sorahiko. “We’ll be quick, Torino-san. You just have to keep quiet.”

“You—!”

She slips from her chair and darts off, exiting the dining room and ascending the stairs, floating off the floor. Sorahiko glares after her but snaps to attention as Yoichi stops by his chair, hip resting against the table, red eyes expectant.

Grudgingly, Sorahiko works off the second glove. As he does, Yoichi continues to lecture.

“The signatures can be made in two ways. A lighter bite will result in less pain, but will fade sooner. And I’d like for this arrangement to stand for several years, Torino-san. A lighter bite necessitates more renewals. Possibly, seven bites every two weeks.”

“And a stronger bite?”

“Seven every month.”

He scowls at the thought. The only silver lining he can see is that his suit will cover the marks, which will save him from his colleagues’ gossiping tongues. “Monthly, then. Are you drinking my blood? I don’t think I’ve got enough to cover seven appetites.”

Yoichi offers him a gentle smile. “A mouthful will suffice.”

Sorahiko works his jaw, and then he reaches backwards for the hidden zipper. It’s incongruously loud in the dining room; Sorahiko feels his face burning as he hurriedly rips his arms free of the sausage casing sleeves, letting the slackening front of the suit crumple to his lap. He hears an appreciative whistle.

“Daigoro, he can give you a run for your money,” Sanjuro jokes.

“He’s softer,” Daigoro deems, and Sorahiko bristles. “Must be the suit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “And proper hydration, asshole.”

“I’m not complaining!”

“At ease,” says Yoichi, calm, and that’s when Nana makes her reappearance. She swings back into the dining room, expression confident and content, until she spies Sorahiko’s half-naked appearance.

“Are we going in order?” she questions Yoichi, even as her eyes are trained on Sorahiko’s.

“That’s how it works, Nana,” Kenzo answers for their leader. “How’s Toshinori?”

“Watching his martial arts dramas. We’re good for like, fifty minutes.”

“You said you’ll be quick,” Sorahiko rasps, and his hands are clenching into fists, anticipatory and anxious. This is all so incredibly weird. “You all need more than five minutes to bite me?”

Yoichi laughs. It’s a bright sound, attractive and human and not at all like something that should be coming out of a self-proclaimed bloodsucker. When Yoichi moves, pushing off the table, Sorahiko nervelessly allows himself to be pinned to the back of his chair. One hand cards through his hair and lightly tugs; the other hand settles at his shoulder and presses it down.

His throat is exposed. Though Yoichi bends close, Sorahiko knows it isn’t the jugular he’s aiming for.

“Torino-san will need a moment to recuperate,” Yoichi whispers, and Sorahiko shivers, swallows past the apprehension, and spends half a second regretting his decision to let this happen. Yoichi adds, “We will not harm you, and you will not harm us. Your help, in exchange for ours. Let it be so.”

Teeth sink into the join of Sorahiko’s neck and shoulder, sharp and surprisingly hot. Sorahiko chokes out a garbled sound and jerks in his seat, until Yoichi’s bite goes deeper, deeper, and then Sorahiko gasps. Adrenaline bursts to life in his system; his Quirk sputters a reflexive Jet through his boots, but Yoichi’s slender frame hides an unseen strength.

He holds Sorahiko down.

He draws blood from the wound. Sorahiko barely feels the drain, fixated he is on the pressure exerted against him. Every single one of them is going to have the capacity to do this. If Yoichi, whose frame is most similar to En’s, can keep Sorahiko from bolting—Sorahiko arches his back, an involuntary moan escaping him.

It feels good. It feels really, really good.

Yoichi hums against his skin, pleased as punch, and his teeth retract. Sorahiko feels the tongue lap over the mark, heavy with spit. As Yoichi rears back, Yoichi rolls his neck lazily, licking his lips like a cat full from its meal.

“The saliva is a coagulant,” he explains idly, watching Sorahiko slump back against the chair, lungs still stuttering. A faint sweat has broken across his forehead, and Sorahiko distantly suspects that he’s going to need all the time he can get before the kid grows bored of his dramas.

“Oh, he already looks wrecked,” En observes. His awed tone elicits a laugh and encouraging clap to his shoulder from Daigoro, the latter of which requires En to brace against.

“You think he’ll last seven bites?”

“To be fair,” Hikage says, “that is a common erogenous zone. We’ll focus on less stimulating areas.”

Sorahiko, somewhat nettled at the implication that he won’t last (and what the hell does that mean? That he’ll back out? Start begging for mercy?) all seven signatures, musters his strength and shoves himself upright. He scoffs exaggeratedly, masking a shaky exhale with it. He challenges the coven, “Do your fucking worst.”

Yoichi blinks. Behind him, Kenzo is leaving his seat and stalking towards Sorahiko’s, red eyes gleaming. Before Kenzo can dive at Sorahiko and probably tear an artery out, Yoichi holds him back with one placating hand.

“Do not,” Yoichi warns. “We’re not trying to induce a thrall, do you all hear me?”

“Yoichi,” says Sanjuro, “if the man gets off, he gets off.”

A sigh leaves Yoichi. “Be that as it may. Please try not to leave him resentful for the months ahead.” He pats Kenzo’s collarbone; Kenzo catches the thin-boned hand and raises it to his lips.

“Understood, Yoichi,” Kenzo murmurs into the knuckles. He lets go, and Yoichi moves aside, now more fond than exasperated. A safety net, maybe.

In any case, Sorahiko gazes up at number two, who studies him back.

“The shoulder?” suggests Sorahiko, half-heartedly offering the right one up to sacrifice.

Kenzo inclines his head. “Just above the bicep will work,” and he goes on to prove his point, keeping Sorahiko locked in position, unable to do anything but wriggle and fail to contain strangled moans.

This is going to be a long hour.

[strawwritesfic]

Phil Coulson x Female!Original Character: Nowhere, Beautiful Nowhere

Summary: There’s always a silver lining, even in the middle of nowhere.

Rating/Warnings/Tags: All (SHIELD Agent!OC; mutual crush; referenced Bruce & OC friendship; Jemma & OC friendship)

Winner June 2019: Shakespeare girl/Shakespearegirl

Requirements: Phil Coulson/Kate Kane (OC); confession during night shift/while trapped in an elevator/at a safe house

Notes: I stopped watching Agents of SHIELD about two episodes into the the Ghost Rider season, so please excuse the inevitable discrepancies herein.

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Nowhere, Beautiful Nowhere

Darkness pressed against the windows of a little house—more like a wooden shack—in the middle of the New Mexican wilderness. For miles and miles, there was nothing but darkness, which surged across the flat earth as though that house were a magnet. A mess of stars and a sliver of moon shed the only slim light available. They did nothing to aid the dark-haired woman sitting atop a tiny bed inside. She had a lit candle on the old bedside table, but still could not make out the words on the thin sheet of paper in her hand.

“You’re apt to go blind if you keep squinting like that.”

Kate Kane jumped at the sound of someone speaking in such close proximity to her. Her blue eyes were wild as they cast about for the source of the voice. As soon as she spotted the familiar man standing by the doorway, she relaxed. She always relaxed when she spotted Phil Coulson.

“Did I scare you?” he asked. “Sorry. Next time I’ll knock.”

Her voice stuck in her throat as he stepped into the bedroom and the dim candlelight inside. He looked the same as always: pale face clear of any lines, short hair professionally parted, wide mouth pressed into a mild smile. Handsome. Completely put together. Even with his jacket and tie removed, he looked like the SHIELD agent he was. After the day she had had, Kate looked anything but. Her hair was out of its usual neat style and instead in a hastily arranged braid down her back, and she’d already changed into her sleepwear.

“Kate? Are you all right? I didn’t break you, did I?”

Too late she realized she hadn’t said a word since he entered the room. Only after several awkward seconds of effort did she manage to force out a laugh.

“No, no, of course not.” Relief at sounding relatively normal left her feeling a little lightheaded. “You startled me, that’s all. You don’t have to knock. I should have known it was only you.”

“You can’t make that assumption. What if I was one of the bad guys?”

“The bad guys can’t get in. Isn’t that the point of you being my bodyguard?”

“I appreciate your confidence in my abilities. Next time, though, I’d prefer it if I took an ICEr to the face.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kate said weakly.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to hurt Phil on purpose, but he didn’t need to. Already he had gone out of his way to set up this safe house for her and to stick around to keep her safe within it. Giving him anxiety over whether or not she could keep her wits about her for the duration of their stay would be poor repayment for his generosity.

He considered her quietly for a minute or so. Kate found it difficult to look him in the eye. Could he see her reluctance to pull a weapon on him there? Had she disappointed him so soon?

Then Phil sat down next to her and held out a chipped yellow mug. “Here.”

She took it without thinking. “What’s this?”

“Tea,” he answered. “Chamomile. I thought you could use some calming after everything that’s happened. You need to sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I intend to.”

After holding up his own equally cracked mug, he downed several mouthfuls of the tea. Kate followed suit. She felt better the minute the warm liquid touched her mouth, downing the entire cup in one go. Phil held out his empty hand for the mug.

“Thank you,” she said as she returned it. “How did you make tea if we don’t have any electricity?”

“I know my way around a fire and how to use a well. Sorry,” he added with another smile, “there’s no secret generator. We really are completely off the grid.”

“Damn.”

“Look on the bright side. There’s nothing to distract you from getting a good night’s sleep. I like your pajamas, by the way.”

Kate felt herself flush. Of all the clothes she owned, these were the ones she had never wanted Phil to see her in—and yet, she was not surprised that he liked this particular outfit. They were designed to look like Captain America’s uniform, hood and all. She’d bought the clothes on whim because they reminded her of Phil. Of course, she could not tell him this. What would he think about her pajamas then?

“Jemma packed them,” she explained in rush.

Phil’s brow furrowed gently. “So they’re Simmons’ pajamas?”

“No. No, they’re mine. I just don’t know why she picked these. I mean, I have other things to sleep in.”

“Probably grabbed the first thing she could find. Was that letter you’ve got inside with the things she brought you as well?”

“Oh.” Kate looked down at the slip of paper now lying on the bed’s decrepit comforter. She had almost forgotten about her attempts to decipher the scrawling, loopy “doctor handwriting” that covered the page. Phil’s appearance tended to distract her like that. “I think so.”

Without batting an eye, he plucked it up and shoved it into one of his back pockets.

“What are you—”

“No communication means no communication,” he interrupted. “Simmons should have known better than to leave this for you. Besides, if I leave this here, how do I know you won’t stay up all night trying to read it?”

She opened her mouth, but could think of no answer she believed would convince him. That was exactly what she would do, and he knew it.

“That’s what I thought. Goodnight, Kate.”

With that, he got up and turned to leave the room. Kate eyed the paper waving at her from his pocket with suspicion, until something far more important than whatever Jemma had wanted to tell her occurred to her:

“Wait. There’s only one bed! Will you be…” The question was too embarrassing to finish.

Luckily Phil caught onto her pointed look at the single pillow at the other end of the mattress. He chuckled.

“No. There’s also a perfectly good couch in the living room that I think hasn’t seen a warm body in at least five years. Sleep tight.”

Maybe it was the tea, but Kate surprised herself by following his instructions. She expected her journey to dreams to be full of the shadows that chased her, if to dreams she ever got at all. Instead, sleep quickly stifled all her thoughts but one: Phil had complimented her pajamas. A smile graced her lips as she closed her eyes against the darkness.

******

The safe house’s atmosphere did not improve much in the daylight. All that really changed was the view outside its dusty windows: dirt, shrub grass, yellowed bushes, and low mesas, with only the occasional squat cactus to break up the monotony of brown. It didn’t take more than a couple of days for Kate to finish reading the material left there by the home’s previous occupants, nor to fill up the several empty notebooks Jemma had tossed in alongside Kate’s toothbrush. Deprived of her usual pursuits that required electricity, she found herself looking out the window at that depressing view much more often than she liked.

Once she had decided to do something about her boredom and go out into that depressing landscape, Kate realized that escaping into it was perhaps not her greatest idea. It was hotter than hell inside the safe house; outside was like stepping on the sun. After a mere fifteen minutes of work, she already had sweat dripping down her face and neck. The droplets made it difficult for her to see the baked earth she was attempting to dig up.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing out here?”

Kate didn’t jump that time. Her hand found the ICEr sitting next to her basket of vegetables pieces and hefted it right up at the person who had approached her. Phil did not flinch as he casually pushed its muzzle away from his chest.

“You’re getting better,” he remarked.

“I’ll be an expert by the time we leave,” Kate said, putting the ICEr down.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Do you really think we’ll be stuck here that long?”

Phil looked politely puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“If you think that I’m going to be well-experienced in…in…in that.” She gestured at the thing.

“Kate, you’re the lead SHIELD liaison for the weapon’s department.”

“It’s not the firing that I’m concerned with. It’s learning to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“That’s not what I meant. Really,” he said, as he crouched down next to her.

“Not sure what else you could mean.” She carefully avoided his eyes by digging another little hole in the warm dirt. “The only way we’re getting out of here is if I learn constant vigilance.”

“The only way we’re getting out of here is when they catch the people after you. Which they will. What I meant was that I have faith in your ability to stay alive until then. Would it really be so bad, though?”

Kate chanced a glance at him. She of course was already sweating through the summer blouse and pants that Jemma had packed for her. Not a drop appeared on Phil. She envied his ability to stay so cool.

“Would what be so bad?” she asked.

“Being locked up with each other like this. I can’t speak for the both of us, but I’ve come to enjoy having you to myself. You’re good company.”

Every single one of her immensely capable brain cells froze.

“Kate? …Kate? Are you all right?”

Though it took a good deal of work, Kate managed to kick herself back into gear. First the mouth, forced into a smile. Then the voice, forced into a laugh. Finally one arm, forced across her slick forehead in an attempt to look unflustered.

“I quite enjoy your company myself. However, I do miss things like electricity and running water—and being able to access the internet.”

“I suppose this is something of a Luddite existence we’re leading out here. Gives us a lot of time to get to know one another.”

That was exactly what Kate was afraid of. If she died, she died, and while that would be sad, she still thought it preferable to Phil “getting to know” her. As work colleagues, it was easy enough for her to admire him from afar. As bodyguard and protectee, there was far too much danger that he would notice her admiration. First the compliment on her pajamas, now on her conversational abilities. She was sure she must have looked like a blushing, love-struck teenager…or would have, if it wasn’t scorching enough outside to make her face red to begin with.

“I’d at least like a book,” she said. “Something new to read. Jemma’s letter would do.”

Phil smiled again. “You can have it back when this is all over. A communications blackout means all communications.”

“Right.” The same answer as every other time she’d suggested he hand that paper over. Kate didn’t know why she had bothered.

Then he was closer than before, kneeling right next to her in the dirt, with more heat than ever radiating from his body. “But you’re right. It can get pretty boring. Would you mind if I helped you with your gardening?”

“How did you know?”

“You’ve been stealing all the dinner scraps for a week.”

“I just thought, if we were stuck out here until the food supply runs out—”

“We won’t be.”

“—that we should try to have a backup source. That, and gardening would give me something to do,” she finished. Kate’s defiance lasted only a few seconds in the face of his appraising look. “Is that…foolish?”

“Not foolish at all. I think it’s smart. Here, let me start with the potatoes.”

She watched in awe as he rolled his pristine sleeves right up to his elbows and dived into the work. For a few minutes, all she could do was watch him. The heat quickly brought her back to herself, thank goodness, and Kate snatched up some carrot tops to busy herself with. Having all this time to get to know Phil was starting to feel more dangerous than the people out to get her.

******

Days passed. Nights, too. With no method of timekeeping outside of that, Kate fell into a rhythm readily enough. She was able to sleep most nights. Working in the garden helped tire her out. The nightmares about shadowy men demanding to know the whereabouts of her one-time colleague nearly stopped completely. If one could be comfortable living in the middle of nowhere to avoid torture and possible death, then she was comfortable. Until the night that someone came creeping into her room, that was.

The absolute silence that surrounded the building made every little nightly noise sound that much louder. A foot slid against the wood floor just outside her door, and Kate reached out at once for the ICEr beside her head—only to have a hand that belonged to someone else press hers right back down.

“Shhhh,” came a voice from above her.

Blinking to get her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she saw Phil standing beside the bed. His eyes were not on her. Rather, they were on the pitch black hallway he had just left. Kate shifted to get a better look down it herself.

“Is someone here?” she whispered.

“It’s possible. I heard something moving outside.”

They both held very still. Kate stared so hard at the darkness in front of her that her eyes began to water. Nothing inside the home moved. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until—

Snap!

She couldn’t help the little gasp that escaped her throat at the sound that came from outside, though she wished she could have. The look Phil shot her was pitying at best. The noise stopped again, then started, then stopped and started once more. It just went on and off, a faint rustling just on the other side of the wall.

Five minutes could have passed with Phil and Kate frozen side by side like that, or maybe an hour. Whoever was out there seemed to be taking their sweet time with breaking in. Finally, Phil removed his hand from the top of hers—she had forgotten it was still there until she felt suddenly cold—and moved away from her with a hushed but firm, “stay right there.”

Kate kicked off her sheets and was after him before he got to the door. Phil frowned.

“Kate,” he began, but she remembered his pity and cut him off:

“If they jump you out there, they’ll get me just as easily inside. I’m coming, too.”

His answer was immediate: “Grab your ICEr.”

Despite the tenuous situation, she felt a small bubble of joy in her chest as she did as instructed. Maybe he didn’t pity her too badly. Still, she did her best to quash the feeling while the two of them crept carefully the few feet between the bedroom and the safe house’s front door. Phil paused before he opened it to step outside; Kate, meanwhile, mentally prepared herself to shoot whoever was out there.

“Well, would you look at that,” Phil said, far too loudly in her opinion. Then, to her greater surprise, he put down his own ICEr and laughed.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Take a look for yourself.”

She hesitated, but not for long. If Phil thought the perimeter was secure, the perimeter was secure. Continuing to clutch her weapon, Kate followed him outside and looked over at the garden, where all the commotion had been coming from.

“Oh no!” she gasped.

“Oh no?” Phil echoed.

“He’s eating all our food!”

“Well, what did you expect? There’s nothing for miles. I bet he’s as thrilled to see the makings of a salad as we are.”

“But—But—” After all that stress, Kate found it difficult to think straight. “An antelope?”

“Better an antelope than an assassin. Come on,” he gently took her hand, and Kate felt again all her mental processes grind to a halt, “another mug of a tea, and then back to bed.”

They were inside at their tiny table before Kate found her voice again. “Do you know what would comfort me more than some chamomile tea?” she asked.

Phil looked questioningly at her.

“Jemma’s letter.”

As he passed over a steaming cup, he laughed again. “Nice try, Kate, but an antelope attack isn’t going to make me sympathetic enough for that.”

She narrowed her eyes over her tea as she sipped it. For a minute—just a minute—she had thought that maybe—

No. The isolation was getting to her. That was all. Perhaps the organization after her might do her a favor and put her out of her misery before she did something truly stupid.

******

If nothing else could be said about living off the grid, it was that it made day to day life exceptionally busy. Boredom still came in the form of repetition, but repetition filled those hours of nothing Kate would not have had back at home. There were numerous chores that needed doing, from drawing the day’s water, to checking for signs of being watched. Her downtime, as it was, was consumed with her attempts to keep their new antelope friend—whom she’d affectionately dubbed “Anthony,” much to Phil’s amusement—out of her burgeoning vegetable patch.

The only time Phil and Kate got to sit down with each other was over dinner. Several weeks into this strangely domestic setup, she felt herself struggling less to speak to him as a fellow human being. He’d seen her sweaty, sleepless, and scared. What else was left to embarrass herself with? So, one evening, long after the food was eaten and they had fallen into a comfortable silence, she wasn’t afraid to say without prompting:

“They do have beautiful sunsets out here.”

“They do,” Phil agreed, without moving his gaze from Kate’s face to the window she was looking out of. “I’m going to miss that.”

“Miss it? Are we going somewhere?”

“Eventually we’ll have to.”

She chuckled. “Feels like we’re going to be here forever. Just how hard is it to track down Bruce? If they’re so determined, we should have heard about them flushing him out by now.”

“It won’t be so easy. We have reason to believe Dr. Banner is not on the planet right now.”

“What?” Kate said, eyes wide. He nodded, which was not an explanation. “Then why do they want me so badly? I can’t tell him where he’s gone. Maybe Mr. Stark could, but not me.”

“You’ve worked closely with Dr. Banner in the past. If they can’t get to him for his research, you’re the next best thing.

“Oh.“

Phil sat forward. The look on his face was not one that she could easily describe. She wasn’t sure if she had ever seen him look at anyone that wasn’t Daisy that way. “I won’t let them get to you.”

“I know that. But don’t you have better things to do than babysit me? You’ve got your team and everything waiting back home.”

“I’m sure May is handling them just fine.” They laughed together at the thought. “But I do miss the work. How about you? What do you miss the most? Outside of air conditioning and the internet.”

Kate didn’t have to think. “My birds.”

“Simmons is taking good care of them.”

“I know that, too.”

For a few minutes more, they were quiet. One by one, the stars came out, millions of them, more than Kate could have ever seen at her apartment in the city. She would miss that, too, if not as much as she missed her pets.

“I’m going to miss this as well,” said Phil.

“The stars?”

“No, being here with you. I never imagined myself to be the domestic type, but this has been nice. Sort of a vacation from reality.”

"A vacation where one or both of us might die?” Kate asked.

“To each their own.”

Having said that, he stood, and began to stack the plates covered in what remained of their meager meal. She rose to help him, but Phil gently swatted her hands away as she reached for an old cup.

“Why don’t you take the first shower tonight?” he suggested. “I’ll get the dishes.”

She didn’t know how to argue, and she was ready to be somewhat clean after a long, sunburned afternoon working in the garden, so after a brief pause, she headed for the camping shower that they had set up in the back. Kate had only got as far as gathering her nightwear and towel when she heard footsteps coming after her. Phil was back, with a gleam in his eye.

“I’ve got that letter hidden somewhere safe, by the way. You’re not going to find it by going through my clothes while I’m bathing.”

Kate did her best to look confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just a friendly reminder,” he said.

Then, with a wink, he disappeared into the kitchen again. She watched him go with curiosity burning hotter inside her than ever. A communications blackout was one thing, but he was being awfully specific about a letter written before they’d even arrived. What exactly was Phil trying to hide?

******

“Wake her up.”

Kate heard the unfamiliar voice before she felt the sharp blow to the top of her head. That woke her up for sure—and it woke her up rather annoyed when she was certain that whoever wanted her awake badly enough to strike her would much prefer that she wake up afraid.

“That’s a better way to knock me out than wake me up,” she testily informed the dark shape closest to her. Male or female, she couldn’t tell between the lack of light and the stocking pulled over their head.

“Keep up your yapping, and I’ll try it again,” the shape snarled. Kate decided they were definitely male.

“Don’t you dare, Donnie,” said the first voice, this one belonging to a woman. “We haven’t been looking for Miss Kane for two months just for you to give her a head injury. If she can’t remember what we want, you’ll regret it.”

Donnie stepped away, but Kate could still see his eyes glittering maliciously in her direction through the cuts in his mask. Her heart pounded. She struggled to sit up in the bed, then heard the distinct snick of a gun’s safety being flicked off. A glint of silver in the hand of the person standing at the very end of the mattress effectively distracted Kate from doing anything more than counting the four other figures in the room.

“Stay right where you are, Miss Kane. Boys, search the room.”

The four people not holding a gun leaped into action. There was not much searching to be done in a room of that size and holding so few possessions, but the searchers appeared thorough. They looked under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the door that led out into the hall they’d all come in from. Kate listened to her heart thumping in her ears, eyes transfixed on the obviously lethal weapon pointed directly at her head. Her impending death—for she knew the goons would find nothing to interest them in any of the places they were looking—was not what concerned her, however. Finally, when it seemed that the “boys” were nearly finished with their job, she allowed her eyes to flick between them.

“Looking for your bodyguard?” the woman in charge sneered.

“What did you do to Phil?” Kate asked in a hard voice.

“Nothing. Yet. I’ve got Yvonne keeping him company. Might I suggest that SHIELD start equipping their so-called ‘safe houses’ with bodyguards that don’t sleep on the job? Not that doing so will do anything to help you.”

“There’s nothing here, Boss,” said one of her flunkies.

“Hm. I’m not surprised.” She sauntered forward. If she, too, was not wearing a stocking mask, Kate would have sworn the woman wore a smile as she laid herself down right up against Kate. Kate’s gulp did nothing to hide her efforts not to flinch when the stranger brushed a lock of her hair away from her face with the muzzle of the handgun. “It’s all in here, isn’t it?”

“What’s in where?” asked Kate.

“All that research.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Miss Kane. It does you a disservice.”

Fear coursed rapidly through Kate’s veins. She was not trained for this sort of confrontation. Her background was in biology, medicine, public relations. All the same, she was an agent of SHIELD, and she would do Phil proud. It was highly unlikely that he really was okay, if he was not with her. This woman was lying, and if Kate wanted a chance to help Phil, she would have to draw things out.

“I have a lot of research in my head. I need to know what kind you’re thinking of,” she said.

A couple of the watching goons muttered darkly to each other.

“Dr. Banner’s research, of course,” the woman answered.

“Bruce does a lot of research. To which of his projects are you referring?”

“His research on ridding himself of the Hulk. What else would he occupy himself with?”

In fact, much of Bruce’s research—before he had mysteriously disappeared—had been for the disaster that turned into Ultron. Kate wasn’t about to give this lot any of the information on that that she had—nor anything else that Bruce might have told her in passing about his attempts to stop the Hulk.

“Why do you want to know how to rid of the Hulk?” Kate asked.

“We don’t.”

“Then why—”

“We already know how to make a Hulk,” the woman said impatiently. “If we could turn off the human part for good, just think what we could do.”

“Quite honestly, I’d rather not.”

“That’s too bad for you. Since Dr. Banner has refused to return our calls, you will be the one continuing his work for us. Load her up.”

At this command, the unknown woman stood back up. The rest of her team surrounded the bed. Kate sat straight up before any of them could touch her, whipped her ICEr out from underneath her pillow, and leveled it right at the woman—who only looked Kate up and down with what Kate could only assume was a smirk.

“Nice P.J.s,” she remarked. “Too bad they don’t come with all the superpowers, too. Go ahead and knock Miss Kane out now, Donnie.”

“Don’t you lay a hand on her.”

Several things than happened in such rapid succession that trying to describe it later made Kate’s head spin. She pulled the trigger on her ICEr and the woman—who had spun to face the new speaker—fell with a cry. As she watched, Kate felt fingers brush against her neck. Then those disappeared as Donnie hit the ground, too. Several more shots rang out. She screwed her eyes shut against the noise of it. When she opened them again a minute or so later, she was surprised to find herself unmoved and uninjured. Five bodies—unconscious, not dead, she thought—littered the threadbare rug. Only the person who had entered the room last remained upright.

“Phil!” Kate gasped as he slumped against the door frame.

Heedless of the sprawling limbs beneath her feet, she scurried over to him. He did not look good. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and there was a gash across his pale forehead dripping blood.

“I’m fine,” he said faintly.

“No, you are not. Come over to the bed. I need to look at that cut.”

“I’m fine. Really. Are you?”

“Not a scratch on me.” Kate took his wrist and pulled him firmly over to her recently vacated mattress. “You came in just in time. Now I need to find a clean towel…”

Her turn away was halted by Phil catching her hand himself. She frowned, but could not remind him he was bleeding before he reached up with his free hand to move her hair softly away from the nice little goose egg rising where Donnie had struck her the first time.

“Not soon enough,” Phil murmured.

Kate felt herself turn red. The need to help him thankfully kept her mind focused on the task at hand. “It’ll go away. I just need some pain medication,” she said, trying to pull free.

Phil, however, would not let her go. “What if I had got here just a minute later than I did?”

“If they took me, I wouldn’t have given them what they wanted. You would have come after me anyway.”

“Yes. I would have.”

“See?” She smiled. “No harm, no foul. Now, I really need to get something for your forehead.”

“No time. I need to contact May so we can get these guys into custody before they start moving again.”

“But—”

“I’m fine,” he said again, as he swung his feet onto the floor.

“How are you going to—”

“Here.”

Blinking, she found a familiar slip of paper held right up to her nose. She took it with a small frown.

“Just don’t think too badly of me once you’ve read it. Please,” he said.

Then he left her there. She could hear him rummaging for something out in the sitting room, and cast a nervous look down at her previous assailants. Even knowing they’d remain out cold for some time yet, Kate didn’t want to be alone with them. Besides, it was too dark in the bedroom for her to read even the greeting at the top of the page.

Quietly, she crept outside onto the rickety front porch. The moon above her head was full, or full enough that she could see at last what Phil had been hiding from her for so long.

Dear Kate,

What a day you have had! It will not be over for some time, I’m afraid. I am certain that Coulson will keep you safe, however. Try not to worry overmuch. You’ll be home soon. Until then, Fitz and I will make sure your birds are well looked after. You just focus on all this free time you’ll get to spend with Coulson.

Speaking of, I did my best to pick out the outfits of yours he would like the most. Just in case! You never know just what might happen in these sorts of situations. All alone, in the middle of nowhere, with no one to talk to but the man of your dreams…Well, that’s what Daisy says happens in those stories online she used to read.

I miss you already.

Love,

Jemma

P.S. Coulson caught me writing this before I got it in your bag! I think I might have accidentally let it slip that you’re madly in love with him. I’m so sorry! Please don’t hate me when you get back? Look at it this way: now you don’t have any secrets to keep!

Just as Kate’s eyes came to the end of Jemma’s horrifying postscript, she heard footsteps behind her. She whirled on the spot. It was only Phil, of course, not any of her attackers—but she was not sure anymore if that was better. He knew. He’d known this entire time. He would know still when they left this place, which now could not happen soon enough for her tastes.

“So now you’re aware,” he said as he stepped into the spot beside her.

“Now I’m aware of what?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“That I knew from the beginning how you felt about me.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, as she usually did, but her typical words of “I don’t understand what you’re talking about” wouldn’t come. How could they? Phil knew. After everything they had been through together—not just that night, but for the past fifty-eight nights—she couldn’t lie to him.

“I’m sorry,” Kate said instead. “I didn’t mean—”

He took her hand, the one not clutching Jemma’s message. Inside her chest, Kate’s heart beat so rapidly that she thought she might faint. It would not be someone bent on doing her harm that caused it to happen. Just Phil, treating her with the same kindness as he always had. How mortifying—and that Jemma and May and Daisy and all the rest would soon be there to see it, too!

“It’s okay. I feel the same way about you.”

That first knock on the head must have really thrown her for loop. No way on earth could Phil Coulson already know how Kate felt, let alone return her feelings. She was going to wake up locked in a little room miles away with nothing to look forward to save reliving the shame of this dream again and again until she could get away from the people that wanted Bruce’s research.

“I’m real,” said Phil.

“W-What?”

“You’re looking at me like you don’t quite believe I’m really here. I am. Let me prove it to you.”

That was when he kissed her. Not long. Not hard. But he kissed her, right on the mouth, and he was right: He was real. The warmth of his lips against hers was evidence enough of that. Then he stepped away with a grin, and Kate found herself actually giggling—though not for long before something of more importance occurred to her:

“But…if that’s true…then why didn’t you just give me this letter?”

“Because if you knew I knew, would you have felt comfortable here?”

“I…suppose not,” Kate confessed.

“Well,” he gave her hand a squeeze, “there you have it.”

“There I—Ah!” Her gaze had fallen upon his cut once more. “We ought to get you back inside, get you patched up—”

“No need. I got in touch with May—” At that point in the evening, Kate had had far too many shocks to feel another at the revelation Phil had indeed had a way to contact the outside world all that time“—and the whole team is on the way. I’d rather stay out here and stargaze with you one last time before they get here.”

And so that was exactly what they did. Their long exile from the world at large was finally at an end. Kate could tell by the way that he continued to hold her hand that it did not mean their time together was at an end, though, and despite all the trouble she had gone through that night, she was smiling when everyone arrived.

Jemma’s eyes fell right upon them the second she stepped out of the car. Thankfully she was able to keep herself together until May forced Coulson into the back of a truck to get his head looked at. Only once Phil and Kate were well apart from each other did Jemma risk broaching the subject:

“So, you…had a good time, I take it?”

Kate shook her head as she climbed into one of the waiting vehicles. “We’ll talk about your inability to keep secrets later. First I need a real bath and to check my e-mail.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Jemma said, with the pleased air of someone that knew they would not really be getting a talking to at all.

She was probably right. Kate could not even consider chastising her now. It might have been embarrassing that Phil found out she was in love with him, but it had all worked out in the end. Everything had: the letter, the blackout, the attack. The headlights cut through the oppressive night like a knife. Above the speeding cars, however, the stars remained. Kate thought she had never seen a more beautiful night even with the pounding in her head.

[litafficionado]

Four Questions with Garielle Lutz:

I’m extremely beholden to Garielle who took the time to respond to my silly, garbled, childish, intrusive questions. You can purchase her latest book Worsted here and here, among many other sites.  --------- Q.  You've attributed the resuscitation of your literary career in quite considerable measure to your teacher and editor Gordon Lish. It seems like you guys are particularly close, even as you seem to have largely confined yourself to Pittsburgh(mostly driven by your erstwhile teaching career but also by your liking the city over time). How does it feel to hear someone like Gordon speak so highly of you, “I think there’s more truth in one sentence of my student [Lutz] than in all of [Philip] Roth. Lutz gives [herself] away. “The speaking subject gives herself away,” says Julia Kristeva. I thoroughly believe that. What you see in Lutz, [her] lavish gift, is [her] refusal to relax [her] determination to uncover and uncover. It is, by my lights, quite wonderful, quite terrific.[…]Lutz is entirely the real thing?” Does one feel vindicated? How do you navigate the waters of self-effacement and self-indulgence as a writer and as a person? A.  I haven’t had a literary career before or after studying with Gordon Lish.  I don’t think one finds one’s way to him in hopes of launching a career.  Anyone with vulgar ambition along those lines would have been shown the door pretty quick.  I would never presume to be close to Gordon or to feel that I am part of his life other than in my role as a student. He dwells in another realm entirely. I attended his classes and tried to grasp, to the best of my abilities, the things he was saying about how to get from one word to the next.  He also talked about how to free a word from the constricting range of its permissible behaviors, how to drain it of every sepsis of received meaning, until there is nothing left of the word but the skeleton of its former self, just the lank, gawky letters sticking out this way and that, and then how to fill the thing up again, to the point of overspilling, but this time with something that would never have been allowed to belong in there before, and then see whether the word, now close to bursting, can hold up and maybe have a new kind of say.  I’m always surprised and relieved whenever Gordon says anything approving about anything I write.  I think that for a lot of his students, his opinion is the only one that counts.  

Q.  You've said, "A typical day goes like this: noon, afternoon, evening, night, additional night, even more night, furtherest night, then bedtime, though I don’t have a bed or furniture of any kind.” Have you always been a lychnobite, sensing the overwhelming superabundance of life after the sunset or is it a relatively recent development facilitated by your retirement from teaching? Do you consider yourself in any way to be a minimalist? Does your room bear any resemblance with a sparsely lit opium den where all exchanges happen at the floor level?

A.  I think the pandemic has had a lot to do with it.  Lately I’ve been up until five, sometimes six.  But I’ve always found mornings the harshest and ugliest part of the day (maybe it’s just because of the place where I live, but I never open the blinds anyway).  There can be something awfully scolding about a sunrise the older you get  Evening seems to extend every form of leniency, and in the dead of night, expectations go way down, which is where they maybe ought to stay.  I do spend all of my time on the floor, but my apartment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an opium den.  It’s more like a crawlspace or the back of a  dollar-store stockroom.    

Q. Even with your reputation of being a page-hugger than a typical page-turner, how do you decide which books to read apart from your line of work? Do you try to keep it largely in the familiar territory, like exploring the oeuvre of a time-tested writer? How does one unshackle oneself from this constant niggling that one ought to read so many books? Here's Ben Marcus: “When I was in graduate school, there was this sort of cautionary adage going around by the poet Francis Ponge that we can only write what we’ve already read and one way to hear that is you’re just sort of doomed to kind of regurgitate everything you’ve read and so if you’re just reading all the popular books, the books everyone else is reading, in some sense you’re maybe unwittingly confining yourself to a particular literary practice that’s gonna look pretty familiar. I remember at the time thinking, okay well if that’s true, if I’m just fated to that, then I’m gonna read things that no one else is reading. I loved to just go to the library and pretty randomly grab books, because I think for a little while, and I’m kinda glad this passed, but I really just had this feeling that a writer just consumes language and just sort of spits it out. So it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t have to be a great novel for it to be worth-reading. And I still read very little fiction in the end compared to non-fiction, essays, works of philosophy, science. And the other sort of dirty secret is: I don’t finish a lot of books. I just don’t care enough. I only finish a book if I have to or if I really want to. And, often, I’ll stop reading a book three pages from the end. I think that as writers, we probably feel a lot of pressure about what kind of a reader to be, what kind of a writer to be in, and we feel this shame, like “I haven’t read DH Lawrence, I’m such an asshole.” You begin to feel like you’ve these deficiencies and you gotta make them up and you never will and a lot of it is just kinda tyrannical. Of course, obviously, we must be naturally motivated to read and read and read and read but I guess I just started to notice that…I got a lot of my ideas by just reading…e.g. a gardening book…like the weird way a sentence was structured.” Then there's Moyra Davey: “Woolf famously said of reading: “The only advice … is to take no advice, … follow your instincts, … use your reason.” A similar thought was voiced by her elder contemporary Oscar Wilde, who did not believe in recommending books, only in de-recommending them. Later, Jorge Luis Borges echoed the same sentiment by discouraging “systematic bibliographies” in favor of “adulterous” reading. More recently, Gregg Bordowitz has promoted “promiscuous” reading in which you impulsively allow an “imposter” book to overrule any reading trajectory you might have set for yourself, simply because, for instance, a friend tells you in conversation that he is reading it and is excited by it. This evokes for me that most potent kind of reading — reading as flirtation with or eavesdropping on someone you love or desire, someone who figures in your fantasy life.”“What to read?” is a recurring dilemma in my life. The question always conjures up an image: a woman at home, half-dressed, moving restlessly from room to room, picking up a book, reading a page or two and no sooner feeling her mind drift, telling herself, “You should be reading something else, you should be doing something else.” The image also has a mise-en-scène: overstuffed, disorderly shelves of dusty and yellowing books, many of them unread; books in piles around the bed or faced down on a table; work prints of photographs, also with a faint covering of dust, taped to the walls of the studio; a pile of bills; a sink full of dishes. She is trying to concentrate on the page in front of her but a distracting blip in her head travels from one desultory scene to the next, each one competing for her attention. It is not just a question of which book will absorb her, for there are plenty that will do that, but rather, which book, in a nearly cosmic sense, will choose her, redeem her. Often what is at stake, should she want to spell it out, is the idea that something is missing, as in: what is the crucial bit of urgently needed knowledge that will save her, at least for this day? She has the idea that if she can simply plug into the right book then all will be calm, still, and right with the world. […] Must reading be tied to productivity to be truly satisfying […] Or is it the opposite, that it can only really gratify if it is a total escape? What is it that gives us a sense of sustenance and completion? Are we on some level always striving to attain that blissful state of un-agendaed reading remembered from childhood? What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion. Why pick one book over the hundreds, perhaps thousands on our bookshelves, the further millions in libraries and stores? For in settling on any book we are implicitly saying no to countless others. This conflict is aptly conjured up by essayist Lynne Sharon Schwartz as she reflects on “the many books (the many acts) I cannot in all decency leave unread (undone) — or can I?”” What way out do you suggest? Do you deem it worthwhile to eschew any shred of obligation and be propelled in any direction naturally? Like you said you found grammar books and lexicons more engaging and enjoyable than the novels.

A.  I seem to remember that in some magazine or another, James Wolcott once said “Read at whim.”  That has always sounded like the best advice.  And I assume it means to feel free to ditch any book that disappoints.  Like Ben Marcus, I’ve had experiences of abandoning a book just a few pages from the end, but I often don’t make it that far in most things anymore.  I came from a long line of nonreaders, so I’ve never felt any guilt about passing up books or writers that so many people seem to talk about a lot, and I don’t expect other people to like what I like. Some books I’ll start about halfway in and then see whether I might want to work my way back to the beginning.  Others I’ll start at the very end and inch my way toward the front, one sentence at a time, and see how far I can go that way.  I seem to remember that in The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes recommends “cruising” a text, and maybe something like that is what I’m doing at least some of the time, if I understand what he means.  And every now and then I’ll read  a book straightforwardly for an hour and afterward wonder whether the time might have been better spent staring off into space. Too many books these days seem ungiving.  It’s the ungivingness that disappoints the most.  A lot of contemporary fiction has the gleam and sparkle of a trend feature in a glossy magazine, and I can appreciate the craft and the savvy that go into something like that, but I am drawn more toward stories and books that demand being read slowly and closely, pulse by pulse, the kind of fiction where everything--what little might be left of an entire blighted life--can pivot on the peal of a single syllable. Q.  I'd like to ask you so many questions. But let this be the last one for matters of convenience. Also, in a capitalistic world, one's enshrouded with guilt for taking one's time without being remunerative in any way. Among the books and films that you recently encountered, which ones do you think deserve rereads/rewatches? A.  I used to feel like the woman you’ve described so movingly above, someone who questions her choice of books almost to the brink of despair.  At my age, though, I no longer have a program for reading, a syllabus or a checklist, and I’m okay with knowing there’s a lot I’ll never get around to.  I’m happy being a rereader of a few inexhaustible books and chancing upon occasional fresh treasure.  The one book that has shaken me the most in the longest time is Anna DeForest’s  A History of Present Illness, which will be out next August.  It’s a blisteringly truthful novel written with moral grace and unsettling brilliance and an awing mastery of language.  A couple of recent books I have read in manuscript, books that totally knocked me out with their originality and uncanny command of the word, are Greg Gerke’s In the Suavity of the Rock (a novel) and David Nutt’s Summertime in the Emergency Room (a short-story collection).  I haven’t watched many movies in the past few months, and the ones I watched aren’t ones I’ll probably be rewatching anytime soon.  

[mikkomacko]

Dear Daisy 7

Before Chapter Blurb

~

The Christmas tree Niall brought over last week lights up the living room in the early morning shade, the dark snow clouds outside leaving the house darker than usual. Daisy shakes off the snow on her boots and leaves them at the door, cold fingers clutching the letter she just retrieved from the mailbox. Harry’s neat writing has scribbled her name on the envelope, and the heart he placed next to it makes her tummy flutter. She hooks her nail under the seal, tearing it open and unfolding his letter with hopeful eyes.

Dear Daisy,

How's the weather back home? I hope it hasn't been too brutal on you. Remember that one winter it snowed so much everyone got trapped inside their homes? I don't think that'll happen but if the snow picks up too much please call my mum over or go stay with her. I really don't want you home alone during a snow storm. Funny that I told you not to worry about me but here I am fretting over the idea of a blizzard, aye?

Anyway, nothing has been set in stone for my Christmas plans yet, however, a buddy of mine is returning home for the holidays and he's heard word that I might be at home as well. No matter I promise you'll have the best Christmas, I'll do everything in my power to make sure. I'm sure my mum has told you but you're welcome to her annual Christmas party whether I'm there or not. Gemma will be there and she'll take care of you. Speaking of taking care of you, I've heard from a little birdie that you're thinking of using your own hard earned money for gifts this year. While I find that incredibly sweet, I can't allow it. Daisy, you know you can always use our money for anything. I also need to send gifts and it would really be much more simple if you just used the card and then signed my name as well. And if you don't agree with that, too bad. I've contacted my uncle and he's told the local shops to not accept cash from you. Yes, even all the way in France I'm taking care of you. Promised I would, didn't I?

The money you've got from working is yours Daisy. I honestly find it wonderful and inspiring that you've gone out and found work and are able to take care of yourself. I reckon more ladies in our town should be like you. I also reckon you take your earnings and buy something for yourself, something you've always wanted. I know you love reading, and I know Robin has got a couple could bookstores in mind. I'm sure he'd be happy to point you in the direction of them if that's something you'd like. Don't have much time for reading here so maybe you could read a couple good novels for me and then tell me all about them? It's the least you could do really considering that I'm playing knight in shining armor for you.

Hopefully next time we talk I'll have more news about Christmas for you, but remember that you're always in my thoughts. I see your eyes sparkle in the lights and tinsel around town. I see snowflakes melting on the apples of your cheeks and sticking to your eyelashes. I feel your hands when I warm up next to the fire. I feel the same joy you carry in the spirit of Christmas that surrounds me. In some ways I think you and I are a lot like winter. The bitter bite in the air and the soothing heat of cocoa. The hibernation of creatures, the death of plants, and the pureness and rebirth of snow. I could go on forever about you and I Daisy, but I think I'll save the rest of my affection for in person.

Happy holidays love,

The Harry Styles x

~

Daisy had never been so disappointed in her life. Not even when her family threw her out of the house and into the arms of Harry to be cared for. Maybe this is so much worse than being let down by her parents because Harry actually did care for her. She doesn't know what changed between the time she moved in and now, but something inside both her and Harry went from disgust to attraction. She can feel it her bones when she thinks of him. How much she aches for him, how much her lips miss saying his name. It's even present in their letters to each other. They're thoughtful of each other, loving towards one another. They've spent more time apart than they have married and yet she thinks they're more dedicated to each other than any other couple in this town.

Unable to hide her sadness over Harry still being overseas despite Christmas being a few days away, Daisy decided to not spend tonight with Anne. She'll be there for Christmas Eve, thinking of how Harry should be there too, so tonight is just time for her. She'd found a copy Pride and Prejudice a few days ago in the office downstairs, deciding to read it again as it's one of her favorite stories. Harry's probably read it before but she'll still write her thoughts on the book to him.

He's all she can think about as she curls up in his bed, the thick quilt his grandmother had made him wrapped around her shoulders. Bedside lamp still on, Daisy falls asleep wondering if she should tell Harry that he very much reminds her of Mr. Darcy. Of course that would make her Elizabeth and she really can't think of a more romantic representation of their affection for each other.

~

The spare key under the loose brick in the front hasn't been moved, though it is buried and frozen by snow. His car has been moved into the garage to be protected from the weather and the vibrant green of his front yard is now a white wonderland, lit up by multicolored lights. Harry can't help but hate how much has changed without him. He wasn't there to put up lights, wasn't there to winterize the grass, wasn't there to salt the sidewalk. Fearing what else might have changed while he was gone, particularly Daisy, Harry's hand trembles as he unlocks the front door.

He stays as quiet as can be as he moves into the house, dropping his bag by the closed door and re-locking it. His train ticket was a late departure, but he won't complain. Better to get home late than not at all. Peeling off his wet boots and coat, Harry drops them into a pile on the floor. The Christmas tree Niall had cut down for him is still gleaming in the living room, lighting the path towards Daisy's bedroom. Maybe Harry should go upstairs and change, wash away his time in France before he goes searching for his girl, but he's exhausted and aching for her. It's not until he's tiptoed down the hall and nudged her door open does it dawn on him that Daisy could be at his mother's house. He knows she's been sleeping there a lot and there'd be no reason for her to come home tonight because he didn't tell her that he was coming home.

Heart sinking lower into his stomach as he checks for her in every available spot downstairs, Harry dejectedly yanks on the plug of Christmas lights, bathing the house back into darkness. He's heading back to the door to put his boots and coat back on when he catches the sliver of yellow light coming down the staircase. Pushing himself up the stairs, his heart leaps back into his chest when he reaches the landing and finds his own bedroom door open. From here he can see his bedside table with the lamp still on and a lump under his blankets. She's here. Daisy's home and she's in his bed. On the side he sleeps on and everything.

Harry's quick to cut across the hallway, stepping into his bedroom. Lightly, he closes the distance between him and the bed. He can barely see Daisy from how she's wrapped herself up in his blankets, one arm hanging out with his copy of Pride and Prejudice sitting loosely in her palm. He perches his bum on the little space between her and the edge, carefully removing the book from her palm and placing it on his bedside table. Peeling back the blankets she's snuggled under, Harry's heart leaps when he finally her beautiful face. Still sleeping soundly, lips mushed into his pillow with the smallest bit of drool staining the side of her mouth. He desperately wants to just strip off his uniform and climb into bed with her in nothing but his pants, wants to feel her on his skin after so long of sleeping alone on an army cot, but he can't. He'd hate if she woke up and was uncomfortable, if he made her uncomfortable, so he silently returns to his feet and slips into the closet.

Remaining in the doorway, just so he can still be able to see Daisy, Harry leaves his uniform in a mess of green fabric on the floor and quickly slips into a set of pajamas. The wood floor is cold on his toes but he ignores it in favor of getting back to her as quickly as possible. Harry pauses, eyeing the side of the bed that's completely open for him but he doesn't want to sleep there. He wants to curl up on his side, lay his head on the same pillow Daisy's is on, share such an intimate space with her again because he surely took it for granted that night he left. He should've held her tighter, should've stayed awake longer just to have more time with her. He should've memorized how it felt to feel her hands on him and how she's the heaviest sleeper he's ever met. He just should've done more for her.

He's not going to waste anymore time.

Pulling back the blankets, enough to expose Daisy to the cooler air of the bedroom, Harry lies himself next to her. She remains as still as a statue, but he notices that as soon as his feet brush hers it's like she fully relaxes. As if she were having a bad dream or uncomfortable and his presence next to her has brought that fragile peace needed for a good nights sleep. His heart swells at the thought of her subconsciously needing him like he needs her, and it takes all his strength to reach over and turn out the light instead of throwing himself on top of her and kissing her until they suffocate. He reckons that'd be a great way to go but he's not ready for that. He's still got so much of himself to give and share with her.

Perhaps he was right when he told her the heart grows fonder with distance, because never in a million years would he imagine his eyes stinging with unshed tears as he wraps himself around Daisy, body fitting to hers like it belongs there.

Home.

~

Daisy's first reaction upon waking up to loud snores and a heavy weight around her middle was to poke her fingers into the strangers closed eyes and definitely knee him in the groin, and then hopefully be quick enough to get to the neighbors for help. That is until her bleary eyes focus on the face in front of her. His strong jaw, the frown that's always on his face, even when he sleeps, and the mess of curls on the pillow. His face is a little slimmer in the cheeks and his hair shorter (and a little greasy at the roots) but he's still handsome. He's still Harry.

Her vision blurs again, this time with tears on her waterline, and she reaches up to cup his jaw, afraid this is just part of a dream. "Harry?" She whispers, heart pounding on her chest. A little short cuts off his snores, pink lips smacking together and he wiggles further into the mattress before falling still again. It's really him. He's really home. He's somehow made it back to her and climbed into their bed at God knows what hour without even waking her. She can't help but mentally curse him, wishing she had known sovsge could've met him at the train station with hot tea. He must have been freezing when he got home last night. The least she could've done was gone to pick him up.

"Harry? Will you please wake up?"

Luckily for Daisy, he's a bit of light sleeper, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone being enough to peel his eyes open. He blinks twice, eyebrows pinching together as his sleepy eyes flicker over her face.

"I'm sleeping." He grumbles, eyes closing again but Daisy doesn't care if he's annoyed or mad at her for waking him. She missed him too much to care so she pushes him onto his back, throwing her body over his and worming her hands under his neck. Harry grunts under her weight, lifting his head to adjust the way she's holding him before falling back into the pillows with a soft sigh.

"What are you doing here? Why didn't you say anything you prick? You scared me to death!" His lips curl up at her words, obviously pleased at getting a rise out of her by not giving her all the information about him coming home.

"I scared ya?" He mumbles incredulously, "Came home to find your room empty, thought you'd somehow got frozen outside trying to sneak to my mum's and then I find ya in my bed? Scared me more, I reckon."

Daisy leans back, hoping to get another look at his beautiful eyes after so long of not seeing them but he's still pretending sleep when she looks down at his face. "How'd ya know I've been going to your mum's?"

She blows on him in attempt to annoy him enough to open his eyes, to just please look at her but he remains stubborn, squeezing them shut. "She wrote me." He answers simply, the thickness of his voice catching her off guard. Squinting curiously, she notices his Adam's apple bob nervously, and his teeth take in his bottom lip.

"Harry?" Daisy murmurs, releasing her right hand from it's spot under his neck to place it over his chest. She's shocked by how fast it's pounding, how his shoulders have tensed up. "Are you okay Harry?"

His nose scrunches, his eyes closing even tighter, features twisting as if he's in pain. He nods just once, a trembling breath leaving his flaring nostrils. Daisy doesn't know everything about Harry, not yet, but she knows that he's not okay. That he's holding something back and she's so worried that maybe he's hurt, that something happened in France and he's been sent home because he's injured, that a sudden knot lodges itself in her throat.

Her words are croaky and strained. "Can I see you Harry? Please?" She begs, trailing her hand up his collarbones to cup his jaw. "I haven't seen you in so long."

Silence. Not a word from him. Not even a shake or nod of his head. Harry remains twisted up, refusing to look at her, to speak to her.

"I miss you Harry. I miss you so much."

Her words push him over, his arms flying up to wrap around her and he sits up to hold her to his chest. She can't see him like this either but it doesn't matter because he's shaking and sniffling, the cries he was holding back finally breaking through. Daisy wraps her arms around his waist, her own eyes welling up with tears again at the sound of him whimpering.

"I miss you love. More than you'll ever know. Don't think I can go back now that I've got you again." Harry's rambling under his breath, soft sentiments of everything he missed, every little reminder of her that tormented him in France. She thinks he might be influenced by drowsiness but that doesn't stop her from pulling back enough to finally see his eyes. Even red rimmed and leaking, shining with longing and pain, they're the most breath taking color. They're eyes only meet for a moment before she's sealing her lips to his.

It's refreshing to feel his mouth again. Like warming up by the fire after making the wall home from the bakery. Like the sight of gooey chocolate chip cookies being broke in half, melted chocolate still connecting the two pieces. Like waking up to a fresh coat of snow in the morning, untouched by feet and vehicles and sleds. Like stockings resting over a fire. Like the silence that sits between them when he reads and she crochets.

Somewhere deep in her heart, it registers to Daisy that this is what home feels like.

~

Robin's a fairly short man, not that Daisy had noticed until Harry's standing next to him in the bakery, an old apron of the owners barely reaching his thighs. The knot in the back is the smallest possible knot she could tie because Harry's training has beefed him up quiet a bit and Robin's a very thin man. She doesn't know what it is, if it's the fact that it's so overwhelming to have him back again he just seems so much bigger than he used to, or if she somehow didn't notice how much he towers over everyone until now, but Daisy feels like a flower in the shadow of Big Ben next to him. It's both intimidating and soothing at the same time, but that's just Harry's brand she supposes.

"It's really not necessary for you to spend the day here." Robin repeats, digging through the orders for today. Daisy knows he's got a lot to bake today seeing as he closed for the holidays starting tomorrow and plenty of families need their baked goods for their celebrations. She promised to be here to help and even Harry's surprise drop in isn't going to ruin her word.

"Don't be silly Robin. We want to be here." Daisy assures, washing her hands so she can begin making the dough for the first order of dinner rolls. Harry looks a bit lost as Robin pins up the orders on the cork board and Daisy gets cooking. She's never seen Harry not completely own the whole room before and seeing him watching her curiously is oddly cute.

Robin puts Harry to work the counter and wrap up orders, much to his disliking seeing as he's not the socialist of butterflies, but he doesn't complain. Not even when Jacqueline Haverhill is utterly rude to him, glaring at him throughout the whole transaction. Daisy doesn't exactly know what Harry did to bother Jacqueline but she guesses it's probably something similar to his interaction with Mrs. Weathers.

As the day goes on, the orders get sent out, and a soft trickle of snow begins outside, Daisy notices that Harry's really good at wrapping the orders. He's precise about cutting the wrap and his bows of ribbons are perfect and the card with the order name is always written in a neat, slanted cursive. She can't help but imagine a Christmas Eve night in which her and Harry are both sat awake in the dead of the night, Harry wrapping gifts for a child that's asleep on the floor above them, scribbling their name on the gift tag and signing it from Santa Claus. He's got the perfect writing for that of the holiday icon. And then he'd hand the pretty package over for Daisy to place nicely under their tree.

Something in her stomach twists, realizing for the first time that she's imagined herself actually being a mother to his children. Of course she's thought about how good of a father he'd be, but she's never had such a vivid picture of the two of them parenting. It's such a shocking and sweet moment that she can't help but wipe the flour on her hands off on her apron, tentatively approaching Harry as he piles the two orders of cakes next to each other. He pauses when she walks over, mouth opening to question her but he doesn't get a chance to before she's pressing herself into his large chest, arms finding their way around his waist.

Harry freezes just for a moment, obviously caught off guard, but then he's wrapping his own arms around her shoulders and squeezing her a bit tighter. Daisy doesn't know what to say as reasoning for her suddenly wanting to hold him but Harry luckily doesn't question her. Maybe he's just as desperate for her as she is for him. Robin doesn't say anything to the two, simply smiling to himself as he watches Harry's eyes flutter close, resting his cheek on top of her head. Harry's not an affectionate person, most often he's rather cold, but he looks perfectly at home holding Daisy the way he is. Like he needs her to breathe.

"Hello hello!" Anne interrupts as she enters the bakery, Daisy opening her eyes just in time to see her brilliant smile drop into one of shock. Her gloved hands cup her mouth, eyes watering at the sight of Harry standing in the bakery when she'd been under the impression that he was still in France.

"Hello mum." Harry greets casually, lifting his head as Daisy pulls away. She catches the grin on his face, resembling the cat that got the canary as he moves around the counter. "How are ya?" He spreads his arms wide, blocky teeth sinking into plush lip. Anne visibly trembles, dropping her hands from her mouth to swing her handbag at him. Daisy giggles at Harry's flinch and the way his entire face scrunches into a childish pout.

"Oh you bugger!" Anne scolds wetly, smacking him one more time before finally accepting a hug from him. Daisy's chest expands with her growing heart at the image of Harry holding his wailing mother, stroking his fingers through his mother's dark hair while assuring her that he's fine. Like Daisy, she must have thought Harry is back due to injury or illness.

"Got home late last night mum, didn't want to wake you." He explains when she curses him for not stopping the minute he returned. "Didn't even wake Daisy. She came after me the same way too."

That same thickness that had taken over his voice this morning clouds his words, and the imagine of his tortured eyes makes Daisy nauseous. She distracts herself with wrapping up Anne's order of biscuits for the Christmas party tomorrow. Of course that doesn't stop her from listening in on the two, heart turning to mush at the sweet interaction between mother and son.

"I can't believe you're here Harry! And look how big and handsome you've gotten!"

"Was I not handsome before?" Harry's time is teasing but a quick glance at him and she can see the genuine curiosity in his slightly offended gaze.

"Of course you were ya goose! But you look awful proper with ya hair short and all." Anne continues to gush over him, fawning over the dusting of stubble on his jaw and how's he's too big for even the apron and how she better watch out or she'll have Goliath for a son. Daisy thinks it's a bit cheesy, Anne's compliments to him. Maybe a bit exaggerated too but then she catches the blush on Harry's cheeks and the boyish glint of pride in his green eyes, and she understands. Harry's a mumma's boy. He's eating up Anne's attention and fawning over him like a dog posing for treats.

Harry enjoys being doted on. Flattered. Babied even. There's something about that revelation that stirs in her stomach, warming her entire being.

Robin slides up next to Daisy, mixing bowl in the crook of his arm and whisking the batter in it. He nods towards Anne and Harry, a bashful smile on his face. "Don't charge her, alright?"

Daisy supposes it's because Robin's always known Harry's family, cares for them. And seeing the heart warming reunion between Anne and Harry, she's not surprised at all that he's dropped the charge. Robin's a nice man and he's got a soft spot for Harry, therefore having one for Harry's loved ones as well.

She looks back at him, biting back a smile when she sees him press a sweet kiss to the top of his mother's head, and she's so darn lucky to have a place in his life.

~

Soldiers wear their uniforms when they go out. At least that's what the ones in the pub do. Daisy thinks it's to pick up girls seeing as every available lady in town is eager to flatter a serving man, and all the ones in here do have a girl or two attached to them, stroking the collars of their jackets and praising the ribbons and metals pinned to them.

Harry removes his long army green coat, draping it over his arm before reaching to help Daisy our of her white one. He didn't wear his uniform and she's quite glad for it. Of course Harry would probably scare away any girl that came near him and she'd definitely enjoy seeing it but she doesn't want to see anyone try to get his attention anyway. She just got him back and she's not sharing at all.

"This way Daisy." Harry guides, a warm hand on the small of her back. Two of Harry's army friends, a man named Pip who he roomed with, and another named Oliver were also allowed home for a visit. Both men were from the same town and enjoyed Harry's company enough to offer a meet up halfway between their town and Daisy's and Harry's.

The table closest to the bar and furthest from the dance floor is where Harry's mates are sat, and just like him, they're not in uniform either. However, they do have women with them and Daisy guesses that that's the reason they're dressed down. They don't need to impress or brag because they've got birds.

"Aye Harry!" The tallest man cheers loudly through a slight slur, slamming his hand on the table next to his pint. The girl with him, a lanky and slim brunette halfheartedly shushes him but it falls on deaf ears as he scrambles from his seat to greet Harry.

They exchange hugs, Harry clapping him on the back quite hard in a way that makes Daisy wince, but the man must be used to Harry hitting him like that because he just grins and smacks Harry's chest in return. "Is this ya girl Harry?" He questions when his blue eyes catch Daisy hovering behind Harry. She smiles politely, blushing when Harry reaches back for her hand.

"S'my Daisy, alright." He murmurs with a proud nod, pulling her into his side. "Daisy, this is Oliver and that quiet bloke in the back is Pip." Harry gestures the man still sat at the table, sharing a warm drink with the blonde next to him, who judging by the ring on her finger, is Pip's wife.

"Hello," Daisy greets, accepting a hand shake from Oliver. Harry leads her closer to the table, letting her pick a seat before settling himself next to her. She ends up by the blonde, nodding when she introduces herself as May. Harry leans over to gruffly shake hands with Pip, his arm on the back of her chair and warm chest against her shoulder. Oliver's girl says her name is Molly, and Daisy can't help but think that May and Molly are the prettiest names for two friends like them. She supposes Summer and Daisy are pretty good too.

"Would you like a drink love?" Harry murmurs in her ear, interrupting her thoughts with his warm breath. She nods gently, receiving a tender kiss on her cheek before Harry's on his feet and heading towards the bar. Daisy watches him, enjoying the way his white trousers cling to his peachy bum. She's dragged out of her admiring by Pip.

"When Harry told us he's got a bird back home, I never expected him to have someone so quiet and sweet."

Daisy giggles nervously, pushing her hair behind her ear when Oliver nods his agreement. "Big grumpy lad like him, was expecting someone like my bloody Aunt Cecil." Pip and Oliver chortle drunkenly, Molly chuckling before turning to Daisy.

"Aunt Cecil is the most terrible woman I've ever met. Very braggy when she's not even got anything to brag about!" Molly's obvious distaste makes Oliver laugh louder, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

"Terrible," he agrees with a sigh, "but I think it's right fitting that Harry have you with him. A bit of balance eh?"

"He definitely looks less brutish with a little thing like you on his arm." Pip agrees, "Proper cute you are." May repeats his words, smiling sweetly at Daisy. Not knowing what exactly to say, she’s grateful when Harry returns with her drink and a beer for him. When he settles back into his chair, his arm returns to it’s spot around her shoulders. Daisy relaxes into his touch, remembering all the girls here that would definitely try to win his attention, and she beams with pride at the fact that he’s hers.

Oliver and Pip start up a conversation of what they missed most about home. Pip swears he’ll never find better cooking than the meals May makes, practically on the verge of tears as he dramatically declares his love for her beef stew. Oliver laughs, scrunching his nose when he says he missed the smell of home. Paris, he thinks, smells of cigarette smoke and too much perfume. Daisy’s not sure what she was expecting Harry to say, maybe that he missed his comfortable mattress or his novels, but she’s not expecting him to shrug and wholeheartedly say her name.

Her heart swells, ears burning as Molly and May coo. She catches Harry’s bashful gaze, grinning as she pecks his pink lips as tenderly as she can. For a moment they’re stuck in a lover’s bubble, gooey eyes and shy grins, but it’s quickly shattered by Pip’s groan and mouth.

“Excellent choice Styles,” he approves, “Nothing like coming home to shag and love on your wife, aye?” That’s followed by a holler from Oliver, and the clanking of beer bottles. She watches Harry’s eyes widen, and he turns to them with a laugh that doesn’t really sound like him. They take his sip of his beer as joining in on their celebration of sex. The heat in her face grows, spreading to her belly and Daisy suddenly wishes they’d stayed home tonight so she could have had Harry all to herself.

~

She's changed into her night gown, sitting with her legs folded on Harry's bed and peeking into the bathroom while he brushes the alcohol of the night off his tongue. Harry's only put on pajama pants, leaving his torso fair game for her eyes to roam over. It's odd not feeling like she's prying by ogling him but she can't get the words of his friends off her mind.

"Nothing like coming home to shag and love on your wife, aye?"

He is her husband. She's devoted herself to him for the rest of her life, willingly, and she doesn't even remember why she was so upset about being Harry's in the first place. He's thoughtful, caring, intelligent, and so very handsome. It feels silly that she ever looked at him and hated him, because right now all she wants is him.

Daisy's never shagged anyone. The only person she's ever kissed is Harry save for a few cheek kisses from boys throughout the years. She can't help but look at Harry and wonder if he has. He's obviously attractive, every girl in town has wanted him at some point in their lives, but she's never heard anything about Harry wanting them. Up until that night her parents dropped the marriage bomb on her, she kind of assumed Harry would always just be Harry.

There was one rumor though, she recalls, coming up when she was about sixteen. A girl named Lucille had been the center of it, everyone claiming she'd lost her virginity too young to a boy at the summer party always thrown at her house. No one cared about the boy because the real spice of the rumor was Lucille having sex outside of wedlock, but the boy mattered to Daisy because it was Harry. At least that's what Summer had heard from someone. She remembers how awful she had felt hearing that, having to leave school early because her stomach was doing an awful job at holding down her lunch. At the time she thought it was just a disgust at the thought of anyone, especially someone as sweet as Lucille, sleeping with someone as rude as Harry.

But now, watching him lean over the sink to rinse his mouth, shoulders rippling as he moves, Daisy thinks she was jealous. She wasn't disgusted that Lucille slept with Harry, no, she was disgusted that Harry had slept with Lucille. She was absolutely put off by the fact that Harry hadn't come to her. Because he was always going after her. Always teasing, always picking, always embarrassing. Why was that time the exception?

"Harry?" His name is out of her lips before she can even rationally think about what she's wanting to ask him, and when he exits the bathroom with a soft "wha'sa matter?" her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Instinctively, her hands reach to the bottom of the bed for the crochet blanket, fingers wiggling through the stitches in attempt to calm her suddenly pounding heart. Deciding that there's no possible way for her to ignore her curiosity nor how much she wants to feel his skin under her fingertips, she quickly spits out her question.

"Do you miss shagging?"

For a moment, Daisy thinks Harry might be mad. There's a flash in his eyes, one of annoyance and frustration, and she can feel an apology building on her tongue when Harry moves to sit on the edge of the bed by her.

"What's got this on your mind Daisy?"

She feels a bit like a child with the tone he uses, as if he thinks she's repeating something she'd heard on the playground and knew nothing about before inquiring about it. "Pip and Ollie mentioned it, and well, you sort of laughed but it was different. I was just wondering, I don't know. We don't really speak about personal things but I don't want you, I don't know, suffering because you think I'm clueless or-"

Harry interrupts her with a sharp call of her name, cutting off her defensive ramble. His hands reach up to untangle her fingers from the blanket, holding them in his own. Thumbs brushing over the back of her hands, his usually stoic expression breaks into a fond gaze. "First of all, I want you to know that I would never want you to do that based off the belief that you think m'suffering or whatever other bloody nonsense your mother has put in that head of yours."

Daisy's ears burn, embarrassed by the mention of her mother because Harry's spot on. She's always grown up hearing that as a wife, she does whatever her husband requests of her, no questions asked. But beneath that layer of embarrassment, is another source of heat, begging for her to just lean over and smear her mouth to his.

"Second," he continues "I don't need shagging Daisy. If we talked about it and both wanted to that'd be a different story but I promise you that I don't wake up every morning and curse the world because I've still not made love to you." His sentence is punctured with a shy giggle, one she's never heard come out of his mouth and it makes her heart swoop pleasantly. Harry's cute, she tells herself while mentally adding to the list of new things she's learned about her husband in just a few days of having him home.

"Ok Harry." She agrees, even more flustered at his compassion towards her and the subject of sex. "I suppose I just got caught off guard when Pip said how much he missed it while he was away and I didn't want you to feel that way too. You're already in a trying situation and that's the last thing I want."

Daisy moves closer to him when his dimples sink into the plushness of his cheeks, lips shining when he runs his tongue over them in attempt to hide the boyish smile on his face. "Want to hear a secret?" He finally whispers, dropping his gaze to where his hands are still tenderly holding hers. Daisy mutters a yes, eager to know something personal about Harry.

He clears his throat gently, shaking his head as if he's mentally scolding himself for whatever information he's holding inside his head. When he does finally speak, his voice is so quiet she wouldn't have heard it had it not been for how closely together they're sat.

"I can't miss something I never had."

It takes another moment for his words to register in her mind but when they do she could jump in elation. Of course she'd never judge Harry for having already had sex but she's so utterly relieved to know that she's not alone in her inexperience. She can't fight the grin that pulls at her lips, Harry rolling his eyes when he glances up through thick lashes to gauge her reaction.

He looks so shy, so tentative about what she might say to his secret and for the first time since she's known him, confidence surges through her. She squeezes his hand, pushing her shoulders back as she nonchalantly replies, "Neither can I, but I can yearn for it."

Harry's head snaps up at her words, eyes bright and big with surprise. Pink lips dropped open in disbelief, Daisy refuses to shy away from his prodding gaze because she knows what she said is truthful. Why can't she finally shag Harry? She's married to him and she trusts him, and if the admittance that she was jealous of Lucille is anything to go by, she's wanted Harry for a lot longer than she thought.

"Daisy," Harry utters, voice strained and rough in his throat. It sends shivers up her spine. "you're gonna have to give me more than that if you want something darling."

Before any unpleasant nerves can take over, she complies. "I've never slept with anyone before either but I would sh-I want to do that with you. If you want to."

His fingers are gentle but persistent as they trail up her exposed arms, Harry's eyes remaining on hers for any sign of reluctance or regret. He reaches the sleeves of her nightgown, fingertips dipping under the fabric and when she steadily maintains eye contact, he knows that's he's fully got the go-ahead. She can tell by the simper that lifts his lips and the sudden darkness in his eyes. Harry pushes himself onto his knees, face leaning in so close to hers his minty breath blows the baby hairs out of her face. Daisy allows herself to be guided back by his wide shoulders and bulging chest, eyes growing heavy under his heated gaze as her head meets the pillows.

"Are you certain Daisy?" Harry murmurs, checking once again. His thoughtfulness for her feelings and emotions is endearing and overwhelming, bringing a sudden sting to the back of her eyes. Daisy nods, reaching up to hold the side of his face, and tilting her chin up to brush their lips together.

"There's no other person I'd want to do this with Harry, and there's no other time that would be as perfect for a first time as right now." Harry's breathing grows heavier at her words, and while she usually struggles to read his gaze, tonight's different. She can see it in his eyes too, that burning need and passion that she can feel in her chest as well. "Besides, this is usually a wedding night activity so we're quite behind Mr. Styles."

The smirk that lifts her lips brings elation to his eyes, his dimples making an appearance with a smirk of his own. "If that's the case, reckon I should carry on, aye Mrs. Styles?"

She manages one feeble nod before his mouth is fully on hers, leaning all his weight onto his right elbow while his left hand drops down to her waist. He holds there for a moment, strong, nimble fingers a reassuring weight on her skin while she takes the time to run her own fingers over his exposed skin. The dips of his muscles and the heat of his body is enthralling, drawing her in before reducing her to mush.

The heat in Daisy's belly is searing, a fire burning so strongly she thinks she might melt into a puddle on the bed, soaking into the fabric of Harry's sheets to stay there for the rest of eternity. She's not sure what's warmer, the arousal in her core or the heat wafting off of Harry. Possibly Harry because she's never seen him like this. He's never looked so big, so manly, so strong while somehow also being so soft and sweet. This is the Harry she likes, the Harry she hopes is around for the rest of their lives. Calloused hands on her waist, eagerly pulling up the fabric of her clothes, prompting her to lift her bum so he can get the gown up around her waist.

Knickers visible to not only the chilly room, but Harry as well, goosebumps prickle her skin and her heart thumps erratically in her chest. Harry's large palm continues to trail up her body, exposing more of her skin inch by inch. His hips settle between her thighs, the soft skin of his belly brushing against hers. Daisy's never felt his skin on her like this and a wave of arousal pulses between her thighs. There's a bit of struggle with getting the nightgown over her head, Harry not wanting to release her bottom lip from between his teeth but eventually sacrificing the kiss to get her naked.

He sits back on his haunches, tossing her clothes over his shoulder as his eyes drink in every inch of her heated body. His fingers trail up her legs, brushing over her hips in a teasing manner as they follow an unmarked path to her naked chest.

“Prettiest bird I’ve ever seen, ya know that?” Harry murmurs against the corner of her lips, tentatively cupping the supple flesh and watching her face intently. Experimentally pinching his fingers into her skin, his eyes twinkle when the first shuttering moan breaks through Daisy’s lips. “Feel good?”

Nodding, she grips his arms for stability in the swirling mess of heat and desperation that’s taken over her body. She’s always been fairly quiet, but Harry’s touch is so comforting and exciting, she doesn’t hesitate to whine impatiently. “Thought you were getting a move on it Styles?” He quirks an eyebrow at her response, fingers pausing for a moment before he scolds her with a gentle tug on her nipple that sucks the air out of her lungs.

Harry slips off the bottom of the bed, shaking his head just once. “I’ll hurry Daisy, but I want ya calling me Harry tonight. Not Styles,” his eyes meet hers with a warning glare in them, daring her to argue. Something about his dominance has more wetness pooling between her spread legs, dampening the cotton fabric of her underwear. “Want to hear just my name from you.”

She nods again, so quickly her brain rattles around in her head but her eagerness is rewarding because Harry smirks and hooks his thumbs in his only two layers, tugging them down in on go. He kicks them off his ankle but Daisy barely catches the movement because her eyes are stuck on his stiff member. Red and thick, the head of him bobs up by his belly button and smears the clear liquid leaking out of him against the sprinkle of hair that leads between his thighs. Harry stands like a Greek sculpture, one hand on his lean hip and the other tangled in his unruly hair. His body glows in the soft light of the lamp, illuminating the layer of sweat that glistens on his muscles. Her eyes land on his thighs, gnawing on her bottom lip as she realizes how thick and pretty his legs are. She finds herself wishing it was the meat on the inside of his leg that were between her teeth instead of her own lip.

“Harry,” his name leaves her mouth in a sinful whimper, thighs subconsciously opening wider as if inviting him to dive between them. She sees his cock twitch at her call, his eyes fluttering for a brief second before he’s leaning over her again, hands on the sides of her knickers.

“May I?” He requests in a whisper, smiling brightly when she moves her hands to push his down, taking her underwear with them until she too is spread out bare on his sheets. Their mouth meet again, Harry’s cock a heavy weight on her lower tummy, twitching at every soft moan that he swallows off her tongue.

“Do you have protection?” She questions, breaking their kiss. Harry freezes, and a heavy weight settles in her chest as his eyes fly open and his forehead creases in thought. After a few seconds his eyes light up with hope, leaning off the side of the bed to dig through his drawer. The little packet containing the condom is pinched between his fingers as he comes back to her, eyes squinting as he checks the date on it.

“Thank god for Niall taking the piss out of me with this, huh?” Harry says, an eager and excited lilt in his voice. Daisy giggles, pushing his floppy hair off his forehead as he opens the rubber and rolls it down his prick.

“Who’s laughing now.” She responds, fingers digging into his shoulders when the covered head of him probes at her opening. Harry cups her face with his free hand, naked chests brushing against each other, and he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He doesn’t push into her though, instead presses a chaste kiss to her lips.

“You still comfortable with this Daisy?” His breath is hot on her face, but soothing. And when she nods and whispers, “absolutely” she knows it’s 100% the truth. That’s all Harry needs before he’s flexing his hips forward, nudging her slick folds apart with his thick tip. The initial sting makes her flinch, a grunt leaving Harry’s clenched teeth as he she clamps around the few inches he’s managed to sink in. His forehead drops to her shoulder, arm shaking but he doesn’t rush her into taking all of him. No, instead he waits for her muscles to relax, easing up on his cock and the way her body melts into his brings tears to Harry eyes.

“You’re doing so good sweetheart,” Harry encourages, voice raspy with the effort it’s taking him to keep from bursting already. He wants to, needs to make Daisy feel good. He wants her to know that he’ll worship her for the rest of his life. “Already feel like heaven around me.”

With sweet words and tender smears of his mouth against hers, Harry finally sinks balls deep into Daisy. The feeling brings similar moans from both of them, a peaceful aura of completion settling around them. Daisy’s never felt this before. Like her body could just float up into heaven if it weren’t for Harry’s broad frame draped over her. Like he’s a limb she never knew she was missing but now that it’s here, she can’t imagine ever being empty again. She loves it, loves him.

“You’re so big Harry.” Daisy admits, bashfully meeting his gaze. Harry pants a choked moan into her face, steadying himself before pulling his hips back and slipping forward into her warmth once again.Her compliments seem to drive him, spurring him on, and she recalls how he’d melted under affection at the bakery the other day. Grinning softly, she latches her legs around his hips and lovingly runs her hands over his spine.

“Feels so bloody good,” Harry mutters, most likely talking to himself. Daisy’s chest swells with pride, gasping when the head of him nudges deep in her belly, tightening the string in her abdomen.

Attaching her lips to his jaw, Daisy breathes her own adoration. “Making me feels so good Harry, want to feel you forever.” The whimper that escapes him makes her core flutter, squeezing him tighter. Like she predicted, the compliment creates something feral in him, the pace of his thrusts picking up the slightest bit.

“Yeah? You want me to keep my cock in you all the time? Show you how fucking well I’m going to take care of you for the rest of our lives?”

The revelation that Harry’s got a dirty mouth brings her closer to the edge, whimpering out more agreements to all of his filthy promises. He drives his cock into her deeper, quick but strong ruts of his hips that stretch her open so well. After a particularly vulgar promise from Harry, a declaration that he’ll spend the remainder of the war fucking his fist to the memory of making love to her, Daisy smashes her mouth back to his, teeth clashing and tongues colliding as the string in her belly snaps. His name leaves her in a quiet chant, encouraged by his thumb reaching between them to rub at her clit and the deep rasps of “Yes Daisy, cum for me, say my name, my name....”

Her velvet heat pulsing around him sends him spiraling, filling the condom with his hot cum as his body trembles and shakes over her. Daisy encourages him as well, shyly thrusting her hips up to meet his sloppy thrusts and nibbling on his jaw. Cock still twitching in her, Harry drops all his weight so she’s basically trapped under him. Not that she minds of course. Daisy loves the feeling of holding him, petting at his damp hair and rubbing her toes over his calf soothingly. It takes Harry a minute to return to earth, lifting his head and blinking sluggishly. He looks utterly breathtaking, pink cheeks and swollen lips, gleaming eyes and dimples as he takes her mouth back with his.

Daisy never imagined she’d end up here with Harry, but she’d never want to be anywhere else now, and she supposes this was the feeling Harry was talking about when he described home. It’s not a home, it’s a person, and she’s somehow ended up with the best one.

[hintofcolor]

If I’m in pain you are gonna feel it (I never got to tell him I loved him and it’s your fault)

Tim yells at Clark because he’s sad and misses his best friend

It was quiet. Cassie and Tim stayed back, while everyone else went up to the house, sitting under the tree that gave shade to fresh turned dirt and concrete slab. The trunk of the tree wide enough that they could sit side by side and still lean back against it. 

“Conner Kent,” Cassie read aloud the name on the tombstone, “the fact that that’s the name they went with makes me want to break the ugly thing.” 

“Go for it,” Tim responded as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, willing the tears back in. He’s cried enough in front of people. “Maybe he’ll be offended enough that he comes back to tell you how rude it is to vandalize his grave.” 

Cassie chuckled, “If anyone would come back from the dead because of a hurt ego, it’d be Kon.” A small, soft smile settled on both of their faces.

They sat in comfortable silence just being in each other’s presence. They were the only two left. It hurt, but at least they had each other. It was nice, comforting, to just see the other. To watch each other’s chest rise and fall, to see their eyes flutter, tired and sad, glazed over with tears, but full of life. The sun turned a warm red and the sky lit up in vibrant colors. It was beautiful. It reminded Tim that Kon would never be able to keep the promise of showing Tim the sunsets in Hawaii

“You wouldn’t believe it man!” Kon beamed, “the sunsets and sunrises are unreal. It’s like they are fake. Like some one, I don’t know, painted them. I don’t know how to describe it.” Kon sat next to Tim on the water tower in smallville. Kon had flown up there, the whole ‘not being able to be himself’ thing weighing heavy. So they sat on the tower and Kon talked and Tim listened. When the sun started to set Tim smiled and made a remark about how beautiful it was and how he doesn’t see sunsets a lot because Gotham and pollution and such. Which in turn, made Kon start gushing about Hawaii. Tim turned to give Kon his full attention, while Kon sat with his arms resting on the barricade, his legs hanging over the edge, and his eyes glued to the sky. “You gotta see it I swear.”

“I believe you.”

“No I’m serious. I want you to see it for yourself. One day I’m going to take you to see a sunset in Hawaii. That’s a promise.”

 “I’ve got to head home.” Cassie’s voice breaking through the memories. “It’s been a long day, and it’s almost dark, I don’t want my mom to worry. Will you be okay? You can stay over at my place if you think your family will be to much.”

“Thanks Cass, but I’m okay.” Tim responded. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes settled in place. Like it belonged there. “I don’t think I’m through saying goodbye yet.”

Cassie simply smiled sympathetically. The look of his smile made her nauseous. She hurts too, so bad, but Tim has lost so many people already, she would give anything if she could just take his pain away. Seeing some one she loves in so much pain, knowing she can’t do anything about it, leaves her uneasy. As if she’s in pain for them. She wants to stay a little longer. Sit next to him, holding his hand, or resting her head on his shoulder, something to remind her that he’s still there, to remind him that she’s not going anywhere. She almost caved, sitting back down, staying with him till he was ready to go home. She even thought about going with him then too. Curling up in his too big bed, like how they all used to after a particularly difficult mission, leaving them feeling powerless and hopeless. All settled in one of their bedrooms, which ever was closest, just for the comfort of having other people around. They never talked, they just all silently got ready for bed and claimed a spot wherever was comfortable. However, she needed to get home to her mom, because as much as she loves Tim and wants to stick by his side, she really, really needs a hug from her mom right about now. To have her kiss Cassie’s head and tell her it’s okay, and that the pain just means that she cares.  

She flies off, refusing to go up to the old house. To many memories of the four of them are stored in that rickety barn and yellow home. She doesn’t want them tainted by grief. 

Tim watches her go. He leans his head back against the tree again. He was about to close his eyes when he heard footsteps approaching. He stood, perfectly ready to give whoever it was some privacy with Kon. Until Clark comes into view. An anger Tim didn’t even know he was harboring for the Kryptonian came bubbling to surface. Fast and Hot.  He pushed against the tree to stand up right and tall. 

“Are you proud yet?” He asked, venom dripping from every word. Clark turned to look at the boy briefly. Tim could see the guilt hanging heavy in his eyes. “He saved the world. Died a hero. That enough to convince you that he isn’t Lex? That he could be more than his DNA?” 

“Tim-” 

“No. I talk, you listen.” Tim spit. Clark recoiled, but stayed quiet. “You did nothing but push him away for absolutely no valid reason. What makes you think you have a right to stand here and grieve? When you were the one who made his life hell. For years, years Clark, I had to sit and listen as he doubted himself, doubted who he was, whether or not he was good, whether he was his own person. I watched him drive himself insane over his stupid DNA. Because of you, Clark! Because you couldn’t for three seconds consider that maybe, just maybe Kon is his own person. He had a mind, a beating heart, a soul, Clark, and you reduced him to a science experiment. You don’t get to stand here and act like this isn’t exactly what you wanted. Not when that stupid shield drug him down more than you could ever imagine” 

“I tried-” 

“YOU TRIED!? God Clark you can’t be this dense. The Kon you knew wasn’t even Kon! GOD! He changed everything about himself so that maybe, just maybe you would accept him! He died being a person he didn’t even recognize in the mirror. The clothes, that stupid t shirt and jeans, the hair cut, the glasses, his obviously dialed down personality. I can’t count how many times I listened to the same thing over and over, about how much he hated everything he had become, how didn’t feel like himself, how it was driving him insane. And every time I would tell him that there was nothing wrong with who he used to be and every time, every single time, he would respond with ‘Clark would disagree.’ All you did was change him into another version of you. Your opinion meant so much to him and you hardly even spared him a second thought. You wanna know how I know you didn’t try, because if you spent even five minutes talking to Kon like he was more than a clone bred to fight, you would know how much he hated Smallville. LOOK WHERE WE ARE STANDING! He couldn’t wait to get out of this place, and because you didn’t want to go through the, what, hassle? Of coming up with a story as to why he would be buried in someplace he liked. Buried in Hawaii? He is the in the one place that him feel even less of a person forever. God, Clark do you know how pathetic that is? How so royally fucked up that is? Do you know how angry he would be if he knew he had to spend eternity here? And yet you have the audacity to stand here and actually mourn him?.”

“I-” 

“I’m not done talking. You don’t get to mourn some one you wished wasn’t alive in the first place. We both know the only reason it hurts you so much is because this perfectly crafted ‘knight on a white horse’ person you created just took a hit. God, I wish in everything that some one would knock you off of that damn high horse. I am so sorry your hero complex took a hit. I am so sorry that you have to be the villain for once. That you couldn’t save Kon, whether it was from prime or himself. I am so sorry that you worked so hard to make Kon into Clark 2.0 only to have him die. I am so, so sorry that you regret not getting to know him. But that’s on you and only you. And that guilt you’re feeling, the guilt of not being fast enough. Of not getting there in time. Of letting some one die. Of some one dying thinking that you hate them. I get it. Trust me, I get it. A hundred scenarios running through your mind about how it could have been different, how you could have saved him. How you could have done better. How you should have kept them closer. When you are laying there at night, your stomach curled in on itself, your blood ice cold. The hot tears pouring down your face as some cruel reminder that you can’t escape from this. The type of guilt that has you hunched over the toilet, choking on your vomit because you can’t stop sobbing long enough and you’re body won’t let you do both. You don’t panic, you think if I go I deserve it right? You put on the cape and become sloppy and reckless because if you make it out, if you are able to go home and take them off, the pain will set back in. That guilt that is all encompassing, that drags with you all day and all night. Cause no matter what, you can’t wake up. That guilt? I can tell you with a doubt is the worse feeling you will ever feel. And I truly mean it when I say that I hope you choke on it. I hope you scream for help and no one listens. I want you to know what it feels like to be in so much pain while surrounded by people who make a living helping people. I hope people you consider family ignore your suffering. I hope that pain seeps into your skin. I hope the sound of Kon hitting the ground rings in your ears. I hope the sound of his heart stopping replays on repeat.” Tim’s voice breaks, tears are flooding down his face he can’t see anything, but he doesn’t care. He is so angry that nothing else matters. His voice drops to barely a whisper “I wish Kon were here. I wish he could tell you this himself. I wish he could tell you himself how much it hurt to know that you would never love him.”

Tim walked off, up the dirt road that lead to Kent’s long driveway. He paused at the old worn mailbox, before deciding to just keep going. He trekked down the long dirt road, with no clue where he was going. He knew Bruce would come looking eventually. He found himself lying on the cold metal walkway of the old water tower. He just stared up at the stars, like he was waiting for Kon to appear out of  the sky. He closed his eyes, tears still streaming down steadily and whispered the same thing over and over again. Maybe if he said it enough Kon would hear it. 

I love you. I love you. I love you.

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the mermay fills: 10 & 22 with indruck? 👁️👁️ (nsfw or sfw)

I went with ten (tattoos/piercings) first, since 22 will be part of another fill. I went with NSFW, and wrote this as a follow-up to my “Heat” fill from last year.

Indrid swims up  and down the hall outside the palace infirmary. He’s far from the only one doing so; the reef serpent wreaked havoc through the city before the Chosen mers defeated it. He’s not even the only person waiting to see if Duck is alright.

“Have courage, Prince Indrid Cold!” Minerva, sporting a new gash on her face, clamps her hand down on his shoulder in what he knows is her version of a comforting gesture, “Duck Newton is the strongest Chosen after myself. He will pull through.” The blue of her tentacles flashes with pride. 

“Besides” Ned, the castle mer who has, against all odds, become Indrid’s closest advisor, flicks his orange and silver tail “you informed us yourself there were no futures where our friend passed away.”

“I know.” Indrid takes a breath, intending to explain the tangled net of anxiety in his chest. All that comes out is another, “I know.”

Behind him, he hears two nurses murmuring that they’d better bump the prince’s consort up in the line, but before he can turn and order them not to, they’re gone. 

It happened like this: Duck kept his word, began courting Indrid properly once the seer's heat passed, and Indrid reciprocated without hesitation. This caused a near scandal; yes, Duck was a Chosen and thus noble to a degree, but Indrid was a prince, and a prized one. Indrid pointed out that he rather liked someone who cared about his welfare, not just his happiness, and if they had an issue with that, that was their problem not his. And so the comments about Duck moved from to his face to behind his back, which he counted as good enough.

Duck found the whole consort business stressful, given that he’d forgone his Chosen destiny in favor of tending the kelp forests specifically to avoid that kind of fanfare and politics. Thus, they steered clear of the castle when they could, spending their time with their friends in town or in the sunken ship Duck called home. 

When the serpent attacked their town, Duck discovered the limits of his rejecting his destiny, and joined the fight to save his home. Indrid is proud of him, even if his stomach churns whenever the futures shift and he has to see whether the strings of fate weave a grimmer outcome for the man he loves.

It’s well after moonrise when he’s allowed to see Duck. The other mer is half-asleep in his infirmary bed, a massive bandage on his side and one of his tentacles bitten down to a nub

“Hey darlin” The sleepy drawl is accompanied by the mer opening his arms. 

Indrid carefully settles against the non-bandaged side of him, rests his head on his chest with a relieved sigh, “I’m so glad you’re alright. Or, well, mostly alright. You’re in one piece. Sort of. I, I’m not conveying this well.”

“I ain’t dead, given how today went I’m callin that a win. Besides, this’ll grow back in no time.” He wiggles the stub of his tentacle. 

“Mmm” Indrid cuddles closer, purring softly as intact tentacles pet his tail and back.

“When’d you last sleep?” Duck murmurs, kissing the top of his head.

“Not since the attack started.”

“Seems to me we’re both due for some shut eye.”

Indrid nods, right before falling asleep and dreaming of strong tentacles and stronger arms. 

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

“Guess I gotta get a tattoo now.” Duck studies the scar on his side, his bandages having permanently come off this morning. 

“I suppose so. Though, if you’ve avoided so many other parts of Chosen protocol, I fail to see how skipping this one will make things worse.”

“I dunno, I kinda like this one. Used to strike me as macho bullshit, showin off how many battle scars you got. But now...makes me think of how when the forest gets trashed by a storm, or a huge-ass monster tearin through it, there’s a certain kind of pleasure that comes from watchin it heal, watchin it go from desolated and scarred to somethin beautiful.”

Indrid loves when he talks like this, smiles dreamily as Duck adds, “you could even design it for me. I’d like that.”

“I could do you one better; I could apply it as well. And since I foresee you asking yes, I do have the training to do so. Royal mers learn to tattoo themselves, due to rules about being touched by lower ranking mers that I judiciously ignored.”

“No kiddin” Duck grins, two tentacles coiling around Indrid’s tail, teasing the red stripe, “now that I’m healed up, gonna do all kinds of things to you to remind you why you ignored those rules in the first place.”

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

“Are you nervous?” Indrid finishes setting out his tools on the pristine table in his pristine chambers. He tends towards messiness in his habits, but when it comes to Duck’s health he’s cleaned the whole place by hand and with magic. Twice. 

“Nah, I know I’m in good hands.” Even as he says this, a burst of anxious yellow moves up his tentacles. 

“All the same, if you need a break at any point, let me know. And if the scar starts stinging or throbbing, tell me at once.”

“You got it, darlin.”

Indrid takes his time using a spell to transfer his design to Duck’s skin, double checking the placement before picking up the charm-powered tattoo gun. When finished, the tattoo will be a small forest of kelp, with the scar making up most of the body of the serpent swimming between the leaves. Six shades of green ink, three shades of brown, one shade of copper, and black for outlining, lay on the table, Indrid dipping into each of them in turn as he brings the image to life. 

“Love watchin you draw” Duck sighs, then shudders, “sorry, gettin a hell of an adrenaline rush from the pain.”

“Just try to stay still. If you twitch or fidget too much, it will cause mistakes on my end.”

“Do my best.”

“If you don’t, I’ll just have to tie you down.” Indrid says breezily. The tentacle near him pulses purple. Desire. Interesting. 

He’s most of the way through when Duck’s arms shake, his tentacles following suit, occasionally bumping Indrid’s tail or sides.. They’re small movements, all things considered, but in most futures they mean he has to re-do the entire last third of the tattoo. 

“Nono, this won’t do at all.” He set’s the gun down, flitting across to the closet near his bed. A sea-grass rope waits, right where he left. There hasn’t been much call for it, Duck capable of restraining Indrid in a variety of ways all on his own. 

“Now” Indrid bites off several lengths of rope, “since you cannot be still, I am going to tie your tentacles down. You’re to keep your hands where I put them, or I will tie them as well.”

Ducks tentacles are now deep, unflinching purple, “Holy fuck, ‘drid.”

“Just because I am generally submissive around you does not mean I’m not capable of giving orders.” Indrid smirks, tying the first two tentacles down.

“I, I know, it’s just  you, uh, you, you never talk like this.” Duck’s eyes are wide, excited even, as they track Indrid’s circular path. 

“I suppose you don’t hear me during advisory meetings, so this is a new experience for you.”

“Maybe I oughta start sittin in on ‘em.” Duck whines when Indrid kisses his cheek but refuses to stick around long enough for Duck to kiss him back.

“Perhaps. Right now, however, you are to sit still until I’m done with you. Understood?”

“Uh huh.” Duck smiles, docile and sweet, and Indrid wonders why they never thought to try this before. 

He returns to his work, inking colors into Duck’s skin, enjoying the intimacy of learning the familiar curves of his ribs and belly in new ways. At one point he notices Duck tensing and almost moving his hand, but the other mer catches it in time. 

“Good boy.” Indrid purrs.

“Fuck.” Duck tips his head back, “how much longer?”

“About ten minutes more, I’d say. You can manage it my sweet, you’re doing so well already.”

Duck whimpers low in his throat as Indrid goes back to his work. Exactly ten minutes later, he puts a protective covering atop the tattoo and pushes his supply table aside.

“There, all done. You did wonderfully.”

“Great, now untie me.” Duck wriggles hopefully.

Indrid raises an eyebrow, “In a hurry, sweet one?”

“Yes” Duck holds out a hand, trying to coax him closer. 

“Whatever for?” He replies airly, as if can’t sense the arousal pouring off his boyfriend in waves, “and stop moving so much, you’ll aggravate the tattoo.”

“‘Drid please” The folds between his front-most tentacles ripple as his cock starts emerging. 

“Oh I see.” Indrid swims so they’re face to face, pinning Duck’s hands to the back of the chair as he leans into his space, “you want me to fuck you, is that it? You’re willing to risk pain to new scar tissue, even marring my lovingly done work, just to have your cock played with?”

“Holyfuckinshit, why is this the first time you’re talkin like this?” Duck bites his lip with a little moan as Indrid rubs their cheeks together. 

“I don’t know. In hindsight, it seems so obvious; you’re my powerful, competent mate, you always take such wonderful care of me, but you want someone to take away that power from time to time, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Duck tips his chin up, hoping for a kiss, but Indrid floats backwards out of reach,

“What shall we do about that, hmm?” He swims a slow, tight circle around the other mer, staying just out of arms reach, “shall I keep you bound until the urge passes? No, that’s far too cruel for my beloved. Perhaps I should make you see to it yourself? But no, you might accidentally hurt yourself. Hmmm, what to do, what to do….” He taps his chin as Duck growls and whines, tentacles now straining against their bonds. Indrid knows Duck could snap them easily if he needed or wanted to. Which means he wants to remain at Indrid’s mercy for the time being.

“You do look wonderful like this. I didn’t even plan it this way, but how I tied you shows off most of your assets.” Indrid rubs the upper front of his tail, “now you’re getting me all wound up.”

“Good” Duck growls, tentacles swirling purple and pink. 

“Yes it, ahnnn, it is rather good, isn’t it. After all, I have the perfect solution to the situation sitting right in front of me.”

Duck’s cock is fully out, it and the slit beneath it tempting Indrid to abandon his plan. He swims in front of the other mer, eyeing his cock approvingly, “yes, you’ll do quite nicely.”

“Thank fuckOHfummmhp” Duck’s surprised moan turns to a laugh as Indrid, having zipped upwards in a flash, finishes shoving his cock into Duck’s mouth.”

“Yesss, ohyes, goodness I love doing this, you look so charming with your lips around my cock. Ah, ah, don’t you dare move your hands from the chair. This” he gives a sharper thrust, “is all I need to be satisfied.”

Duck moans louder, which Indrid takes as his cue to hold his head in place and fuck into his mouth with abandon. 

“That’s it love, that’s it, oh I ought to have done this months ago, tied my big strong hero down and reminded him of hisAHAnnn, his duties as consort.”

“‘M ot a ero.” 

Indrid looks imperiously down his nose at him, “It’s rude to contradict someone when they’re giving you what you want, my sweet. I guess I’ll need to render you further incapable of speech” He concentrates and extends his cock, a mechanism meant to ensure he can reproduce with mers of any size or genital configuration but that he uses only to make Duck groan with pleasure. 

His orgasm is already racing towards him, as it always does when Duck lets him (or orders him to) fuck his throat, and he shuts his eyes, concentrating on tight heat and the happy, muffled grunts floating up to his ears. 

“Just a little, nnnn, little more my sweet, let your prince ravish your throat a little longerOH, ohgods, Duck, sweetheart, yes.” He cums, a shudder rippling down his tail, and doesn’t pull out until Duck struggles to swallow the rest down. The other mer is still collecting his breath when Indrid wiggles down and pushes his tongue into his slit.

“Fuck!” Duck jerks hard enough to move the chair an inch to the right.

Indrid snickers, wraps both hands around Duck’s cock, stroking it hurriedly as he raises his head, “What do you say, beloved?”

“Th-thank you?” Duck cracks an eye open. Indrid nods, then dips his head back down to to suck and tongue at the senstive skin. 

“Fuckme, ohfuck, ‘Drid, darlin’, this is fuckin incredible, gonna, gonna be such a good consort, do whatever you say, fuck you five fuckin times a day, just, FUCK, just promise we can do this again.”

“Muv ourse.” Indrid thrusts his tongue deeper, twisting his hands on his upstrokes. The fourth time he does, he pops up to suck on the head just in time to catch Duck’s cum in his mouth. He takes his time, sucking him clean with happy trills and moans while his boyfriend utters curses that would make sailors blush.

He pulls away to wipe his mouth, intending to start untying Duck. The futures show that won’t be necessary, 

Snapsnapsnapsnap

The ropes break in pairs, rapid fire, and then Duck is on him, enveloping him in arms, tentacles, and love. He tries to press closer, then winces back, “owfuck, you’re right, the tattoo is real sore.”

“It’ll be that way for a few days. Your Chosen strength will help, but you should still rest when possible.”

“I dunno” Duck kisses him sweetly, then nips his lower lip, “you know how stubborn I can be. Might have to uh, tie me to the bed.”

“That, my love, can be arranged.”