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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: In Bad Waters - part twelve Word count: ±2750 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part twelve summary: The only way to find out the truth about Laura, is to start digging even deeper. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons. Thanks, girls! Gif credit: @demondetoxmanual.

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

“Dead as a dodo,” the oldest of the Winchester brothers states over the phone, as he exits Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, Zoë by his side. Before they drove to the hospital, the hunters dropped Sam off at the Shire residence, so that he could make sure the family wouldn’t get targeted. Laura has proven to be relentless, and they didn’t want to risk the family getting killed as well.

“Laura attacked him while other people were around?” Sam, who is on the line with his brother, is clearly surprised. “She didn’t. She waited until he went to the supply storage, alone,” Dean tells. “Same deal; beat up, broken neck.” Sam cuts to the chase. “We have to figure this out fast. The only other people who may know something about Laura’s location is what’s left of the Shire family.” “You got eyes?” Dean checks, knowing Sam is staking out the residence on Lake Front Lane. “Yeah. So far so good.” “Make sure he keeps them in sight at all costs. Use an excuse and get into the house if he has to,” Zoë suggests, only catching half of the conversation.

Dean glances aside at the woman next to him. She has changed into a clean shirt, one that doesn’t have her own blood on it. Back at the Hampton Inn, she taped her right side, relieving some of the pressure from her aching ribs. After a quick touch up of her hair and make-up, one could barely tell she just got attacked by an angry spirit. Her walk is slightly stiff, but the bruising she suffered is sufficiently masked, her brown curls falling over the gash on her hairline, which she closed with butterfly stitches.

With a groan she lowers herself in the front seat of the Impala, muttering ‘fuck’ under her breath when fractures send a sharp pain through her body. Dean notices when he gets into the car as well, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead he puts his phone on speaker, now that the Impala provides them the safety to talk freely. “Zo says that when you lose sight of them, you better get inside. Tell them you’re insurance or somethin’.”

“Will do. Did you guys manage to get Laura’s medical records?” “We did. Let’s see what we have here.” The older Winchester pulls a folder from the inside of his leather coat. He opens it, about to leaf through the documents, when Zoë snatches it from his hands. “Hey!” “Like you could make sense of what’s in here,” she scolds.

She wets her finger and flips the page. A huff escapes her throat as she reads the file, shaking her head, disapproving. “1999, age four; skull fracture of the parietal, supposedly fell off her bike. 2001, age six; fracture of the left ulna. 2003, age eight, multiple fractures, right radius, she needed surgery for that. Same year, broken carpal bones, right wrist, this time it was the trampoline's fault. It goes on.” “Fucking bastard…” Dean scoffs. “And no one picked up on this?” Sam wonders. “Perks of the dad being Chief of surgery.” Zoë holds an X-ray against the light. “Good news for us is that we should be able to determine now if it’s Laura in that grave or not. Especially her right arm, which was screwed back together.”

“Only one way to find out. Looks like your gonna pay Linwood Cemetery another visit,” Dean says, turning the key in the ignition. The V8 engine comes to life with a roar, a song by The Kinks called ‘You Really Got Me’ playing on the local radio station.

“You know you and Zo have to stick together, right?” Sam brings to mind. “Say what?” Dean replies, puzzled, before he pulls away from the curb. “He’s right.” Zoë backs up the younger Winchester’s statement, glancing at the driver next to her. “Laura kills everyone who stops her, but only if they are alone. We already know she’s after me, and now you shot her through the head, so I’m guessing you moved up her murder list.” “Well that’s a comforting thought.” Dean breathes out, once realization sets in. “What about you, Sam?” “I don’t think she’ll come after me. I never actually had contact with her, unlike you guys,” Sam explains. “So basically, I’m stuck with her?” Dean nods his head at the young woman next to him, even though his brother can’t see it. “Hey, still in the car,” Zoë snarls, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She then continues to correct herself, in her usual brazenness. “Excuse my French. I’m still in the ‘67 Chevrolet Impala.”

Dean’s jaw clenches as he fights the urge to pull the gun from the glove compartment and shoot her. He’s getting pretty tired of her smartass comments. “He has a point, though,” Sam intervenes. “Whatever happens, you two have to stick together, or it will be the end of you. The second one of you ends up alone…” Sam leaves the rest of the words unsaid, because no one needs to hear them to understand. If Dean and Zoë get separated, they will die, and especially the huntress is not particularly happy about that matter.

“Great. My lucky day,” Zoë mutters sarcastically, after which she looks away and watches the houses rush by. “Do I have to remind you that I just saved your ass?” Dean recalls. The huntress huffs, of course he has to bring that up. “I didn't need your--” “Oh, come on! Don't start that bullshit with me,” the oldest Winchester counters, letting out a laugh. No way in hell she’s going to win this argument. “What were you planning to do exactly after Laura pinned you to the wall and was a second from snapping your neck, huh?”

“Could you two stop bitching at each other for one fucking second?!” Dean looks at the phone on the dashboard. For a moment there, he forgot Sam was still a part of this conversation. The younger Winchester clearly has had enough of their bickering and fighting, because it’s not often that the respectable sibling curses. The outburst helps, because both shut up instantly.

“Thank you,” Sam sighs and continues on his theory. “Dean, you dig up that body, I’ll keep an eye on the Shires.” The Impala comes to a stop before a traffic light, crossing cars not allowing Dean to run the stop sign. “What about Miss Congeniality over here?” “She can’t dig. She broke her ribs.” Sam states, matter of factly.

Zoë, who still had her arms crossed in front of her, now turns herself to watch the hunter’s reaction. The amusement that bubbles inside of her makes it impossible to suppress the wide smirk on her lips when she notices Dean translating the true meaning of Sam’s message. For once in her life, she is not going to disagree with Sam, because this is playing itself out beautifully. “So, I’m gonna have to dig up a coffin while she stands there being pretty?!” he almost exclaims. “Ah-uh.” “I have no issues with that, whatsoever.” Zoë agrees, adding fuel to the fire. “Of course you don’t, you--” Dean shuts himself up, biting his tongue before he says something he might regret. He’s only at an arm's length away from her, plus he’s driving his precious car. The huntress might be hurt, but she can still do some serious damage. “Alright, Sammy. You stay put, and be careful, okay?” he presses. “Who knows what that mini poltergeist has up her sleeve.” “I’ll be safe,” his younger brother promises. “You guys too, alright? See you in a bit.”

The sun is about to sink behind the horizon and golden hour is upon them. The heavens are colored in a dark shade of blue, gradually turning lighter in the west, where apricot and merigold fire up the sky. It’s getting chilly, autumn bringing down the temperatures at dusk. Nocturnal animals come to life, a barn owl hooting in the distance. The cemetery’s gates closed an hour ago, offering the hunters the peace and quiet needed to stay undetected.

This time it’s not the huntress who is shuffling dirt. In fact, she’s casually sitting on the tombstone next to Laura’s, her legs crossed like the lady that she is, watching Dean do all the hard work. While filing her nails, Zoë cannot help but admire the scenery, and it’s not the pretty sunset. The Winchester in her company is working his way into the ground, scooping dirt over his shoulder with steady amounts. He shed his jacket and his grey shirt is clinging to his clammy torso, perspiration shimmering on his exposed skin. Muscles roll beneath the fabric of the thin tee and his biceps flex with every motion, a glimpse of a tattoo peeking from under the right sleeve. The huntress might want to bite his head off most of the time, but even she has to admit; Dean’s is easy on the eyes.

“Like what you see?” Dean grins mischievously, having noticed her appreciating looks. Zoë isn’t at all thrown off balance by his remark, however. “Really? You objectify women all the fucking time, and you’re calling me out?” “Touché,” he chuckles, not slowing down for a second. “Just sayin’, the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid.” Zoë scoffs, finding his assumption entertaining. “Keep on dreaming, Casanova. I’m more likely to die before ending up between the sheets with you.”

“Well…” Dean swings more ground out of the hole, groaning at the increasing ache in his left shoulder. His eyes are still mischievous, and so is the smirk on his lips. “Let’s get that mini poltergeist off your tail, and we’ll talk again.” Zoë rolls her eyes. This arrogant prick doesn’t know when to stop, does he? “Like I said; keep on dreaming. Now what the hell is taking you so long?” she judges. “It’s only six feet and the ground is already loose.” “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe if you hadn't put a bullet in my shoulder two days ago, I’d dig a little faster!” Dean snaps, glaring at the person who has been giving him orders all day. “Don’t be such a baby. It didn’t even hit the joint,” Zoë scoffs, blowing the dusty residue from her fingertips. “Now would you hurry it up? I have places to be.”

Gritting his teeth, the hunter dumps another load of soil on the grass besides the grave. I swear to God, one of these days a spirit will be the last of her worries. “Maybe if you had paid attention when you fucking lit the kid in the first place, you could’ve left town hours ago.” “Maybe if your brother hadn’t distracted me, I would have. But you asshats tend to ruin other people's cases,” Zoë counters, rapidly. “Hey, we are just trying to help! Do I have to remind you who’s doing the actual dirty work here?” Dean pauses his actions. “Why don’t you get off your throne of thorns, princess. I’m nearly there.”

Zoë cocks back her head back; did he just call her ‘princess’? Her eyes shoot flames at the intolerable guy, her mouth opening to send back a remark, when the metal shovel collides with the wooden casket. The hollow sound catches Zoë’s attention and she gets up. “Fucking finally.”

Dean hoists himself out of the hole, making room to lift up the lid and exposing the remains. He was going to offer the huntress a hand to get into the grave, but he can’t be bothered now; she can figure out how to lower herself if she’s being such a bitch. She doesn’t ask either, and sits down on the edge, sliding down with a grunt. The older Winchester watches her descent, the light of her flashlight shimmering on his features as she turns it on and places it on the corner of the coffin.

“How are we supposed to tell if this is Laura or not? You already burned her bones to crisp,” Dean wonders, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “Because they aren’t burned to crisp. A salt and burn doesn’t actually destroy them like an oven would when cremated,” the huntress explains wisely, pulling on a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and putting them on as she crouches down.

“So what’s the crime scene telling you, Horatio?” Dean wonders, shining his flashlight down on the skeleton. Zoë doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she clears the burned clothing and half deteriorated skin and muscle tissue from the right arm of the girl in the coffin. She rubs her thumb over the radius bone, swiping away the ash and grime. There are no signs of a healed break, nor has the arm ever been screwed and bolted back together. “This isn’t Laura,” she knows. “Well, shit,” Dean responds, staggered. “If this ain’t her, then where the hell is she?” “Good question.” Zoë rises again, going over the clues they have gathered so far. “Let’s head to the Shire house, get back to Sam. We gotta figure this out, fast.”

The two hunters pack up, Dean hauling the dirt back into the grave while Zoë gathers his jacket and the torches. It takes him less longer than digging the hole in the first place, even though he has to bite through the pain. Not wanting to let Zoë know and give him a reason to scold him again, he keeps his mouth shut.

Thirty minutes later, the driver of the Chevrolet settles down on the front seat, closing the door behind him. “Where to?” Zoë has already pulled her laptop out, studying the map of Paragould on the screen. “Highway 412 up west, right on Reynolds Road, and then take left on Reynolds Park Road.” Dean guides the Chevrolet back onto the street, focused on traffic while the passenger takes in the moving world outside the window. The sinking sun sends an orange glow through the Impala, reflecting on the polished hood of the classic car. They are losing light, they are losing time.

When the driver glances aside briefly, he detects the pondering frown knitted between Zoë’s eyebrows. “Do you happen to see any bright ideas in that thousand mile stare?” he wonders. “We can’t split up, so we have to find Laura’s body and figure out how she relocates with the information we already have,” she says, thinking out loud. Dean brainstorms. “Maybe the way she relocates is a clue on itself.”

Zoë lets the air fall from her lips while thinking about that, trying to make sense of it all. “She can jump houses, but stays in a certain area. The principal’s home, the hospital, the Dawlson’s house, they are not far from each other, but what connects them?” “When you saw her, she was wet through, right? That has to mean something,” the older Winchester brother contemplates. “Yeah, but doesn’t make any sense. We know she didn’t drown,” she ponders, glancing aside at the driver as he turns on Reynolds Park Road. “What if it has something to do with the cover up of her cause of death and not with her death itself?” Dean brings to mind.

Suddenly, it clicks. Her eyes grow wide as she straightens herself, her eyes now locked on what’s in front of her. The Reynolds Park Lake comes into view, the last of the evening light reflecting on the surface. It seems peaceful and quiet at this hour, but it becomes very clear to her that these waters hold a dark secret. “The lake…” she huffs. “The park lake has a water purification system. It provides water to the town.” Dean follows her gaze. It only takes a second before the penny drops. “So that’s how she travels.”

It all makes sense now. Why Sam’s vision showed the sprinklers when he saw Taylor Dawlson get attacked. Why the faucets in Zoë’s hotel room opened right before she manifested. She’s not six feet in the ground, she’s six feet under water. “Little Laura took a swim,” Zoë realizes.

Stunned that they actually managed to crack the case, she glances aside at the green-eyed hunter, who shares a knowing look with her, a small smirk playing on his lips. They finally know what happened, before and after the girl’s death. All they have to do now is find the remains so they can put the spirit to rest, and who knows, maybe Zoë will make that deadline after all.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read chapter thirteen here

#Supernatural: the Sullivan Series #Supernatural OFC #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Sam Winchester fanfiction #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN #Supernatural #STSS #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Zoë Sullivan #1x02 In Bad Waters #Kate Huntington

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martellthemandalor · 4 years

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Assistance - Chapter 6

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader (No Y/N, reader is nicknamed)

Warnings: swearing, bombs/explosions, angst

Rating: 15

Word count: 5k+

Summary: Mando asks something he shouldn’t and things get explosive.

A/N: this chapter has taken me a while to write but i’m glad i took my time on it, its possibly one of my favourite chapters so far!! As always i love reading your comments and all reblogs help, so don’t be a stranger :))

Masterlist

You awoke to soft light streaming through the cracks in the ceiling, hazy beams of light criss-crossing above your head. The day ahead was going to be another long day of walking and one sided talking, so you were contented to take this moment of rest to watch the dust specks dance lazily in the rays of light. It was only dawn, but the temperature inside the barn had already risen considerably compared the cool temperament of last night.

You rolled onto your side and peered across at the sleeping Tin Can. He was laying stock still on his back, one hand draped across his stomach. The only indication that your companion was still alive was the visibly steady rise and fall of it. You dropped your head back onto the firm stems beneath your body, starting to regret choosing such uneven bedding. A nest seemed so cosy at the time but the uneven lumps of your stack were prominent, even under the thick blankets. You just knew that the minute you tried to get up your body would be stiff and unforgiving.

You lay there a few minutes more, slowly gearing up for the long day ahead. Sighing, you finally gathered the will to move, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and pushing yourself up and out. The second you straightened up you felt it, the tightness across yours muscles in your back and extending into your legs. Well isn’t this just perfect? You glanced at the sleeping pile of Beskar, thankfully his visor was fixed looking straight up.

You let out a quiet breath, thankful he was still asleep. While the flimsy fabric of your base clothes weren’t see through, you were still anxious to get your armour back on before he wakes up. At this rate however that wouldn’t happen unless you sorted out your damn back first.

Keeping an eye on your assistant you lay on your stomach, placed your hands under your shoulders and pushed up against the cold floor, raising just your upper body. Your hips dug uncomfortably into the solid and somewhat cracked surface beneath you, but the instant relief that spread from your spine as it arched back was worth it. Holding there you closed your eyes, letting your breathing shift to natural deep breaths.

Then you rocked backward, letting your legs fold underneath you, hands stretched in front of you. It was the final stretch you needed. You felt your body release all the tension from your back and legs in a long, blissful wave. You rested your forehead against the ground, letting the rough texture press against your soft skin.

There’s always something.

You’ve never been completely relaxed, there’s always been something standing in way. More often than not it was the adrenaline that surged through your veins when hunting, though admittedly you loved the feeling. Sometimes it’s the quiet anxiety that you are being followed or something more physical such as an uncomfortable bed. Even now as you settled completely into this position, the coarse texture beneath you was preventing true relaxation.

The soft clanging of metal against metal drew you out of your mind. You sat back onto your heels and before you even looked in his direction you could feel the usual weight of his stare.

It was different to you now though, the familiarity behind the pressure of it remained for sure but it was like something had…shifted. You felt even more vulnerable and exposed without your armour than usual and the urge to talk yourself out rose fast, falling back on your only working distraction.

“I should have followed your lead and chosen a bail, my kriffing pile left me stiff.” The words fell carefully from your mouth. A confident tone helping detract attention from the way your brows had pulled together and the extra tension in your limbs. You let your body go through the motions of replacing your armour, talking all the while. “Thank god this dirt ball of a planet has cool nights, I don’t know how I would survive if I had to sleep in the maker-forsaken heat of the day. Did you sleep well? I can’t imagine sleeping in that armour is exactly comfortable.”

You caught yourself there, replaying the events of last night. The images you were trying so hard to repress flew vividly across your mind. How close he was, how wordlessly he helped and how hesitant he was to touch you. How part of you wanted him to do it again. You cleared your throat, pushing the thoughts down. Say something.

“Thank you for last night, I’m sure my back would have been a lot worse if I’d slept with everything on.”

He didn’t stop observing you, not for a moment, just sat there motionless with his visor fixed on you. You managed to replace the last piece of your armour under his unwavering gaze, finally feeling yourself again.

“Your shoulder feeling better then?” He asked simply, helmet tilting somewhat. In all honesty you’d forgotten about the shoulder, it hadn’t hurt during your stretches, but as you probed at it now you could feel the dull pain of it under the plate of armour. You shrugged at him.

“I guess so. I can move it and lift shit apparently, it’s just when I touch it.”

“Don’t touch it then.”

“Ah yes thank you doctor,” You returned, rolling your eyes at him. At a glance you thought you caught his chest and shoulders shaking slightly for a moment. Did he just laugh? You try to meet his stare. The second your eyes met the dark glass of his visor however, his helmet swung away from you, his attention suddenly drawn to his rummaging through his bag. Great. Does he feel it to?

“Anyway, I think there’s only another day and a half’s journey before we reach the quarry, that’s if we keep up the pace of yesterday of course. I’m going to go and ask the owners if we can refill our water from their reserves and you will be taking one of them this time.” You began to pack up your things, folding away blankets and neatly placing your tool kit into your bag.

You talked the whole time, not really caring if he was listening. It was natural to you, speaking into the silence like this. It made things easier, a distraction from whatever menial task you were doing and it wasn’t long before you were packed and ready to leave.

“You ready then?” You asked the Mandalorian, although the answer was clear as Naboo waters. He stood silently stoic by the knotted wooden doors of the barn, pulse rifle and bag secure on his frame.

You had no idea how long he’d been waiting for you, he’d made no attempt to interrupt your chatter and hurry you along. It didn’t surprise you. In fact a part of you preferred it, silence doesn’t cause complications. A curt nod of his helmet offered his confirmation. “Okay, let’s get these pouches filled and we can get off.”

The family had been more than happy to let you fill the bladders. They even sent you off with fresh Gratham grain bread, which you thanked them for, along with the kind offer of the barn, with a charming and brightly-smiled façade.

You had waited until you were long out of view of the farm before you let the disarming upturn of your lips drop. Hunger was gnawing it your stomach, a steady and dull ache that only got worse once you remembered there was actual warm bread waiting beneath the wraps of fabric in your hand. Glancing across at the Mandalorian you could see him cradling his own small package, holding it with the same reverence as you in a gentle grip.

You swore you weren’t going to eat until he could. It just wouldn’t be right to make him watch again, but the reverence of that vow was waning. With every passing second you could feel the gentle heat seeping through the bandages and onto your fingertips, fuelling your hunger.

“I bet you’ve seen some weird planets during your hunts. I think the weirdest I’ve seen would have to be Felucia. It’s mostly made up of this awful humid jungle, but the colours of it are just exquisite. The organic life is 90% these various fungi plants, like nothing you’ve ever seen I guarantee,” You said. You were hoping that if you spoke enough it would be a sufficient distraction from the gentle ache in your belly.

“What I really like about it though is what lies deep in the remote areas of the planet. Scattered across the ground and hung from trees are battle remnants from the clone wars itself. Seriously, there were untouched chunks of armour and destroyed weapons everywhere. My quarry had hidden themselves inside the trunk of this big-“

“Why do you do that?” His rough voice suddenly asks, interrupting your spiel. You turned your head to him, only to find he wasn’t even looking at you. His visor was fixed dead ahead, leaving you to watch your own distorted reflection in the dull shine of the helmets beskar.

You clocked your drawn in brows, lips pressed together and wandered when your face had changed so dramatically. You were normally so guarded in your expressions, or so you thought. You needed to fix that. The wrong expression could easily get you killed in this job.

“Why do I do what?” You tilted your head at him slightly, eyes flicking between your reflection, bathed in residual red tones of the world around you, and the path ahead of you.

“You talk a lot, but you never say anything. It’s confusing.” He replied steadily. Still he didn’t look at you.

The Mandalorian was trying to figure you out. Reading people is essential for bounty hunting, know how a person thinks and it’s ten times easier to track them down, predict their next move. It’s also vital for knowing who to trust and who will betray him first chance they get, especially now that the guild are after him. You were perplexing to him, almost impossible to read. Usually someone who talks so much give away at least a little bit of who they are, you however disclose nothing. At all.

You looked away from him. Of course you knew what he meant.

Maker, how could he be so intense without even looking at you?

It was there again, that feeling, and right now it was pulling on something in you to tell him. Actually tell him. What was wrong with you? You hoped it was the steadily rising heat from the unobstructed sun that was making your palms damp and your thoughts swirl like this. Maybe you were getting solarstroke again?

You reached for your water and took a long swig.

You glanced over at him again. This time your eyes were met by the inky pool of his visor. The black of it looked almost soulless in this vicious sunlight, and it took that invisible pressure of his stare to remind you that he was still very much alive under there. Still with you.

Kriffing maker alive.

You sighed, running a hand down your face. Pressing your tongue into your cheek you took another look at the emotionless giant next to you, a breathy chuckle escaping your lips.

“Okay, you really want to know?” You ask, quirking a brow at him.

He nods, the tilt of his helmet catching a particularly bright ray that flashes painfully into your eyes. You squint and blink away the temporary soreness. You’d expected him to have looked away from you again, but as your eyes refocused you saw he still was fixated on your face.

“Talking gives me power, the more I talk the more I can command a room. Talking allows me to change a mind, to intimidate a bounty, to disguise myself from a target. Most simply though? It allows me to be seen,” You run your hand through your hair, beginning to regret opening your mouth this time.

“You can walk into a room, all silent and stoic and every eye will be on you. Everyone will know who you are and remember you by the time you leave,” You throw him a look. Not one of distain or anger, but jealousy. He would never have to work as hard as you for a good reputation, in the guild or anywhere else. “I have to talk my way into being remembered, into having a reputation. One that’s now been stripped off me of course.”

Your eyes drop to the floor and spot a sizeable rock laying a few steps ahead. The second you get close you boot it, watching as it bounced and rolled away from you. “Now as to why I don’t ‘say anything’? To be utterly honest for once, Mandalorian, it’s just easier. Not talking about me makes it easier. Just lying makes it all easier. I can be whoever, whenever. It keeps me safe too; you can’t be predictable when no one knows who you really are.”

A small noise escapes the vocoder of the man next to you. A scoff. The Mandalorian actually just scoffed at you. He’s not looking at you anymore, no, he’s looking straight ahead and shaking his head slightly.

“What?” You scoff back. Your brow quirked at him again, arms coming to cross along your chest.

“Has anything you told me been the truth?” He asked quietly. His hands were fisted at his side, swinging with slightly more vigour than before.

“Everything that just came out of my mouth just now was the truth,” You said carefully, taken more than a little aback at his accusatory tone. You could feel your own frustration starting to bubble in your chest.

“And? Anything before that? What about your name?” He was still quiet, his words were clipped and chosen with care.

Your eyes shot wide open, brows arched high as you blinked at him in disbelief. You slowly uncrossed your arms, hands clenched tight by your sides.

How dare he.

“And the Jawas call the Ewoks short! My name protects me, I chose it, it’s mine, does it really matter if it’s not the one I was given?” You hissed at him, teeth baring as frustration turned to simmering anger, the stifling heat of the planet doing nothing to quell the slow boil of your blood. “I don’t ask your name! I don’t ask to see under your helmet! So do not fucking think for one moment that it is remotely okay to ask the same of me.”

He didn’t say anything to that. The two of you reverted back to what would be tense silence, if it weren’t for your heart knocking against your ribs and the blood rushing in your ears. You were nearly breathless with anger, your throat scratching with each sharp intake of the dry air. You all but ripped your water pouch from its place on your belt and chugged a good few mouthfuls. You unceremoniously wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, harshly clipping the pouch back.

Breathe.

You brought a hand to your chest, trying to ground your highflying emotion as you took a long breath in. You were normally pretty good at keeping a lid on your feelings, but you’d always had particularly short fuse and it take much pressure to spark a spectacular explosion.

Beneath your chest plate your heartrate had slowed considerably, a few minutes of particularly deep breaths later and you were nearly calm again. Nearly. There was a small twinge of guilt eating at your gut that you’d exploded like that. It wasn’t like yours and Tin Can’s situations were really the same. That didn’t mean you were going to apologise though.

Your stomach was the one to break the quietude again, a low rumble emanating from your belly in a reminder that you were, in fact, still hungry. The packaged roll in your clenched fist drew your attention once more. It was still warm, the sun and the heat of your hand seeing to that, the mere sensation of the firm swaddling against your palm making you salivate.

“You should eat.” It was almost inaudible, but by no means unmistakably him. That rough and slightly modulated voice gently directed at you. You didn’t reply, merely gave him a look that roughly translated to a slightly aggressive ‘You need to eat to’. He dismissively waved his hand. “I’ve gone longer without it. I can wait until we settle again.”

That small pang of guilt grew a little as you unwrap the parcel. However, the sweet smell that escaped the binding of the fabric assaulted your nose, overriding any restraint you were going to show.

You pulled the blue tinted crust of the bread apart with your thumbs, exposing the cloud-like aqua insides. The first bite tasted of pure heaven, the fluffy dough melting across your taste buds as you ate. You groaned at the taste. It had been so long since you’d had fresh bread, let alone a homemade loaf.

You practically inhaled the roll, not stopping to take an actual breath as you ate. As you cleaned the crumbs off your fingers you glanced over at the armoured man next to you. He was seemingly unaffected, nothing betrayed if he was actually hungry, jealous or still angry. That was if he even was angry in the first place.

You turned your attention back your track, the blue line on your eyepiece still blinking steadily in front of your eye. Still no danger, thank the maker.

It was like you were numb to time. The Mandalorian and you just continuously trekked on along endless scarlet fields. Where you had initially noticed small differences between each expanse of grass, be it a different set of flora or discoloured bushes, it was now impossible for you to distinguish them. The only thing that really alerted you to the passage of time was the stark sun, crawling its way across the sky and steadily raising the temperature of the planet below.

You used the cloth left from your small breakfast to wipe away the sweat that was once again pooling uncomfortably at your brow. You couldn’t bear this anymore. How was it possibly even hotter than yesterday?

“Stop,” You command, freezing where you stood. It took the Mandalorian a couple of steps to register what you had said, but once it had gone in he turned on his heel to face you. He saw you tapping commands into your gauntlet, and then pressing a button on the side of your headset. You were looking around, but your eyes only flickered over where he stood, as if you couldn’t even see him. It made him want to speak, to move, anything to make your gaze linger a little longer.

You were trying to reroute the two of you, hopefully through a forest or a village, so you could get out of this murderous sun. You nearly cried when nothing picked up on your scan.

“What are you doing?” He asked, walking back up to you, his cape billowing behind him.

“I’m basically dying in this heat, so I’m trying to find some shade,” You said sharply, eyes staying on your gauntlet. You tap into the control panel on your arm, extending the search range in a vain attempt to find some structures. You turn your head to track the scan. As you slowly surveyed the land you all but gave up hope.

It was in the exact moment you did however, a small blip showed in the distance. The corners of your mouth turned up into a hopeful smile, eyes coming alive with a glint as you tapped at your gauntlet once more. The image on your eyepiece zoomed in and enhanced.

You almost wept with joy when it displayed a series of, from the looks of things, stone ruins. They would definitely have plenty of shade, and hopefully wouldn’t have any people to pester you either.

Locking in the new route you looked up at the Mandalorian, the second your eyes met the silver of his helmet your smile dropped from your face. The blue line in your eye jumped position and you wasted no time in striding in its new direction. You didn’t offer as much as a ‘come on’ in the direction of your assistant, just walked away. You knew he’d follow. And follow he did.

It took another three hours of walking, though it felt more like a full day of it, before you were met with the delicious sight of crumbling stonework. The place was definitely abandoned and had been for a long time, that much was obvious from the ribbons of grass that had fought its way through the cobbles beneath your feet. The path looked as if it had been slashed, open wounds of crimson tones where the growths of grass had forced the once sturdy slabs apart. The buildings weren’t much better, worn rocks of the walls now crumbling away and leaving gaping holes and vulnerabilities where once there had been safety.

You continued following the uneven path, the winding and disjointed stones beneath you drawing you further into the centre of chaos. Looking around you deduced this must have been a village at some point. The clusters of smaller, somewhat sturdier to judging by their better state, buildings must have been houses and the bigger ruins had to have been some form of communal spaces.

You could almost feel the life this place once had, the people moving around and talking, baskets of gratham stems and other goods in hand, trading for clothes and tools, maybe the occasional game for the little ones. It was so familiar and yet, so distant.

The way the walls of the bigger buildings had caved in had left arching tendrils of dusty stone, beckoning arms that begged you to walk towards them, to peer into the depths of the rooms they guarded. While your interest was piqued with finding what lay within the wayward walls, you were more fascinated with discovering what lay at the centre of the village. So much so that you hadn’t even noticed that the Mandalorian wasn’t following you anymore.

He’d been close by your side since you entered the village. That was until a small yellow frog almost jumped under his boot. He froze, initially it was from not wanting to crush the little thing, but that quickly melted into missing the kid. The guilt that had faded from your earlier argument surged to the front of his mind with renewed vigour, fresh with worry that he’d felt when left the child alone with a stranger. Sure she looked kind and the place had been busy with other children for the kid to play with, he’d also payed out a handsome fee to her for the trouble.

All that however didn’t stop the nagging feeling that someone was going to find him. The last time he’d left them alone Calican had got to them and- maker alive- they nearly got taken from him. And so down the spiral he fell, with the Mandalorian slowly following the darting yellow jumper, stalking it the way the kid would be if they were there.

You could see the village core, a sizeable round plaza, with paths stretching off at five regular points. You’d abandoned caution when you had entered the stoned space, the shadows of the ruins providing much needed relief that caused you to drop your guard.

Rookie kriffing mistake.

You should have seen it. You should have noticed the way these slabs were sitting just a little above the ground, the fact that they were paler than the rest, or just the fact that the circle of stones seemed perfectly preserved. No growths, no wear and no tracks.

One foot crossed the threshold, and your whole body tensed as you felt the stone sink slowly into the dirt. Kriff. The familiar rhythmic beeping of alert overrode your senses, blinking red lights scattered your eyepiece as you looked down.

Your reaction was instant, every nerve you have firing as adrenaline spiked through your veins. You snapped around. No time wasted as you took off from the plaza. Feet pounding against the mottled path, each push giving you more and more momentum. You tried desperately to keep your breathing steady as your heart hammered in your chest. You could hear the ground breaking up behind you. Great cracking and thundering crashes as rock collided with rock. The sound snapped you out of your laser focus to one gut wrenching realisation. He wasn’t with you.

You forced yourself not to stop, not to yell out just yet. Just keep sprinting. Your eyes darted as your legs carried you at speed, head snapping from side to side as you peered into wrecked buildings and alleyways. Tears were beginning to prick at your eyes from the effort of keeping them open in the dry heat, blurring your invaluable vision. Sweat dripped down your face. A sheen of it forming over your body from exertion. Your lungs were screaming at you, begging for respite. The pain of it was almost enough to make you give in.

“SHIRYN?”

His voice carried through the ruins to greet your straining ears. The mere sound sharpened your senses, head jerking in the direction of the sound. You were vaguely aware of a new sound too. Thrusters, very small but undoubtedly powerful thrusters. The realisation of what was about to happen hit you as your caped assistant ran into view. He was right there. Just a few more paces in front of you. The new serpentile hissing at your back spurred you towards the Mandalorian’s shine, his helmet tilted towards the expanse above your head.

“MANDO!” You screamed at him.

Time seemed to slow around you, your goal making everything else fade away. You felt the shocks of the first impact rippling beneath your feet, it didn’t matter though because he was within your grasp, just one step away. Your arms reached out to him.

You nearly collided with him. Hands grasping at his pauldrons and pulling him with you. You hauled him, with all your strength, into the house on your left, throwing him to the ground once you were through the threshold. You fell on top of him, curling your body instinctively around his, legs tight around his hips, arms either side of his head, your own head cradled in the space between his shoulder and helmet, pinning his body beneath yours.

The explosions started milliseconds after you hit the ground. The sheer volume of each impact made your ears feel like they were about to bleed and the floor beneath you shook violently. Heat from the each detonation licked through door and fanned out across your clothes, making you sweat even heavier under the already sticky fabric.

Your eyes were screwed tight shut. Every muscle in your body constricted tighter with each wash of heat, your pulse thrumming in your ear. Any hope of controlling your breathing was abandoned as you shakily panted. Inhaling the thick smoky air in a vain attempt to draw in sweet, sweet oxygen. You tried to draw yourself away from destruction that was happening right outside the stone walls, to let yourself drown in the sound of your own heartbeat, of the feeling of Mando’s cold beskar pressed against the side of your face. You were so wrapped in distracting yourself you didn’t notice the firm grip of his arms circling your waist. Anchoring you to him.

Rocks were beginning to fall around you, the once sturdy structure beginning to fail its purpose. Your grip on the Mandalorian beneath you tightened as stones fractured across the floor, each collision making you flinch slightly. You were bracing for an inevitable impact when you felt your whole world shift dramatically, your body being rolled beneath a substantial weight. You expected to hit the ground hard, but your impact was softened by a pair of arms, one secured under your back and the other cradling the back of your head. Holding you to him.

Your hands grasped at him blindly until you found purchase on his arms, fingers digging into the rough fabric of his sleeves. Tentatively, you opened your eyes. You had expected to see the slowly collapsing ceiling, but your view was thankfully obstructed by Mando’s chest plate. Right as the two of you settled into this new position, a hefty chunk of stone hit the ground where you had been mere moments before.

It felt like an age before the sounds of chaos outside the safety of the building began to fade, the time between explosions lengthening exponentially. Even the house you’d dove into seemed to be stabilising, the rock-fall slowing as the tremors of the floor began to cease. You found yourself calming down, your body relaxing a little as you managed to take regular strong breaths, or as much as you could do at least in the unrelenting hold of Mando.

A few more drawn out minutes passed before the attack seemed to cease completely. Still though, you stayed encased in each other’s grip, anxiously listening for any stray detonations. You both seemed to come to the conclusion that it was over at the same time, your grip on his arms loosening as he released your head, lowering it gently to the now rubble filled floor.

Using his free arm he pushed up from you, but made no effort to retract his other arm or roll off you. Instead, he looked down at you, your skin glistening with sweat and hair wild beneath him. He watched your eyes with intent, curious as they darted around the room before settling back on his visor. You’d called him Mando. He was replaying that fleeting moment over and over as he looked at you, praying to the maker that you wouldn’t go back to referring to him as Mandalorian. His heart kicked up a notch when you cocked your brow at him, the miniscule change in your expression dragging him from his thoughts to the realisation that he was still pressed close against you. The last time he had felt anything like this was back on Sorgan, but here… kriffing hell he wished he knew what you were thinking right now.

Your eyes flitted between where you thought his own lay behind the visor, though you weren’t exactly sure what you were looking for. Being this close to him you could hear his breathing through his vocoder, hell you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your own. Part of you was yelling to get away, scramble from the precipice you just knew you were teetering on, and do not fall in. Yet a different part wanted to stay, to lean in and press your forehead against his the smooth surface of his helmet.

You swallowed. Hands releasing his biceps, you trailed your fingertips with a feather light touch across his shoulders to land on his chest plate.

Then you turned your head away from him, choosing to look at a crumbling wall instead of his visor as you lightly pushed him away.

Mando took the hint. He carefully extracted his arm from under you and rolled off, landing with a solid thud to the side of you. You wasted no time in sitting up and beginning to search yourself for injuries, sighing in relief when you found none.

He hadn’t been so lucky. It didn’t even register with him that he had been wounded, not until pain spiked up his leg at his attempt to sit up. The soft grunt that escaped him alerted you almost instantly.

“Mando, what’s wrong?” You asked sternly. Turning to face him you scanned over his figure, seizing up when you saw the tell-tale scarlet stain slowly darkening at his inner thigh, just above his knee. Shit. You shot to his side, hands working on removing his cuisse.

“Shiryn, it’s noth-“

“I get to decide when it’s nothing,” You snapped. Your tone probably came off sharp and abrasive, but you didn’t care. There was only one thought running circles round your mind right now. That this? This was entirely your fault.

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samsexualdeancurious · 3 years

Text

His Own Hands | Chapter Two

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Words: 1,914

Summary: Bucky is settling in well with the Avengers but he keeps having nightmares - flashes of repressed memories of a girl being tortured by his hands and then vanishing into a swirling black portal. He's not sure who she is until Fury introduces them to their newest potential team member, a girl Bucky recognizes on sight and Fury calls "Portal".

Warnings: Hurt!Reader, Lack of Communication, torture, trauma, PTSD

Written for Nanowrimo 2020

Betaed by Saxxxology and Amory

Cover art edited by me

---

2017

She’s small under his hands, skin bruised from repeated beatings and eyes glazed over with whatever cocktail of drugs the scientists have given her this time. She still cries out, though, when the Asset’s metal hand curls around a fistful of matted hair and drags her to the table in the center of the cell. Slender fingers claw uselessly at his wrist, nails catching on the edges of the metal plates.

The Asset growls as he throws her up onto the table, his other hand coming around to pin her down by her throat. She stares up at him with wide, frightened eyes despite the drugs.

“Lay still,” he orders but she doesn’t. Her legs kick out, a valiant effort to hit something that will hurt him. Valiant but useless.

“She’s feisty today,” the overseeing Hydra officer comments. The Asset doesn’t remember his name.

“Not for long,” is the Asset’s reply as he tightens his hold on her throat. Her mouth is wide in a desperate attempt for air and the Asset watches her eyes begin to roll back, waiting for that moment just before she loses consciousness completely.

Before that happens, though, a low humming noise fills the room. The Asset frowns, glancing around to see the officer looking equally confused. He looks back to the girl just in time to see her eyes open wide, focused on him. For a moment, she doesn’t look drugged at all.

Bucky wakes with a start, metal arm swinging at whoever is standing over him only to be blocked by strong hands.

“Bucky,” Steve says, leaning over him. “Buck. It’s just me.”

“Steve,” he gasps, sagging on the bed. All he can see of his best friend is the silhouette of his broad shoulders and rumpled hair.

“Bad dream?” Steve sits on the edge of the bed and comes into the square of light falling through the open curtains. His expression is gentle, concerned.

Bucky sits up, shifting to lean against the headboard, and nods.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Her, his mind unhelpfully corrects. Portal.

He shakes his head.

Steve frowns but doesn’t push. “You gonna be able to sleep again?”

Bucky shrugs.

“Try for me?”

“Yes, mother.” Bucky gives Steve a light shove.

Steve rolls his eyes but stands. “You know where to find me.”

Bucky nods, tugging his blankets up to his chest and waving Steve away. “Go back to bed.”

Steve hesitates a moment before he goes, the door clicking shut softly behind him. Once he’s heard Steve’s footsteps retreat back down the hallway, Bucky leans his head back against the wall with a sigh.

It’s been almost a month since he was acquitted of any crimes he committed while under Hydra’s control and the nightmares that had been going away have returned full force. He’s had one almost every night this week alone. His therapist, a Dr. Isabella Lowry found and cleared by both Fury and Stark, hasn’t been much help beyond suggesting the nightmares are formerly repressed memories slipping through the cracks. Bucky had just nodded along because of course they’re memories. All of his nightmares are.

Nothing scares him nearly as much as the things his own hands have done.

He doesn’t end up falling asleep again. Instead, he sits in bed until a semi-reasonable hour before throwing on some workout clothes, pulling his hair back into a loose bun, grabbing his duffel from his closet, and heading down to the gym.

While Steve likes to take out his feelings with his fists, Bucky prefers to run. He could go run outside but it’s cold, the New York fall taking its toll on the temperatures, so he settles for the indoor track that runs along the walls of the large oval room. He’s still a little off-balance without his arm but he gets his rhythm after about one lap and soon loses himself in the beat of his feet hitting the ground, the rush of air in and out of his lungs.

When Bucky finally begins his cool down, head clearer than it was when he first came down, he finds he’s no longer alone in the gym. Natasha, dressed in a sports bra and leggings, is making good use of one of the punching bags. Bucky finishes up his run and, after a stop at his bag for a swig from his water bottle, he crosses the room to join Natasha.

“Morning,” he says, holding the bag still for her with his shoulder braced against it and his arm keeping things steady.

“You got up early,” she replies without breaking her rhythm.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmare?”

“You’ve been talking to Steve.”

“He’s worried about you.” She glances over at him, her green eyes meeting his blue ones. “We all are.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky insists.

Nat actually stops punching, bouncing on her toes and swinging her arms to stay warm. “Don’t you lie to me, Bucky Barnes.”

“I’m not!”

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes and moving in to continue beating up the punching bag. “You and Steve, I swear. You’re the most stubborn men I’ve ever met.”

Bucky totally isn’t pouting. “Steve’s worse than me.”

Nat just snorts, stepping back from the bag. “Help me stretch. Then we can go shower before Fury gets here.”

“Sure.” Bucky follows her to a nearby mat. “Why’s Fury coming?”

“Seriously? We talked about this a week ago.” Nat begins doing some stretches while Bucky helps push her a little further when she indicates for him to. “He’s bringing a potential new team member. She’s been working with Coulson and other teams for a while, and he thinks she’s ready for us.”

“You know her?”

Nat nods, ponytail flipped funny with her body bent the way it is. “Yeah, I’ve worked with her. She’s awesome. I think you’ll like her.” She straightens out, shooting Bucky a wink.

He flushes and shoves her shoulder lightly. “Why do you say that?”

She shrugs, accepting the hand he offers to help her up. “Just a hunch.”

Bucky glares at her retreating form before shaking his head and heading up to his room to shower. He takes a little longer than usual, savoring the compound’s incredible water pressure. While there are many things he misses from the past - mostly people - the plumbing is not on that list.

He throws on a comfy red t-shirt and jeans before slipping on some socks and padding down the hall to the common area. Wanda and Vision are already in the kitchen, him watching her intently as she makes scrambled eggs. Steve is at the table nursing a steaming mug of coffee.

“Morning, Buck,” he says. “Sleep okay?”

Bucky shrugs, getting his own mug from the cupboard and preparing coffee for himself before joining Steve at the table.

Steve is frowning but he doesn’t comment.

“More nightmares?” Wanda asks with a sympathetic expression.

Bucky groans. “Does everyone know?”

“No,” Steve assures him. “I just ran into Vision on my way out of your room last night.”

“I was doing my nightly rounds,” Vision explains. “I heard you and came to investigate.”

Bucky scrubs a hand over this face. “Thanks, Vis. I’m fine, though. Just… Hydra stuff.”

Vision nods solemnly. “I understand. Is it safe to say you do not wish to speak of the ‘Hydra stuff’ at this moment in time?”

Bucky can’t help a fond smile at that. Vision might still be learning but he’s a good guy - computer? “Yeah.”

“Then I shall endeavor to steer the conversation elsewhere. Would you like some breakfast?”

“I made enough for everyone,” Wanda adds with a gentle smile. “Just eggs and bacon but…”

“Eggs and bacon sound amazing,” Bucky assures her. “I would love some.” He glances over at Steve to find his friend watching him intently. “What?”

“Nothing,” Steve replies, sipping his coffee. “Just thinking.”

They lapse into silence for a moment before Vision speaks up once more. “I do believe Fury has reached the front gate.”

Sure enough, Clint comes in moments later to announce “Fury’s here” before snagging a slice of bacon and disappearing back down the hall to the more business side of the compound.”

“These are done. I’ll put them in the microwave to stay warm,” Wanda says, already scooping the eggs into a bowl and covering it with a towel. “Bacon to go?”

Bucky happily grabs a few pieces from the plate Wanda holds out as he passes, shooting her a smile and a “thanks”. Armed with bacon and his still-mostly-full mug, he heads off down the hall

The team all convene in the conference room. Bucky crunches on his bacon, settling into the chair between Steve and Nat just as Fury enters the room. Following close behind him is a woman - a woman Bucky knows but can’t place.

She’s gorgeous, that much he knows right away. Intelligent eyes flit over the room, taking them all in as she nervously nibbles her lower lip. She’s dressed comfortably in jeans and an oversized flannel shirt that Bucky’s pretty sure came from the men’s section, with minimal makeup and hair pulled back. Despite her casual look, Bucky thinks she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

Fury looks them over with a stern eye. “I would like you to meet a new potential team member. This is Y/N. She’s been working with SHEILD for a little over a decade in a variety of roles, most recently with Coulson’s team. Her powers are probably the most similar to Dr. Strange and I want you to spend a few weeks training together and getting to know each other before she joins you on missions. How does that sound?”

The team exchange glances and Bucky notes once again how everyone seems to defer to Steve and Tony - and Thor, if he were here, but he comes and goes depending on Asgard’s needs.

Once he’s gotten an affirmative from everyone present, Fury turns to Y/N. “Would you like to give a small demonstration of what you can do?”

Y/N perks up a little at that, relaxing at the prospect of doing something she knows while the team watches, eager to see what this new person can do. Bucky finds himself sitting forward in his seat, coffee forgotten on the table.

Y/N unbuttons and rolls up her sleeves - more of a push than a roll, really. She closes her eyes a second and when she opens them again, Tony gasps and Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat.

Her eyes, whites and all, have turned a deep purple color. She flicks her fingers in a circular motion similar to the movement Bucky’s seen Dr. Strange make, and he watches in horrified fascination as familiar purple sparks fly from her fingertips. They find a point midair where they explode outward to form a circle reminiscent of the orange ones Dr. Strange makes, except this one is lined with purple and the world Bucky can see beyond is not one he’s familiar with.

Y/N steps through the portal - there’s really no other word for it - and Tony startles with a curse. Everyone swivels around to see a second portal burst open and a grinning Y/N emerging as the first portal closes in a shower of purple sparks.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she says quietly, ducking her head as the purple-edged circle collapses behind her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fury says, maybe a little more dramatic than is necessary. “Meet Portal.”

---

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—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @imsuperawkward @emoryhemsworth @manawhaat

#his own hands #bucky x reader #my writing

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randomnoteforfuturereference · 4 years

Text

The Quarry

This piece is actually part of a larger fic I did a while ago (fic on AO3 is called Quarried Depths, which @kleeklutch helped with during the beta process), but I thought it capable of standing alone as a one-shot. It takes place between “2.3 Meet the Frogs” and “2.4 Hazeapalooza”, when Nursey and Dex... didn’t have the best relationship; this piece specifically takes place right after that scene where Nursey spilled the cereal and milk on Dex (and in this case, on Dex’s laptop as well). It also explores a bit of how Dex looks up to Ransom.

Warning: There’s a first-person depiction of an anxiety attack, as well as unintentional self-harm via scratching.

Anyways, hope y'all enjoy.

--- --- ---

“There are eight d-men on this team,” I breathe through clenched teeth. “Eight. Coaches could have paired me with any of them. Instead, I have to. Put. Up. With. You.” I punctuate the last few words by prodding a trembling finger into his chest.

I don’t give a damn if Nurse gets the message or not, but a distant tendril of satisfaction blossoms within me when he flinches back. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that something crumples behind those dollar-green eyes of his.

Not bothering to wait for a further response, I turn back and continue on my way.

Nurse doesn’t bother following.

I don’t go back to my dorm. In all honesty, I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to be somewhere without people. Without judgement.

As my feet carry me on my way, the haze of rage begins to ebb and the thrumming gradually quiets. With that ebbing, my brain plays catch up and clarity is restored. With that clarity, two things hit me.

The first is the fact that I had wandered out of campus and into Samwell Park. Not only that, but judging by my vantage point and surroundings, I went past the dam and past any defined trail. I really am in a spot where I won’t be bothered, even with the university visible across the Pond’s surface.

The second thing that hits me is the full weight of what just happened. The possibility that my computer will not survive this. The fact that this fight between me and Nurse was probably the worst that has happened between us. The fact that this blow-up happened in front of the team and much of the school.

That weight settles into my stomach and pulls my insides down with it.

Did you really think you’d make it? He’s right. You don’t fit here. You don’t fit with them.

Did you see their faces? They hate you. And why shouldn’t they? You never say the right thing. They were just being nice before. They were being generous. And now you’ve really blown it.

My skin pulls taut and, as it tightens, it constricts my chest and sends a familiar damn itch all over. Shedding my backpack does nothing to ease that.

Now they are going to tell Hall and Murray. Now the coaches are going to kick you out. Then where are you going to be? Where’s your scholarship going to be? Gone. All that investment. All his investment for you. It’s all going to be gone. You’re going to lose a scholarship and a laptop. All within one semester.

Just because you have to be Billy the Blunder.

Gasping for air and clawing at my arms, I finally collapse and curl in on myself to weather the storm.

Because that’s what you’re good at. Weathering.

It’s all you’re good at.

I don’t know how long I lay where I fall. Could be seconds. Could be minutes. Could be hours.

Whatever the case, the storm finally ebbs, and as my breaths slow and even out, I unfurl and lift myself off the forest floor.

All things considered, it was probably one of my worst attacks. I don’t even have to look at my stinging arms to know that I’m going to have to keep my sleeves down for the next few days or so. Easier will be not showing my hands so that nobody can see the little bloody crescents gouged into them.

Just to be sure, I sit on a rock that juts out over the water and go through some of the breathing exercises taught to me. It doesn’t banish completely the tight feeling in my chest, but little by little it loosens things up.

As things loosen up, I take stock of the setting: The clear sunny day with just the a slightest cool breeze. The extreme clarity of the water suggesting that turnover hasn’t happened yet despite the time of the year. The shore terminating in a rocky drop-off with no bottom beyond.

It dimly occurs to me that this spot most likely was a quarry once.

Feeling back in control and getting a good gauge on my surroundings, I get an idea.

I place my laptop in a shaded location where I can see it, strip down to my underwear, use my clothes to make a nest around the computer, inhale a deep breath, and take a leaping dive off the rock.

The briskness of the water is like a sledgehammer to my lungs. It’s a familiar pressure, however, and not unwelcome. As my momentum slows, I release just enough air to allow for a steady descent. The cloud of shimmering bubbles clears to reveal a sight before me. Shafts of dappled light from the noonday sun dance around the pale surroundings and occasionally illuminate the blurry forms of various fish gliding and hovering around in the distance. Unlike the majority of the Pond, which is shallow enough to walk through for a hundred feet without the water reaching your neck, here I’m rendered tiny by the cliff-like wall plunging down to indiscernible depths.

If anything, and despite the very real danger it can pose, the incomprehensible nature of the environment that dwarfs me is a source of comfort. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t spurn. It doesn’t give a flying fuck where I come from and who I am. It just is and offers a familiar presence that supports and embraces even as the mild protests of my lungs signal for me to kick back up to the surface. That embrace relaxes me in full, and the breath I take upon breaking the surface reinvigorates my body.

I should do this more often.

As I swim around the surface, the sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs breaks me out of that state of calm, and it gives me cause to press close to the edge and reach for a small rock. That is, until the crunching is accompanied by the grumbling of a familiar voice and the flash of a white cap.

“Over here.” I punctuate my call by lobbing the rock into a leaf pile in front of me and pushing off the rocky wall so that I can be seen.

Ransom jumps straight up and lets off a high-pitched yelp — city folk… — before he whips around, does a double-take, and finally focuses on me. After taking a few steadying breaths, he gingerly picks his way towards the edge of the rocky bank. I doubt those loafers, which probably cost as much as everything I had on half-an-hour ago, are made for going through anything rougher than cobblestones. “You’re fucking hard to find, you know that right?”

“Wasn’t planning on being found,” I counter. “How’d you get this far?”

“Left breakfast early, and I saw you stomping southbound along the Pond. Wasn’t too hard to follow your trail — if I had to ask some random witnesses that you passed — until the damn path withered away to nothing after I crossed the bridge by the waterfall,” he grumbles while looking around. “This really is the fucking Forbidden Forest.”

I can see how he may have that impression. The vegetation here’s likely secondary growth, but considering how well-established it is in general and how thick the trees are, it’s really old secondary growth. Perhaps old enough to be non-virgin primary growth. Don’t know the age of Samwell Pond, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s at least a century old. The quarry itself was probably abandoned long before it and the surrounding land was flooded when the dam was built.

“Anyways, took me a while, fuck you very much, but here you are.” He looks me up and down with raised eyebrows. “Didn’t expect this.”

I’m just glad that he didn’t find me while I was having the attack. Still, I scowl back. “What’s so strange? Students play in the Pond all the time, and last I checked the park has a ‘swim at your own risk’ rule.” Then I realize that the water’s clarity means that he can easily see my briefs as I keep afloat. “Also what I have on has nothing on the stuff, or lack thereof, idiots have worn around town.”

Ransom mulls that over and shrugs with a chuckle in acknowledgement. “I’m more meaning that it’s the middle of fall.”

“It’s a nice day.” Possibly the last nice day in a while if the forecast’s correct. “Isn’t Toronto supposed to be around the same temperature?”

He snorts. “You picture me going out for a Halloween plunge in Lake Ontario?”

To my own surprise, I bark out a small laugh. “Guess not.”

Satisfied with my swim, I climb out, shake myself off, and hop back onto the sun-warmed rock to lie down to bask and dry off. I don’t miss that Ransom’s staring at my arms and hands, which I keep balled up. While he thankfully doesn’t say anything specific, he still asks, “Are you going to be alright?”

I give a shrug of my own. “I’ve had worse.” Guess it’s already time to face the music. “So when do I need to clear out my locker?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Dex,” Ransom huffs while kicking his shoes off, plopping down on the ground next to my rock so that we’re eye level, and swinging his feet over the edge. “So you two got in a little tiff. Okay, a major tiff. Still, you should have seen some of the tirades Jack meted out. Especially at Bitty. They got pretty epic.” For good measure, he pops those last few syllables and kicks at the water to send it upwards into a sparkling arc.

“Sure, but I bet they weren’t regular. Let’s face it: there’s no way Nurse and I get along, the other D-men are already paired up, and the team clearly likes him more. Hell, I know I’m good on the ice, but I’m certainly not spectacular like you or Holster. So if I were in charge and had to trim things down, I’d bin me first.”

Ransom widens his eyes at my admission, and even I’m a bit surprised how easy it is to say that.

Maybe I really don’t belong here.

“Fuck,” Ransom breathes as he squints at me, “you’re serious aren’t you.”

I just shrug at that. “Don’t want pity, if that’s what you think.” I really don’t. I wouldn’t mind if people here actually managed to see things from my perspective, but there’s no point in being broken up about them not understanding.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to be a doormat if shit’s thrown my way.

Minutes of silence pass between us. Silence that Ransom breaks first: “Two weeks.”

“What?”

“Give your partnership with Nursey two more weeks.” He holds up his fingers for emphasis. “If you both truly think this pairing is a disaster, then I’ll talk to Jack and the coaches to see if we can work something out.”

That’s more than cutting it close if they think something can be worked out before the season really starts getting into the swing of it. I squint up at him. “You really think two weeks will make a difference?”

Ransom shrugs. “It might. Better chance than if we don’t try anything. And seriously…”

“Yeah?”

“You two fit together better than you think.” Ransom doesn’t acknowledge my scoffing but instead holds his hand out. “So do we have a deal?”

“That assumes he wants to stay partners with me.” The image of Nurse flinching back from me plays on repeat, and for some reason my stomach clenches at it.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Like it will do any convincing. Whatever, it’s two more weeks. “Don’t get your hopes up,” I mutter as I shake the offered hand.

Deal settled, the two of us continue staring out at the Pond and university itself in silence once more.

And once more, Ransom disrupts it.

“Dex?”

To my surprise, Ransom’s voice now sounds stilted and hesitant. When I look at him, his face is a neutral mask except for a clear twitching tension within his jaw. Considering the air of confidence he always shows in his casual banter and poise, the unease that he’s radiating makes me sit up and turn towards him. “Yeah? What’s the matter?”

“What did you mean when you told Nursey that he’s ‘given everything’?”

That’s what he’s so conflicted over? “What do you think I meant? Just because Nurse has been swaddled in luxury doesn’t give him the right to lord it over me.” As I’m talking, it dawns on me why Ransom was so apprehensive. “Wait, I don’t have a problem about you and the rest of the team being rich. I don’t have a problem with him being rich. If I hated rich people, I wouldn’t—”

Ransom holds his hand up to stop my rambling. It doesn’t escape my attention the massive exhale that he releases. “It’s okay. It’s o—“ The words die as his brows pinch together. “Wait, no, it’s not okay.”

The backtrack puts me at a loss. “What are you talking about?”

Ransom stares at me, opening and closing his mouth as if he’s ready to say something but holding back. Ultimately he shakes his head and looks away. “Nope. Nah. Not doing this.”

What. “What?”

“Even if I didn’t have a meeting later in the afternoon, I’m not putting myself through this. At least not right now.” I try to ask him to clarify, but he just continues: “Go to the library. Talk to someone willing to discuss with you. Except for Shitty; he’s smart and a great guy with great intentions, but…”

“No fucking kidding…” Nurse is obnoxious enough, but I don’t know what I’d do if Knight was a D-man I had to be paired with. I've been civil and deferential all this time, but I’m not going to go out of my way to be chummy with that lefty-than-thou blowhard.

Ransom must have heard my muttered statement, as he lets off another sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “See, it’s shit like that why the team… nevermind.” He shakes his head. “Look, all I’ll say is that Nursey probably didn’t think you were yelling at him for being rich, and remembering some of the stuff he talked about may help you figure out what I mean. Also there’s a term that I recently learned that might be useful to you: ‘Intent versus Impact’. If you think you got it figured out and want to make sure, then we can talk.”

“But you’re barely giving me anything to figure out!” It’s fucking ridiculous. Why should Nurse get any sympathy from me if I don’t even know what supposedly bothers him?

My protests are answered with a snort. “Like you’ve been forthcoming about yourself.”

Ransom’s disdainful scoff feels like a slap in the face, and I can’t help but reel back a bit.

He must notice my reaction, as his voice softens. “I don’t want you to think I’m unwilling to talk if there’s anything you need help with. But William?” Both the use of my first name and the plea in his voice makes me look up at him. Really look at him to see lines of worry etched into his face. “We’re a team. I’m not saying that you should bare your soul. But we can’t have your back if you shut us out.”

A stiff breeze makes me pull my knees up to my chest.

I don’t need anyone to have my back. I’ve already said what I’ve needed to say. No reason for anyone to go out of their way for me. I did alright before, and I’ll do alright now.

Still, I humor Ransom: “I’ll take that into consideration.”

His raised eyebrow makes it obvious that he doesn’t believe me, and he looks ready to call me out on it. Ultimately he just shakes his head before glancing at my clothing nest. “Anyways, I was just coming to check to see if your computer’s alright.”

At least that’s something straightforward I can talk about. “I need to wait for it to dry first. Then I’ll check if there are any issues.”

“Well, I hope there aren’t any…” That air of pensive awkward settles over him again.

This time, I huff, “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Ransom allows for another minute or so before speaking: “You can’t afford a replacement, can you.”

Is he just figuring that out? “Well technically, I have enough money to buy one…” Really don’t want to elaborate beyond that.

I don’t have to. Ransom wide-eyed stare and the sharp exhale tells me that he's read between the lines. I’m still baffled that he didn’t know, but I’m also beyond thankful that he’s not showering me with platitudes or falling over himself with guilt.

“If it’s truly busted, I’ll see if I can rally the guys to help you replace it.”

“I don’t need your charity,” I growl. I’m completely sincere when I say that I don’t mind that my teammates are rich. But like hell I’m going to let them pay their way into my good graces or buy themselves a pat on the back because they are oh-so-generous. And like hell I’ll let Nurse buy himself out of the mess he made.

Ransom sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Then don’t think of it like that. Think of it as a team expense to make sure that things run smoothly. After all, the last thing we need is for the loss of your computer to put your academics at risk, which would put your athletics at risk, which would disrupt team dynamics,” he notes while ticking off each stage of the scenario with his fingers and waving them in my face. “So it’s not just about you.”

Well, when he puts it like that, the last thing I need is to be a burden on the team. And if they— fuck dammit, he’s good.

I take a deep breath. “If, and only if, anything needs to be replaced, it will probably just need to be a part and not a full replacement.” Not to mention that I would need to figure out how to repay them.

Hopefully it won’t come to that. It better not come to that.

For once, Ransom is satisfied with my response and relaxes fully to pipe, “Sure thing! Just let us know.”

“Also… do you think you can refrain from mentioning this spot? I’m not saying to keep it top secret, and I know it’s public land anyways.” Hell, for all I know, people come here all the time, and I just caught a lucky break today. “But it’s nice to have a quiet place, just in case.” Not to mention that the last thing I want is for this patch of forest and pond to become sullied by a kegster crowd.

For one reason or another, understanding dawns behind Ransom’s eyes even though he keeps his tone light. “I don’t think you have to worry about crowds of people here.” He scowls at the surrounding vegetation with suspicion. “But how about this: I’ll keep it on the lowdown if you help guide me back to civilization. Deal?”

“You do know that I practically came here by accident, right?”

He shrugs. “Even if you did, I trust you to find a way out. Faster than me for sure.”

I blink. I mean, I’m not exactly surprised at the assertion that’d I would be better at navigating a forest than most of my teammates. Haven’t made it secret that I hunt, after all. But that one trusts me to lead him out catches me off guard.

Once I get my bearings straight, I murmur, “Deal.”

Ransom flashes one of his trademark smiles and holds his fist out, and his smile widens when I bump it.

He has a really nice smile.

#William Poindexter #Derek Nurse #Justin Oluransi #Omgcp #omgcheckplease

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ao3bronte · 5 years

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Unseen Scars by @ao3bronte Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

This is my fourth prompt for @badthingshappenbingo ! Please reblog and enjoy!

Cradling Someone in Their Arms (4/8)

She’s slinking around the Agreste’s industrial kitchen, her blood still pounding far too loudly in her ears for her to even attempt an air of covertness. Thankfully, the staff has long vacated this part of the mansion and Ladybug doesn’t hesitate to fling open the fridge and snatch a container of bouillon de poulet from the top shelf as well as a slice of camembert cheese wrapped in cling film from the lower drawers. Clutching both items to her chest, she manoeuvres back through the maze of reception rooms and foyers before making her way back upstairs, slinking into Adrien’s room as easily as she escaped.

Releasing a sigh of relief once the door is firmly closed behind her, Ladybug pries the plastic lid from the broth and sets it in the microwave sitting atop his minifridge, setting the timer for two minutes before fetching a bottle of water. She twists off the top and strides carefully back towards the bed, eyeing the familiar little ball of black and green suspiciously. Plagg had buried himself in the haphazard splay of Adrien’s hair while she was away, tucked up just behind his cheek and ear. Taking a wary breath, she unwraps the cheese and sets it on the bedside table, watching as the little kwami responds.

“Oooooh…”

Plagg’s nostrils begin to twitch and Ladybug watches the little slits of his eyes widen, following the unpleasantly strong scent of the cheese. He floats sluggishly towards the table and collapses on top of the crumpled cling film, burrowing his face and teeth into the creamy slice.

The microwave beeps and Ladybug turns back around, still keeping an eye on the lethargic kwami behind her. He had demanded cheese and soup almost immediately, leaving no room for explanation or negotiation. Then he’d given her directions to the kitchen, promised he would explain once he had eaten, and promptly fell back asleep.

Breathing out, she plucks a plastic spoon from the ceramic mug sitting on top of the microwave and returns once again to Adrien’s bedside, carefully setting the hot broth down on the mattress platform, “Are you his—”

“Kwami? Yes.”

Ladybug tries to keep her facial expression neutral as Plagg turns his attention to her, the ring of gooey cheese splattered all over his face both endearing and disgusting. It reminds her of Tikki after a long battle and judging by the impish stare he seems to be giving her in return, she doubts she’s been successful.

“Plagg—”

“Feed him first. Then I’ll explain.”

“Feed him?” Ladybug turns her head and stares at Adrien, glancing apprehensively between the container of broth and the profile of his face, the shadows of his silhouette illuminated by the irradiant light of the Parisian twilight. She places a hand on his shoulder and gently tries to rouse him, watching his face for a sign or reaction that he might be coming to.

“He hasn’t eaten properly in a couple days. Hasn’t remembered to feed me either,” Plagg explains around a mouthful of cheese, “But I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight, not when he’s been…”

The knot in Ladybug’s stomach tightens as the kwami trails off, “Why hasn’t he been eating?”

“Says he’s too nauseous,” Plagg shrugs, gnawing on the cheese’s rind.

“Oh,” Ladybug replies, not knowing what else to say. What would make you so nauseous that you wouldn’t want to eat? The stomach flu? Or food poisoning? “What should I do?”

“Feed him. He’s not going to wake up if he doesn’t get his strength back.”

“Okay,” she murmurs and her voice sounds more determined than she feels, “I have to sit him up so...pillows. Let’s find some pillows.”

She scours the bedroom quickly and, considering the massive size of it, comes up empty handed, “Not a single pillow?” Ladybug sighs and frustration begins to leach into the jumbled cocktail of her emotions, “Okay. Plan B.”

She doesn’t notice the kwami’s eyeballs nearly bulge out of his skull as she crawls into bed with his wielder, sliding her palms in beneath his pillow and scooting her left leg underneath. She shimmies as smoothly as she can possibly manage, arranging herself to sit upright against the headboard and with one hand propping his neck up, she pulls the pillow out and places it on his lap, setting him back down against her front as carefully as possible.

She pauses and tries not to blush at the intimate position she’s found herself in.

Eyebrows furrowed in determination, she sets her feelings aside for the moment and puts her hands in the divot between his arms and chest and hauls him upwards, bracing his back and upper body on her chest. He slumps against her, still blissfully unaware, and Ladybug heaves a sigh of relief and embarrassment; she’s been close to him before but never quite like this, his body completely slack in her embrace as she tries to keep him comfortable and warm at the same time. He takes slow and shallow breaths, still lost in the midst of sleep, and she takes pride in the colour that’s returned to his lips and cheeks now that he’s spent some time under the covers.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

Feeling far more determined than she did a few minutes ago, Ladybug brackets Adrien with her left leg and stretches out her right, reaching for the container of broth sitting just out of reach. Using her foot, Ladybug nudges the tupperware close enough to grab it only for the spoon to fall onto the floor with a clatter and Ladybug glares up at the heavens reproachfully, cursing her bad luck.

There’s the slightest pressure on her knee a moment later and Ladybug swivels her head around to see Plagg setting the spoon against her leg. He’s watching her curiously, his green eyes shining brighter than they were only minutes ago and she thanks him, gathering her wits as he sits himself down on the pillow in Adrien’s lap to observe.

“Oookay,” Ladybug swallows and peels the lid from the plastic container, setting it out of the way. She arranges Adrien’s head backwards so it rests against her left shoulder and delicately spoons the first of the broth passed his lips, carefully examining his throat to make sure he swallows. She repeats the motion several times and, confident that she’s not drowning him, turns her attention back to the kwarmi of destruction before her.

“Talk.”

The kwami blinks slowly, “What do you want to know?”

“How did Adrien find you?”

“Same way you found Tikki, I guess.”

Ladybug thinks back to the little box hiding in one of the drawers of her boudoir, “So he’s…”

Plagg cocks his head to the side and nods.

Gasping, Ladybug tries to crush the swell of her heartbeat pounding in her ears at the realisation of it being spoken aloud. How did she not see it before? How long had she spent watching him move across her computer screen in his perfume adverts and not compared their gaits, their eye colour, their smiles?

She glances down at his disheveled blond hair and feels nothing but shame; why didn’t she put the pieces together before?

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Maybe.”

Ladybug’s eyes swing back sharply to the kwami in alarm, “What do you mean, maybe?”

He shrugs.

“You’re not being honest.”

“Not exactly.”

Ladybug purses her lips, “Chat Noir doesn’t lie to me.”

Plagg meets her gaze, “I’m not Chat Noir.”

“But I am Ladybug,” she growls, “And you will answer me.”

She and Plagg stare pointedly at each other for a long moment before he eventually slumps in defeat, his little body thumping against the pillow, “Fine.”

“Good. Now tell me what’s wrong so I can try and help.”

Plagg whines, “He…hasn’t been himself lately.”

Ladybug turns her attention to the dark circles beneath his eyes and nods, urging him on.

“He’s been stretching himself and spending more time in our form than he has in his own. This isn’t exactly supposed to be a permanent transformation, but one of necessity. It’s exhausting,” Plagg pulls a face, “He can’t always sleep and stays out all night, running over rooftops and draining both of us. By the time he makes it back into bed, it’s usually only a few hours before he has to wake up for school.”

“I should have noticed,” Ladybug fights the tears beading at the corners of her eyes, “I should have seen the signs!”

Plagg slumps, “He hides it well. He doesn’t want anyone to worry about him.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, but it’s obvious once he knows he’s alone,” Plagg continues, wringing his paws together, “He’s always been…sad I guess, when he thinks no one is looking, but it’s only gotten worse after last week’s akuma attack.”

“Which one? We practically have one a day.”

Plagg’s whiskers twitch, “The one with the fireman.”

“Oh,” she whispers, bending the elbow of the arm supporting his head to check his temperature, “That was a tough one.”

“Yup.”

Her brows begin to furrow, “Didn’t he get hurt? He tried playing it off but…”

“We got caught when the house fell on us.”

“Oh god,” Ladybug’s hand covers her face in shock, “Did he get hurt? Did he hit his head?”

“I think so,” Plagg says, rubbing at the back of his head, “I can’t really remember. Everything was a bit of a blur after that.”

Concern burns deep in her chest, “Why didn’t my cure heal him?”

“I took the brunt of it,” Plagg murmurs, “And I’m not sure but...I haven’t felt like myself much since either.”

Ladybug’s thoughts begin to run rampant, “I need to get you to Master Fu. If you’ve been hurt, he can heal you too.”

“I’m not going anywhere without him,” Plagg kneads his paws against his wielder’s blankets, “You can take me after once he’s feeling better.”

“But what if…” Ladybug trails off, tipping another spoonful of broth passed Adrien’s lips, “Oh god, this is bad. Please tell me someone took him to the hospital.”

“He’s been playing it off as a headache, not that anyone asked. His father is never around and his assistant rarely interacts with him beyond what’s strictly necessary.”

Her arms tighten around him, “How could they not have noticed?”

“Like I said, he hides it well.”

Ladybug tries to keep the myriad of emotions threatening to well up behind her eyes at bay, “What are we going to do?”

“He has you.”

She looks up and Plagg stares back, his eyes burning with intensity, “Of course he does. We’re partners.”

“Just partners?”

Ladybug looks away from Plagg’s arched eyebrow and goes for the last few spoonfuls of soup, “He has Nino too, and Alya. And Marinette.”

Plagg’s eyebrow rises even higher, “You can’t fool me, Spots. You think I wouldn’t notice Tikki hiding in your handbag after all this time?”

Ladybug stiffens at the accusation, “Does he know?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m…Marinette.”

Plagg rolls his eyes in response, “No, not that’s it’s not completely obvious.”

She blushes at the sarcasm, watching as Adrien’s eyelashes flutter briefly before going slack again, “I don’t think I’m ready for him to know.”

“Then help him as Ladybug. Please.”

Ladybug holds back tears as Plagg’s nonchalance fails him for a moment, the panic and worry of the past week overwhelming him before he can manage to get his mask back into place. She reaches out to cup the kwami in her hand and nods resolutely, “I’ll do everything I can.”

Plagg presses his forehead into her palm, “Thank you.”

#miraculous ladybug #bad things happen bingo #ladybug #adrien agreste #plagg #sickfic #ladrien #angst #reveal

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fell-in-love-didnt-you · 5 years

Text

Five Times I Wanted to Kiss You, and One Time You Did, Too

Oh, my god. I spent actual hours on this, It's a 26 page word doc. Word count of 10k +. Holy shit.

My friend will anonymously say “fic waz good” and I will tell theme tickety boo bebop. If you’re reading this, you know.

Okay, enjoy about six hours of my life poured into a fic I love more than anything I’ve ever written ever even outside the wonderful carry on fandom.

Oh, also, basically Chapter 61 happened but no kissing. Basically, all kissing that is canon has been taken out unless it happened between Agatha and simon. okay enjoy (putting a read more cuz it’s fucking long)

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051074

Baz figures it out fifth year, but he knows it has festered in the back of his brain long before this point. Maybe it has even been there since the first time they met. Being raised to hate the Chosen One doesn’t exactly mean you’re going to comply.

And he certainly does hate Snow. Stupid fucking hair, stupid fucking walk, and stupid fucking everything and anything else Baz can think of. He can’t even hold a wand right unless Bunce shows him first. Pathetic choice for a Chosen One.

And the whole “I’m going to follow you around until I finally catch you draining rats and defiling virgins” act also doesn’t let Baz sit on these confusing emotions for more than three seconds alone. Seriously, is it all some cosmic joke? Is some long-forgotten enemy of the Pitches sitting Upstairs somewhere, laughing until they cry, and also making sure Baz doesn’t have a fucking second alone?

If so, fuck you, Baz thinks. Fuck you and your whole lineage, if someone ever felt bad enough to sleep with you.

That is another thing: the wanting to sleep with Simon Snow, Mage’s heir, resident Good Boy, and savior of the magical world. Also, the boyfriend to the stunningly gorgeous Agatha Wellbelove, who also may have a thing for Baz, too. And Baz is flattered, honestly. He and Wellbelove would make some beautiful children that would dominate the magical world. Hell, maybe he’d name them all Simon Snow Pitch just to piss off the Golden Boy.

He wants so bad to feel anything else for anyone else. He’d fuck a chimera if he thought for one second it would clear this blinding, aching need to touch and be touched by the one person most disgusted by his presence. Anyone else. He’d marry Bunce, or a second cousin, or a tree.

But that feeling, that “It’s you; it’s going to be you” has sat in the pit of Baz’s stomach for five years before deciding to take root at the base of his brain stem and prick and demand attention from both. A torturous cycle akin to being stuffed in the ground alive with a straw poking though the earth. Never satisfied, but still hopeful like a fucking moron.

Baz climbs the stairs to the turret. If his mum was still headmistress, maybe lifts would have been incorporated sometime, or even just escalators. Everyone calls the Mage the ‘Great Reformer’, but Baz puts that on the far end of his list of names for that fuckweed. Far behind prick, narcissistic bitch, and crazy fucking lunatic, which all rank well within the top ten. But Snow would argue that the Mage is really the ‘Great Reformer’ everyone calls him.

Baz’s calf muscles and back disagree heartily.

Even though the basic unsaid rules of their room declared that Snow takes showers in the evening, Baz can’t stand the way his clothes stick to him like they’re a second skin. He thought last year he was finally done growing, but the Grimms are a tall folk, and it seems he’s inherited that (and maybe, like, four other things) from his father. Any walking makes him sweat when it’s this early into the year, and the added bonus of not fitting into custom clothing makes it all the more awful.

So Baz breaks tradition and grabs a towel from his wardrobe. They’re supposed to share one, but Simon decidedly moved his things away from anything resembling Baz about three seconds into this year’s term, and Baz actually doesn’t give a shit. If anything, he’s happy. Now, no lingering scent of Simon can be on his clothes anymore than it usually is.

Sharing a room with the person you want more than actual life makes him hyper-aware of what Snow smells like: brimstone, green fire, and burned foodstuffs. Makes sense.

Despite the building being old, the water pressure is wonderful. Baz maybe thinks someone has spelled it this way because there’s no way a place as old as Watford had this wonderful a plumbing system when it was made. Just as Baz is wondering who may have upgraded this integral part of the school, a loud, obnoxious knock on the bathroom door jolts him from his thoughts.

“We need to talk,” says a muffled voice on the other side of the dark wood door. Simon Snow has never been great at yelling, even in the best of times. Baz accidentally pushed him down the stairs once, and the only noise he made the entire time was a surprised little, “oh” just before he went down.

“I need to get clean,” Baz replies, hoping that will shove off any response for a few minutes.

The knock sounds again, though this time it’s louder. “Now!” Simon yells. He thumps even harder against the door, and Baz sighs as he rests his head against the cool tile of the shower. Never a dull moment when you know the Chosen One, he thinks to himself.

Baz really should be thinking about the structural integrity of a door that was made centuries before him. It’s got a cheap little doorknob from when the other fell out two years into their time at Watford. (Baz blames Simon, but he knows it was himself that did it; slamming a door closed will do that.) The thing hardly locks half the time, and Baz was so tired after a day of classes and scouring the Catacombs that he just didn’t think about locking the door.

So when Simon’s incessant thumping gets harder, the door gives. The knob, thanks to its cheapness, breaks, and the door swings in to reveal Baz, naked, actually in the shower and not plotting, because that’s what Snow always thinks he’s doing.

Baz’s first instinct is to cover himself up. Fling a towel around his lower half and cower in a distant corner until Snow decides that looking at a pale, naked vampire isn’t worth his time anymore. His second instinct is to shout. Because his towel is one the counter outside of the shower, his second instinct will have to do.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he demands, and if there’d been any magic in his voice, Snow would be spilling secrets from his childhood like a broken dam. But Baz doesn’t need magic to make Snow become flustered or spill his secrets. All he needs is a hiss in the back of his throat and a lethal glare.

Snow looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck. The most logical thing he can do at this point is close the door, walk out of the room, and not show up for a few hours so Baz can have a bit to think about this. But all Snow does do is stare, and stare, and stare, and stare some more. It’s like he’s trying to bore holes into Baz’s brain with just his eyes.

And then Baz watches those unextraordinary blue eyes creep from his face to where he’s trying desperately to cover up. And damnit, Baz thinks, that shouldn’t be doing the things it’s doing to me. It shouldn’t be setting him on fire all over like he’s not flammable to the largest extent, and it damn sure shouldn’t be making all the blood from the rats rush south like a freight train.

Snow comes to his senses finally (if he’s really got any) and slams the door shut. Baz can feel his face becoming redder. He likes the water hot, but this isn’t a temperature-related heat. This isn’t even the heat of arousal. It’s the heat of shame. Because while Snow was staring down where Baz’s hands are still covering, he was only thinking about one thing: snogging the daylights out of the Mage’s heir.

Shit.

…

The end of fifth year isn’t nearly as exciting as the previous ones: Simon slayed a dragon first year, and the Humdrum’s sent something equally as lethal (if not, more so) every year. However, for the first time in five terms, the last weeks are uneventful. Baz takes his exams in relative silence, though Snow’s tapping feet never stop.

However, if that’s the only upset they’ll have during exams, he can take.

It’s been about six months since Snow walking in on him in the shower, and they haven’t spoken about it. To be fair, they also didn’t speak about whatever it was that had been so pressing in Snow’s mind that day. It just didn’t seem as important as seeing your arch-nemesis stark naked.

Maybe he’d seen the long scar that ran down Baz’s legs. It wasn’t from whatever Snow was thinking it were from. It was years old from when the wraiths had thought it fun to mess with a Pitch. Live and learn, Baz thought. The wraiths hadn’t touched him since then.

Or maybe Snow was really just freaked out about the sight of another man’s prick. If he thought that only he had stones or some stupid shit, anatomy next year was going to fuck him over really well.

Whatever it had been, it’s gone and passed. Baz has shelved it away for the day he’ll finally get a good wank in, which will be only a few days from now. The last days of term always feel the longest, though, and even just remembering that is making his skin itch.

He’s forgotten it long enough, though, to begin packing his wardrobe. It’s not like Baz has a sizeable amount of clothing or anything, but compared to Snow’s, it’s massive. The winter coats alone outnumber all of Snow’s non-school clothing.

Just as Baz begins to take down the few frayed tees he’s ever owned, the door to the room opens. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Snow; the clambering of feet up the stairs always tells him enough. Apparently, Snow shares the same sentiment about stairs. Baz looks up to see Snow’s face flushed and his mouth open. (Though that shouldn’t surprise Baz anymore. Snow’s mouth is always open, like an obnoxious trout.)

“Haven’t suggested a lift to your Jedi master, then?” Baz asks, returning his attention to the remaining clothes in the wardrobe. “Or haven’t you mastered Up, up, and away?”

Simon’s glare reverberates through the room, and Baz drops the tie in his hand. The unmistakable scent of Snow’s magic is pouring into the air. Could what Baz just said really set him off that easily? It isn’t even comparable to their normal insults. Nothing this year has been comparable to the previous ones. Baz is too wrapped up in himself lately to really think of any good zingers.

Baz turns sharply from the wardrobe and says, “Calm down, Snow. You don’t want the Anathema killing you for maiming me.” Maybe in some distant world, that could be true.

Snow takes one large step forward and is up in Baz’s space. He’s not close enough to get a good punch in, but Baz knows that Simon doesn’t judge distance very well when it comes to physical altercations. As long as he even scrapes Baz, Snow counts it as a win.

“Stay the fuck away from my girlfriend,” Snow spits at him, hands live like a wire in the air. He always does this when they fight: the spitting of words, the gritting of teeth, and the pointing of hands. However, the actual flames that lick the insides of his eyes give way to let Baz know he’s probably as serious right now as he’s ever been. “I mean it, you fucking creep!”

Baz is just confused. Of course, he won’t let that show. A sly smirk paints its way across his face and he asks, “Trouble in paradise, Snow?”

More magic is exuded. More of the air feels alive with electricity. Snow’s magic has always felt like this: alive, alive, alive. There’s nothing about Simon Snow that isn’t alive. Baz wishes he could be jealous.

“Calm down, Snow,” Baz murmurs, bending over to pick up his tie. It helps to ease the shaking in his hands. Snow could quite literally explode all of Mummer’s right now, and Baz could go up with it. That’s not how he’s supposed to die.

Well, sort of. Simon Snow will do the right thing and kill him once and for all one day, far away from this day, when they stand on opposite sides of the battlefield.

But dying as a fifth year in the top of Mummer’s because Snow’s girl has obviously upset him is not the way Simon is going to kill him.

Snow’s jaw clenches, and he steps back from Baz. Thank Merlin for Anathema, Baz thinks, whoever you were.

Finally, the static in the air calms to the low buzz that always accompanies Snow, and Baz feels like he can breathe again. He can smell a hell of a lot more than most people, and maybe that’s why being around Simon has always made him feel like he’s suffocating. Or maybe it’s because he just wants to pin the Chosen One down on a bed and kiss him ‘til they both die.

That’s what Baz is thinking as Snow loosens his jaw and opens his mouth like the damned trout again. He’s thinking about stepping closer and filling a gaping hole in his chest that aches more and more every passing second. He’s thinking about just coming out with it, no matter the repercussions from his family or the Coven or even Snow himself. He’s thinking about twisting his hands into that perfect golden hair and touching the moles he’s longed to touch since they first met at the Crucible.

But all Baz does is think.

So, instead of pulling Snow in for a maddening and passionate kiss, he turns to his wardrobe and says, “Try not to blow Wellbelove up next time you see her. I still haven’t gotten my fill.”

…

Christmas at Watford is always bittersweet. Baz loves the turkey that’s served the night before the official end of the term, and he’s obsessed with the holly hung up just about everywhere it can be. Miss Possibelf always teaches them little Christmas spells like Merry and bright (obviously for lighting fairy lights) and talks about where the myth of Father Christmas really came from.

But it also makes Baz long for his mother. Sixth year isn’t easy. It’s the year before the technical last year one is required to take. Baz can stop coming after seventh year if he chooses, though he knows he will come back. He’s not going to be the first Pitch to ever drop out of Watford. Plus, Aunt Fiona’s threatened him with a silver cross branding over the heart if he decides to leave.

His mum loved Christmas much more than any other Pitch. She’d set up a big tree in the sitting room and physically place the ornaments on instead of spelling them up like every other magical family. When Baz once asked why, she gave him a look like he’d just asked her why she was breathing. After all, everyone does need to breathe.

So, yeah, the holidays simultaneously suck and rock. Aunt Fiona always brings down the shitty handmade bobbles from when Baz was, like, two and places them on the tree where everyone can see them. His dad mixes up basically all the top shelf alcohol into a cocktail and lets Baz have several glasses. Even Daphne gets in the spirit and throws a mini party with some more liberal members of the Old Families. It’s a good time to be a Grimm-Pitch.

Baz doesn’t entirely pack away his things. He just takes his coats, trousers, socks, and boots. He has more than enough clothing at his house. If he even so much as mentioned a sweater he thought was cool enough to look at for more than two seconds, it would be on his bed by the time he got home. He didn’t want or need anything from his school wardrobe. Just enough to get him to the train and back.

Snow kept the window open, and the breeze blows Baz out of his memories and right back into the chilly air of the room. Simon would keep that damned thing open all the time if Baz didn’t put his foot down. It was like that the first few months of the first year, but after he complained to Fiona about it enough times, she encouraged him to yell at Snow until he submitted to whatever whim was plaguing him.

Now, though… After last year’s revelations and midnight wanks, he can’t so much as snarl at Snow without feeling like he’s an utter arse. Hating Snow used to be as easy as breathing, even though vampires breathe far less often than humans. They do still need to breathe. Snow asked that once in fifth year. What a dunce.

You’ve fallen for a dunce, Baz thinks. A complete fucking dunce.

The cold gets to be too much. Snow isn’t even in the room. He’s probably off with Bunce trying to coerce cook Pritchard into giving him more scones or butter or something. As Baz is about to slam the window down and watch the snow fall from the sill, his eye catches on white blond hair that’s a stark contrast to the dark yew tree behind it.

Wellbelove is an objectively attractive person, and Baz can definitely admit that to anyone asking. She’s standing down against the yew tree, earmuffs protecting what Baz knows are tiny, pale ears that turn the lightest shade of pink when you compliment her. She’s got a light blue coat wrapped around her, and even though the weather definitely doesn’t call for it, she’s wearing a skirt and some tights that tuck away neatly into boots.

That’s another thing about being a vampire: the vision is impeccable.

As impeccable as it is, Baz wants to turn around at the next sight. Snow walks up to Agatha and wraps his arms tightly around her waist before kissing her. It’s so hetero that Baz thinks he might throw up. He would if it was anyone else. Just thinking about people like Dev and Niall actually getting their hands on a woman long enough to kiss her makes Baz’s stomach do summersaults and backflips.

But it’s Snow. His golden hair sticks out in every which way and demands attention in the flapping of the wind. He’s laughing loud enough that it trails up the room where Baz has his hands clenched on the window, nearly splintering it into thousands of pieces. Maybe the Anathema would hurt him for hurting the window. Then he wouldn’t feel so much.

It’s been easy to ignore them. It looked like they’d gone through a rocky patch there, and Baz let himself hope for just one second that it might be over. Of course, even if they were over, there was no way in heaven, hell, or the Veil that Simon Snow would fall in love with the evil gay vampire.

No way.

Baz wants to scream and rage and throw things around the room until his hands go numb and his fangs drop and he can taste blood in his mouth, which hasn’t happened in a long time. He wants to kill Snow and kiss him and throw him to a merwolf and take him so far away from the Humdrum and Watford and everything that’s been hurting him his entire life.

But Baz just slams the window down loud enough for Snow to look up and see Baz glowering down at the pair of them.

Whatever. Baz will just make Agatha love him instead. Shouldn’t be too hard.

…

Watching Snow get yanked out of thin air with Bunce on his arm feels like some weird fever dream Baz has made to cope with every stupid argument they’ve had this year. Even today, Snow came into the room just to get into a petty argument about the window again.

Snow’s just popped around the corner into the Wavering Wood. Baz mentally curses himself. Why does everyone try to follow him when he just wants food? (Blood? Same difference.) First Wellbelove, and then Simon motherfucking Snow and Bunce. Can a man have no privacy?

Of course, the second he realizes Snow’s in the vicinity of him and Wellbelove, Baz takes her hands into his, and it looks like they’re going to kiss. Of course, Baz isn’t going to waste his first kiss on a girl, but if it makes Snow mad, he’ll make that stupid sacrifice.

However, the sucking feeling of the Humdrum creeps into the air just as Snow comes to the clearing. Baz can only describe it as being dry. The air gets tight around him, and he can feel his lungs contracting like a heart that’s finally puttering out. However, his heart is beating what would be considered for normal for a human and erratic for a vampire. Snow asked once if he had any blood in his body. Why the fuck do you think I need it? Baz wanted to ask him back. He scowled instead.

Just as suddenly as Snow and that feeling appears, they both go away. Baz lets go of Wellbelove’s hands and stands in shock and awe. There’s no spell that can make oneself invisible, though one ancestral Grimms did try to use Out, out, damned spot for that. He accidentally discorporated himself to another dimension. Baz says a silent prayer for William Malcolm Grimm before turning to Agatha and basically screaming, “Where the fuck did Snow go?”

If Baz was thinking or was at all competent, he would track Snow using Come out, come out wherever you are, but Baz isn’t thinking. He knows Fiona will have his head on the pyre after she finds out, but Baz agrees with Wellbelove and goes to the Mage with her. They both saw it, and they both need the affirmation that they’re not crazy.

The Mage seems almost uninterested. It’s the last day of term for the eighth years, and he somehow thinks that’s more important than saving his literal heir. While Baz wants to punch the Mage on the best of days for what he’s done to the Old Families, he’d probably dig his fangs into the Great Prick’s neck if Wellbelove wasn’t there.

She’s an absolute wreck. Her best friend and boyfriend just got sucked out of thin air to Crowley knows where, and no one is trying to go find them. At least, no one skilled. The Mage sends his personal army after them, but Baz knows it’s just for show. The Mage’s army couldn’t find an apple on top of a bowl of bananas even if there was a bright neon arrow pointing to it.

So he and Wellbelove wait. Wellbelove is utterly inconsolable, but she does rest her head on Baz’s shoulder after a little bit. If Baz wasn’t so busy actively trying to take down her boyfriend and make him miserable, maybe they’d be friends. She’s a bright girl even with as little magic as she’s got, and she’s quippier than most people in their year. Her only real contender is Bunce, but she’s too busy worrying over Snow to be in any competitions.

Baz eventually gets the news that his family’s arrived for the ceremony. All the Old Families come for the Leaving Ceremony even if they have no one graduating. Baz will be up on that stage in the White Chapel next year, and while he can’t get the image of Snow and Bunce being sucked out of existence before his very eyes, the least he can do is distract himself by watching his predecessors leave.

Fiona is looking around, and it takes only three guesses for Baz to realize she’s trying to find the Chosen One. She’s hexed him at enough of these ceremonies to know he’d be here, and when she asks Baz where he is, all he can do is shrug. It’s not exactly lying; he really doesn’t know where Simon went. Baz looks over and sees the Bunces looking around just like Fiona, although they’re more worried.

It’s their daughter missing, after all. The brightest child they’ll ever put out hasn’t shown up to a ceremony she’s gone to since before she enrolled in Watford. Baz almost feels like he should go over and explain. He knows something, even if it’s not the whole story.

Just as he’s rising to his feet, the doors bang open. The light from outside nearly blinds Baz as he turns to stare at the two figures in the doorway. He already knows Simon is one of them. The brimstone and burning smell are in the air, and his magic is pouring out of him and tearing at the seams. After adjusting to the light, Baz can see Bunce’s bright hair and the glint of her ring.

There’s a moment of silence before chaos erupts. The blood hits Baz’s nose last. Somehow, even he thinks that’s wrong. The blood should have alerted him long before the doors flew open, but here he is, gaping open-mouthed at the two figures in the doorway. Simon is covered in blood from head to toe, and Penny is only cleaner by a fraction. It looks like it’s being sucked out of their pores. It looks like they’re going to die right there on the floor of the White Chapel.

Baz is stuck in place, and he silently thanks whatever Pitch ancestor is keeping him there. It would be even more of a scandal if he ran to his enemies and cried over their corpses. That’s to be done in private.

However, two hours later, a group of magical nurses and doctors have been called, and they all gather in Baz’s room, waiting for Simon to exit the shower.

Baz feels awkward. Should he be pouring tea? Would that be too domestic? He doesn’t have to wait much longer.

Snow steps out of the washroom like a zombie in a low-budget film. Even though it’s obvious by the smell that he’s scrubbed every surface of his body, dried blood flecks are still speckled here and there like the moles already present. If given enough time, Baz could find nearly every one of them. He knows every mole that litters Snow’s body and how large it is and where it’s located.

He’s a man who can’t swim that’s been cast out to sea.

Baz watches as the doctors perform vitals on Snow and check his skin to make sure the bleeding won’t start again by the simple pressure of fingers or clothing. They poke and prod until the Mage enters and watches himself. Then, they’re sent back to whatever corners of the world they crawled out of. Baz is pretty sure one came from New Zealand.

Simon looks like a stress ball squeezed one too many times. His hair has gone flat for once, the telltale buzz in the air that marks his presence is gone, and he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t have to. It’s the first time Baz has seen him not stutter out every other word.

It would be impressive if it wasn’t so fucking scary.

Then the Mage leaves, and it feels awkward between the two of them for the first time in six years. Even the Crucible wasn’t this bad. Simon seems to stare straight past anyone who looks at him. Wellbelove had been in here before Simon showered, just to see if he was alive, but he’d looked through her like she was a window. Baz had never seen Snow look at her like that. Even when he’d first noticed the two, Simon looked at her like she hung the moon, stars, and other planets.

So why does he suddenly straighten when Baz shifts?

In this state, Baz can do anything. He can sacrifice a virgin right in front of Simon, and Baz doesn’t know if Simon would scream or laugh or do nothing at all. He doesn’t know which of the three would be worse.

“What happened?” It’s the only thing Baz can think to ask. Maybe he should be demanding it, or maybe he should be taunting Snow for being sucked away in the first place, but even though he’s toed at some of the most untouchable of subjects, this feels like a new territory.

Simon takes a minute before he slowly turns his head to look at Baz. He looks gaunt. He looks like he does whenever term starts up: his face has gone sallow all over, his cheekbones stick out like he’s been starved, and his eyes sit just far back enough in his skull to be unnerving. Baz hates the beginning of term for that reason.

The smile Simon dawns then cracks his lips, and a small dot of blood bubbles up. Baz doesn’t even have the fiendish sense to want to pop his fangs and kill the Chosen One right there. It’s not like the Anathema would let him, but thoughts have to count for something, right?

“The Humdrum,” Simon murmurs, like that’s supposed to explain what’s happened in the last six hours. Simon says it like he’s praying to it, and that makes a chill run through Baz’s back.

“Can he even do that?” It comes out as a whisper, and Baz wishes he had the bravado to ask again, but the Humdrum makes him have a headache and the urge to throw up all at once. It’s fear in its primal stages, but Baz won’t admit that.

“He can now,” Simon replies, breaking eye contact and looking down at his hands. One thumb and forefinger rub at his wrist, which have both gone boney. “He took something from me today.”

“Fifteen pounds.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but neither Baz nor Simon laugh.

“There’s a new hole in the atmosphere,” Simon adds, like an afterthought. The holes in the atmosphere scare Baz, too. They always seem to open when Simon and the Humdrum meet. It can’t be a coincidence. Nothing with the Chosen One is coincidence.

Baz then crouches down in front of Simon like he’s about to give him a scolding. However, Baz just loosely takes Snow’s hand in his own. The finger bones feel too big in the skin that contains them, but they’re still warm. They still have a pulse in the wrist, and they are still tanned and freckled and have moles scattered across them.

“He won’t win,” Baz says to the floor. It’s cowardly not to meet Simon’s eyes, but it would take much more of Baz than he’s capable of giving right not. “You won’t let him.”

Simon nods, but it’s empty. Whenever something like this happens, Simon seems like he’s just going through the heroic motions. He’s read the fairytales and knows his role well enough to play it with few hiccups.

“I’ll die trying,” Simon whispers. Baz wishes he wouldn’t say that, but they both know how this story ends. The Humdrum will die or disappear or do whatever entities like that do when they’re defeated, but that won’t be the end of Simon’s trials and tribulations. He’ll be hunted by the vampires and the goblins and any other magic-hating creature.

And one day, something will kill him. Baz hopes to Merlin that the Old Families don’t want it to be him. He’d die, too if he had to kill the Chosen One. His last deed would be to kill the man that did Simon Snow in, and his family would never forgive him for it.

The urge to kiss Simon’s forehead takes over Baz’s mind, just to let Snow know that he’s so alive. That people love him and that people will protect him and that there are people who would kill and be killed for him.

And Baz is one of those stupid people.

Baz can’t kiss the Chosen One. Maybe he will, before Simon puts the stake through his heart. Maybe he’ll stop fighting for ten seconds to tell Snow how he’s in love with him, how he’ll always be in love with him, and how nothing Simon could do would change that. And then Simon would stab him or hex him or go off and not protect him, and it would be over.

That night is not tonight.

…

The earthy smell of wet dirt and rotting wood makes Baz gag again. The wood began to rot a week ago. There’s no plush velvet interior like a coffin for a real dead person. This is one of those cartoony coffins Baz would see in reruns of Scooby-Doo when he was young.

Perhaps the Numpties think they’re doing him a favor. Maybe they get all their information on vampires from cartoons. It would explain why he hasn’t been given food or water or been exposed to the sun in the last five weeks. However, he was kidnapped in broad daylight, so…

At first, Baz thought someone would come for him. Maybe the Numpties sent ransom. But after he scratched a sixteenth dash into the wood, he knew he’d die here.

It’s a pretty shitty way to die. No ventilation, surrounded by earthworms to pick the bones left behind, and with Numpties blabbering right on the other side of the wooden coffin. To think, the last thing he’d eaten was a fucking pasty from the country club.

The blood they were giving him tastes like none he’d had before. What if he died with another human’s blood in his system? Whose blood? Someone he knew? A father? A mother? Sister? Son?

After the third day of refusing blood, Baz gives in.

Today, they give him another 32 oz. Styrofoam cup filled with blood, and no food or water. Maybe he should demand it. Would they actually listen to him? Maybe they’d think it was a trap. There’s no way Baz can trap them. He’s too weak to move. The first few days, he had promise, but they hit him over the head with a rock when they gave him the blood, and he woke up hours later in the dark again.

There’s no difference between light or dark here. The only indication Baz has as to the passage of days is the giving of blood. It’s possible they give him blood every other day and it’s really been ten weeks. It feels longer than five weeks, but that could be the fatigue. Vampires can go longer than humans without food or water, and the blood counts for the barely-there amount of water he is getting.

However, they need that holy trifecta to live: food, water, and blood.

Baz has two-thirds.

He’ll die here.

The first time Baz thought that, he let himself cry in the most cramped and crumpled position possible. (Coffins are decidedly not spacious.) The second time he thought about his death, he laughed and laughed and laughed until a Numpty came in with a rock and gave him a good thump behind the ear.

The third time was now. Day thirty-seven (by best estimates). No one is coming for him.

Baz doesn’t cry or laugh. He just sighs through his nose and takes a sip of blood. If he doesn’t drink it fast, it gets congealed at the bottom, and even though he’s going to die in a Numpty den in a coffin in the ground, he won’t die on an empty circulatory system.

His stomach will just have to deal.

The darkness used to play with eyes. Now it just dances like the elephants in Dumbo until Baz gets bored. Then it settles back to darkness. Sometimes the Numpties go away to talk, and the silence talks to Baz until they get back.

Surprisingly, the silence sounds like an angry David Tennant. Maybe that’s just how every angry Scottish person sounds, but silence might be inherently Scottish.

But when the Numpties eventually come back, Baz breathes more deeply and closes his eyes. And he sees it.

The bronze curls always come to him first. Then the unextraordinary blue eyes take formation, and the moles follow. Baz allows himself to focus on that mole just beneath the left side of the jaw. The smile comes last. It’s a smile Baz has saved in his memories by countless times witnessing it from countless angles. The mole to the right of that mouth makes Baz’s eyes water.

Those eyes shine down at him. For some reason, he’s taller in Baz’s memories than in real life. Maybe he’s grown since seventh year. Probably not, though. Neither of them have grown much since sixth year. They both just filled out in the shoulders and got squared away in the face. No more pockmarks.

Baz can hear the laugh that emits from that mouth. It’s a sound he knows the angels crafted for ears of the damned to hear. Maybe they thought the damned would think twice about falling if they heard that laugh. It was made to be the first glorious sound deaf people here and for blind people to try to put a face to. It was made for people like Baz, whose souls were up in the air and just needed to be caught and nurtured.

Those lips were made to be chapped in the cold wind but warm to the touch. The moles and freckles were made to be dreamed of and painted. Those eyes…those unextraordinary but beautiful eyes were made to make women swoon. They certainly made Baz swoon.

His last thoughts would be of Simon Snow’s lips and moles and eyes. Baz knew this is how it would end. With one of them in tears, professing love, and the other driving a blade into a damned heart.

However, the one that’s supposed to end him is probably having tea right about now at Watford. Hundreds of miles away. Not knowing that the one he has to kill is being killed by someone else.

Simon Snow is alive, Baz thinks.

And I’m hopelessly in love with him.

…

“What do we do now?” Penny asks. Simon looks up from the ground. The dead birds are starting to get to Baz. There’s blood everywhere: spilling from the Mage’s ears, drying around Ebb’s corpse, and from the birds that were near enough to Simon’s explosion.

Baz can’t help it. He hasn’t fed since two days ago in the woods right before a hole opened above his house. He goes to a corner and feeds on a few birds. Penny and Simon should be reprimanding him for doing that, but they’re all so drained that they don’t stop him.

Eventually, Simon tears his suit jacket off and lays it over the Mage’s body. Even though Snow technically killed him, Baz knows this will tear him up inside. He’s probably the only one that ever loved the Mage properly. Some loved the man for his power, and others for his influence, but Simon loved him because that’s all he could do.

Baz lays down on the ground away from the bodies and tries to go to sleep. It’s not hard. The last few hours have been more draining than a marathon. In a way, it was a marathon to save Simon Snow.

A scream interrupts Baz’s nice dream about a hill far away where the sun shines down on the grass and birds are singing in the trees. Simon’s there, too, laying beside him and resting in the shade. It’s the best dream Baz has ever had.

It’s Bunce’s mum that screams. Baz thinks that maybe having two dead bodies surrounding three (nearly) alive kids could probably give someone the wrong impression, and he rises to see Bunce hugging her mum and Simon hugging himself. Those stupid wings are still spread out, and his cartoonish tail even whips around on the ground.

Eventually, they leave the White Chapel and go to Mummer’s. The Mage’s army has been summoned, and the Coven and Old Families also arrive. Baz almost flinches when Snow’s hand grabs ahold of his and Bunce takes the other. If anything, he’s at least gained two friends from this miserable experience.

They wait in the bedroom in the turret for what seems like hours. About five different people of five different ranks from five different groups ask them what happened, and they tell the same story separately five times. However, Simon always comes back to Baz’s bed and grabs ahold of his hand again. It’s a good balance because Baz is shivering, and Snow is a personal furnace.

Finally, they all leave, and Bunce leaves with her mum. No one comes to get Snow, and Baz refuses to leave until tomorrow unless Snow wants to come with. He doesn’t, so Baz doesn’t go. It feels wrong to leave him in this place when there’s nowhere else to go. Bunce’s mum wasn’t in the right place of mind when she left, so Baz is sure that’s why she forgot to ask Simon with them. Baz isn’t sure Simon would’ve gone anyway. Why does it feel so appropriate to be in this room of all places on Earth?

“What do we do now?” Baz echoes Penny from hours before. It had been a good question at the time. Two dead bodies, a missing Wellbelove, and no cellphones to call anyone on. This was similar to that. No one left to tell them what to say or do. No one peering in from the outside to get the scoop. No one trying to get evidence to blame either side for the deaths.

They’d track Wellbelove down soon enough and get her side. Then everything would be clear.

Simon rests his head against Baz’s shoulder. Baz rests his head against the tuft of curls that tickle his neck. They’re still holding hands. It’s not awkward. It should be.

A lot of things should be awkward right now. Snow spent Christmas with Baz. They had (still kinda do have) an alliance. They know the Mage succeeded in having Natasha Grimm-Pitch killed all those years ago. Inadvertently, he also caused Baz to be Turned into a vampire.

So many new pieces of trivia. So much to sort through. So much to strike and add to the Record. So much that they should want to forget.

But Baz just keeps holding onto Simon’s hand and brushing his face against those bronze curls. It’s a good dream come true that he’s allowed to do this, but Baz doesn’t have the mental capacity at the moment to think about how his fifth year-self is hooping and hollering inside of his heart. He’s too tired to want more than is being given.

Baz would be content if this is all Simon Snow ever gave him.

A few months later, Baz stands at a punch bowl while the people he’s known for eight years dance and cry behind him. The punch isn’t even spiked. They’re all still too wrung-out from trying to understand what happened in the White Chapel that night. Dev and Niall wanted to know why Baz hadn’t killed or at least seriously maimed Simon that night.

How does one explain homosexuality for the arch nemesis to two duds like Dev and Niall?

Simon doesn’t know, though, so neither should Dev and Niall. Or maybe he does, and he just won’t say so. It would make sense. Baz has been trying to kill Simon since they were eleven, so the revelation of love would either shock him or make him laugh so hard he would piss himself.

Simon didn’t come back, and neither did Bunce, but after Bunce’s mum became Headmistress, she let all of them have cellphones on campus, and Baz had stayed in near-constant contact with the two of them. He tried to reach out to Wellbelove, but she explained she just wanted to run from it all.

If that was an option for Baz, he would still be running.

But there’s a Leavers Ball and ceremony to attend to, and if the Chosen One and his insanely smart friend aren’t going to show, he kinda has to. It’s an unwritten contract that at least one of them has to show up to these kinds of things, even if it’s just to let people know all three of them are alive.

Simon hasn’t gotten in touch tonight, and Baz thinks about texting him just to make sure he’s still kicking it. However, Simon might be sleeping. These Leavers Balls take place at night, and even though it’s only nine, Baz would like to be in bed, too, preferably with the Chosen One tucked against his side.

Baz scans the room for anyone worth talking to. It’s strange how his best friends have alternated from Dev and Niall (Niall being his literal cousin) to Penny and Snow. (Baz has decided Penny’s name is worth saying every once in a while.) It just goes to show…something. Baz’s brain is spent from exams and that speech he gave a few hours ago.

His eyes lock on a figure entering the small procession that is the Leavers Ball. No one at Watford is late, so who would be walking in nearly an hour after the Ball’s started?

The boy who’s loved making entrances since he was born, apparently. The Golden Boy, the former Mage’s heir, the Chosen One, Simon Snow makes his way over to where Baz is standing. It’s like a reverse of what happened halfway through the first term this year.

Baz stands so still a stray tumbleweed could blow him over, even though Miss Possibelf spelled the tumbleweeds away hours ago.

Simon runs a hand through his hair, a little nervous trait Baz has picked up on these last few months. Simon has a few of them, the newest being tugging on his little devil’s tail, though that changed after he got it surgically removed a few weeks ago. The wings were gone sooner because Simon kept knocking people and things over, and Penny and Baz both breathed a sigh of relief when Simon could walk through a hallway without knocking over a vase or painting.

Someone’s given him a proper suit, and he looks like a cardboard cutout model with a few extra moles here and there.

Baz feels a genuine smile (not a smirk) tugging at his lips. To see Simon Snow in a proper suit with his hair somewhat tamed feels like seeing a unicorn, though he’s been told that a couple hundred live in a sanctuary in Switzerland.

“Didn’t think I’d be here so soon after…” Simon leaves it open-ended. Baz doesn’t need the end of that sentence. He didn’t personally know if he’d come back after that Christmas break, but Fiona’s threats about the cross still ran around his brain all these years later, and he didn’t want to disappoint his mum. She valued education more than the person who created it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Baz replied, setting his little glass of punch back down and adding, “Party was dull without you, Snow.” Simon grins over at him and bites at his bottom lip. It’s something cheeky Baz has only ever seen him do around Wellbelove, but she’s been well and truly gone for a long time now.

“I guess the last few months were pretty dull, then?” Simon asks. Baz smiles and nods. It was nice not being threatened with dragons and flying monkeys every couple of weeks, but not having Snow even as a presence was unsettling, and after Bunce left, there was no real competition anymore.

“Ah, Snow, you were gone but not forgotten,” Baz replies, walking away from the table and closer to Snow. It’s the closest they’ve been since right after whatever happened in the White Chapel. Even then, it’s not very close. Baz is about a foot and a half away from Snow.

Simon’s only a little bit shorter than him (give or take three inches), but he seems so much older than he was a few months ago. He’s by no means a man. In Baz’s eyes, maybe Snow will always be a boy (the boy), but there’s no denying that something has fundamentally changed about the way Snow carries himself.

Maybe it’s the shared trauma.

“Have you danced?” Snow asks. It’s an odd question, but Baz really doesn’t think anything can be that odd between them anymore. They nearly died together on multiple occasions last December, and it’s foolish to believe they could ever be what they were before. They’re not enemies, and they share a side now, though it’s not either side they were on before. It’s all their own, now.

“No one to dance with, Simon,” Baz says, and the exasperation is overshadowed by the stirrings of those fifth-year feelings. All the songs they play at the Leavers Ball tonight are slow and meant for couples and sentimental friends. It’s meant to be a celebration, but there’s nothing to celebrate this year except maybe that Headmistress Bunce has brought back end of year books filled with photos. (Even though Simon, Penny, and Agatha left, they were still featured throughout the book.)

“Any girl here would have danced with you if you asked,” Simon mutters, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Baz quietly thinks to himself that suit pockets are not meant for hands or anything, really, but Simon makes pouting look good when he’s dressed up.

“Come on, Snow, you know I’m not looking for a girl to dance with,” Baz replies, toeing at the ground with his expensive dress shoes. Fiona presented them to him a few days before, and even though Baz tried to insist he had enough dress shoes for a thousand different balls, she won.

Simon huffs, and a loose piece of hair falls into his eyes. He hasn’t cut it in a while. “I’m sure more than a few blokes would dance with you, too.”

Baz rolls his eyes and feels a blush creeping onto his cheeks. He’s had enough blood tonight for more than a few types of blushes. “I’m not looking for more than a few blokes.”

“What are you looking for?”

The way Simon poses that question makes Baz want to reach out and snog him in front of everyone watching. Everyone already is watching. Baz is surprised, but he shouldn’t be. Even though he and Bunce know about this weird friendship that’s blossomed, it doesn’t mean everyone else was clued in. Baz didn’t want anyone else clued in.

Baz looks up from where he is tracing the line of grout between the tiles, and he feels like he’s fifteen again, just trying to simultaneously please and displease Simon. He feels like they’re back in that blazing forest again where Simon talked him down from a suicidal rampage and walked him back to the car. He feels like the flames that existed in Simon’s eyes until his magic left have now planted themselves right at the base of his spine and are tickling his back.

Simon’s got his mouth quirked to the side, and a little dimple appears there. He’s still got his hands shoved in his pockets, but he seems more tense than before, like he’s holding something back. In these last few months of three-way Skype sessions and phone calls and group chats, it’s never felt like Simon’s tried to hold back. The three of them have something not a lot people can say they do: shared trauma.

And Simon and Baz have more. They have the forest fire and the Humdrum setting Baz off like a killing machine. They have years of sitting in that room at the top of the turret and bickering over a window and bathroom schedules and posh soaps. They have a rivalry that’s morphed into this friendship that still feels like it’s morphing even as the silence stretches between them.

“I want you to dance with me tonight.” It’s simple. It isn’t a confession of anything, but Simon smiles anyway. He outstretches a freckled hand, and Baz takes it. Now all those who were staring are gaping openly, but the song that plays is nice, and Baz has heard it before.

It’s a slow rhythm meant for only two people to hear together. It’s meant for them, even if it really isn’t.

Simon’s not the nervous wreck he once was. Baz once watched him at a special ball the school held for a blood moon, and the stiff way he danced with Wellbelove made Baz spit out his punch and laugh. Now, though, he’s the one that’s stiff. His dark blue suit feels too heavy and hot now that Snow is within inches of him. It’s the closest they’ve ever been, including after the mess in the White Chapel.

It’s closer than two platonic blokes get. It’s closer than a lot of romantic blokes get.

Snow must have been taught to dance before tonight and after than disastrous ball so many years ago. Baz thinks about him practicing with Wellbelove, and a small flame of jealousy glows in his mind. Then he remembers Wellbelove is in America, and the glow subsides to a flicker.

Maybe Simon just doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten. Maybe he’s about to trample on Baz’s toes and knock his forehead into Baz’s chin. Maybe he thinks two blokes can dance like this and just be friends.

If this is all Baz ever gets from Simon, he can die happy and sated. He feels fuller than after he’s drained a deer. He feels like his feet aren’t nearly as heavy as they have been the past few hours. Simon’s got his arm behind Baz’s back, and Baz can feel the muscle of Simon’s shoulder through the suit jacket. Baz’s hand, eternally cold, feels comfortably toasty in Simon’s.

It’s a strange feeling to be dancing with Simon Snow at a Leavers Ball. Baz never thought he’d make it this far. He knew he’d go to the Leavers Ball, but he thought he’d spend the entire night at the punch bowl, shooting glares at Wellbelove and Simon and nearly crushing glasses in his fist. Maybe people would assume he was mad about Agathe making up her mind once and for all about the good guy, and maybe some astute pixie would feel the jealousy and properly place it.

Baz never thought he’d share a dance with Simon Snow at their Leavers Ball.

He never thought they’d both make it this far. He never thought there’d be a time when they could look each other in the eye, let alone be dancing at a Leavers Ball together instead of at each other’s throats the entire night.

It would be easier if they were at each other’s throats. They’ve been there so many times that they could do the motions in their sleep. Baz is quite sure Simon already has. He’s slept close enough to the Golden Boy for the last seven and a half years to know they’re both plagued by nightmares that are too scary to mention in the morning.

This feels like one of those dreams that Baz wouldn’t let himself think of. If he dwelled on the good dreams he had of Simon, he’d never stop. There are so many he can’t remember because he’s forced them out of his brain, but they come back now.

There’s the one about sleeping under the sun for hours with Simon next to him, and the sun doesn’t burn them and ants don’t bother them. It’s free of bugs and sunburns and evil. That’s one of Baz’s favorites. There’s another where he’s just woken up and can feel Simon breath against the back of his neck, and he doesn’t need to look to know it’s him. And the one where they’re just kissing for hours on Baz’s bed, not moving or noticing the world crumbling away around them.

But this is so much realer than all of those dreams combined. The hand grasping Baz’s is real and warm and calloused from calling and holding a heavy sword for years. The occasional brush of dress shoes on the floor sends vibrations through Baz’s legs, and they threaten to buckle right underneath him. He knows now that Simon would catch him. No matter what, Simon has always caught him.

“Why are you here?” Baz asks. It’s been bothering him. Without needing to say it, Simon basically swore off ever returning to Watford after December, and Baz understood. He swore off that nursery before he knew what swearing things off really meant. Baz wasn’t even irritated when neither Penny nor Simon showed up to hear his speech. People would record it, and he’d get a copy and show them if they really wanted to see it.

Baz would swear Watford off, too if it had broken as many promises as it had with Simon. Watford promised to keep him safe. Watford promised to always be a home for him. Watford promised so many things that couldn’t have ever been promised.

Life hasn’t kept its promises to Simon Snow.

Baz will. He’s broken the necessary ones, like the ones about killing him and smiting everything Simon loves. Coincidentally, a lot of the things he loves are now things Baz does, too. He likes Penny a lot, and sour cherry scones aren’t bad. Baz will never wrap his head around Simon’s fascination with butter, but it’s probably rooted in not being fed properly for eleven years and then suddenly getting as much food as one could want.

Baz has promised himself to Simon Snow, in whatever way the Chosen One will have him. Baz supposed now he’ll have to stop calling him that, but now is not that time for large shifts in character. There’s been too much of that as of late.

Simon shrugs and looks down at the floor. “I guess…I didn’t want to think about you alone here.”

“I’m not alone,” Baz rationalizes, looking around. “There’re loads of people here. The teachers, for one, and people we’ve grown up with, and…” He wants to go on, but that obviously isn’t what Simon was getting at. Simon’s been seeing a magical therapist (one of three in the world), and while they’re working on Simon voicing his opinion, it’s not always easy.

“Why are you here, Simon?” Baz asks again, this time with a tenderness in his voice Baz hasn’t used since Mordelia was a baby, back before she was a terror. “It’s fine to not want to be here, you know, I wouldn’t have ever made you come back.”

Simon huffs out a laugh and looks up just as the song’s changing. The fairy lights catch the curls in his hair in brilliant flashes of light. If Baz was more of a dreamer and less of a realist, he’d call Simon Snow an angel or the closest thing to it.

Simon smiles and says, “I know you wouldn’t.” The hold on Baz’s hand gets stronger, and the arm across his back bring him closer to Simon. “I love it when you call me Simon,” he adds, finally looking around the room and seeing everyone staring.

“They’re all looking at you,” he mutters, his face suddenly aflame in a blush Baz will remember until his dying breath.

“They’re looking at two blokes dancing,” Baz replies, deciding to tighten his hold on Simon as well. “Two blokes dancing who they used to have to split up before a fight broke out.”

Simon does let out a genuine laugh at that, even if it is small. It’s a start. Baz loves to see him smile like this. The tension eases out of Simon’s back, and his arm doesn’t feel like a steel rod against Baz’s back. It just feels like the reassuring touch you’d give to someone who desperately needs it. Does Baz desperately need it? He desperately needs something from Simon Snow.

“All that fighting,” Simon practically whispers, “and we ended up on the same side after it all.” Baz guesses that Simon can’t believe it either. Who would?

“I was always on your side,” Baz says. It’s true. Even though they fought enough for five different arch enemies, Baz was never completely on the side of the Old Families. He was also never completely on the side of the Coven. He was on a side made for him and Simon and whoever else he deemed worthy. (Penelope Bunce was more than worthy. She actually probably made the side herself, and Baz just climbed on board before he knew it truly existed.)

Simon looks at Baz, truly, truly looks at him then. It’s the kind of look someone gives another person when they want to see if there’s a hidden intention or just true sincerity. Baz feels like he’s laid himself out time and again these past months. He’d go through it all again a million times if it got him here. He’d fight two-hundred chimeras and one-thousand dragons to be here.

Simon’s the one that gets to decide what happens next. Baz has always been deciding what’s gone on between them. He’s chosen where they go and who they talk to and what they bicker about. It’s Simon’s turn. The ball is in his court. In a way, it’s always been, and Baz has just been playing with that stupid, red ball Simon carried all first year.

Baz, honest-to-Merlin, doesn’t expect Simon to drop his hand and cup it around the side of Baz’s neck, just above two pin-prick sized holes that drained him of life all those years ago. He doesn’t expect Simon Snow to lean in and smile like he’s going to tell a secret, and then kiss him.

It’s just a kiss. It’s small. It’s Baz’s first. It’s not Simon’s. Simon’s lips are chapped (like always), and his hand is calloused and tickles Baz but not enough to make him giggle. Baz doesn’t expect the kiss, so his feet move for a millisecond longer than Simon’s, and he nearly falls over. Simon leans back and lets out a single huff of laughter. His smile is genuine, and he just picks up Baz’s hand like it’s nothing.

Baz will fall asleep that night with Simon pressed against his back in a pair of Baz’s silk pajamas. It’s a déjà vu that’s so much better than the dream. Baz will dream of that sunny hill where bugs don’t exist and birds chirp happy songs. Baz will wake up tomorrow and leave the grounds of Watford the last time for a very long time.

But right now, they sway back and forth to a tune unfamiliar to both of them, and the world looks on at the Chosen One and his former enemy.

Keris hands Trixie five pounds.

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #carry on #rainbow rowell #Penelope bunce #penny bunce #Agatha wellbelove #the mage #what an ass #natasha grimm pitch #Fiona pitch #fluff #5 plus 1 #five plus one #SnowBaz fluff

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grandmasterofwangxiancultivation · 5 years

Text

MDZS ch.94

okay, i’ve been dreaming about this part and now i just need to know what happens so bad i’m ditching my studying schedule (and relax for a bit, uni is making me going totally insane) to read this, better be worth it-

Lan WangJi gladly accepted his exaggerated praise. He opened Wei WuXian’s sleeves and poured all of the stolen jujubes inside, saying, “For you. All for you.”

AND IT IS, FLUFF ALL OVER THE BEGINNING, BLESS I WANNA CRY

i think lwj doesn’t like wwx thanking him. he snaps every time he does that. uuuuuugh my heart-

lunatic lwj is the best things in the whole universe

He took out a jujube, wiped it on the cloth at his chest, and bit half of it away, thinking that if Lan Zhan wanted to play, he should just play with him, “What do you want to do next?” He held himself back from saying, ‘Whose house do you want to destroy next?’

(i’m excited, what’s next on the drunken lwj’s list of adventures?)

Lan WangJi frowned slightly, correcting him, “We.”

fewljwiorgi HE CORRECTED HIM. WE, NOT ME, ALONE. ISN’T THIS A LOVE CONFESSION ALREADY COME ONE WEI YIIIIIIIING

EDIT:

The two arrived at a wall. Lan WangJi looked left and right. After making sure that nobody was around, he unsheathed Bichen from his waist. With a few swings, glaring blue light flashed by, leaving behind a row of tall characters.

Wei WuXian went forth and looked. There were seven words—‘Lan WangJi of Gusu has been here’.

(HOW IS IT THAT LWJ DOES EXACTLY WHAT I’D NEVER EXPECT FROM HIM I’M DOOMED THIS IS WHY THEY ARE SO PERFECT FOR EACH SEE? S E E ?)

Lan WangJi nodded and handed Bichen to him.

Wei WuXian, “?”

Lan WangJi handed Bichen to him again. Wei WuXian took it. As he saw how there was still much empty space after the words ‘Lan WangJi’, he understood.

Lan WangJi was waiting for him to write his name up there as well!

....

i’m done

i am done.

this is too perfect, and perfection SCARES ME. if this is giving me so much joy i could actually die from it, what’s gonna happen next? WHAT.

Lan WangJi seemed quite satisfied, finally taking Bichen back. After a moment of thought, he reached out again. This time, it wasn’t to write, but rather to draw. A few glares of the sword zipped across, and the small portrait of two kissing figures appeared on the wall. The precision of the lines and the obscenity of the content was enough to make Wei WuXian slap his own forehead.

(I KEEP HAVING ABSOLUTELY NO WORDS I DON’T KNOW HOW TO EXPLAIN HOW MUCH FUN I’M HAVING RN IS THIS EVEN LWJ I LOVE HIM

he is trying to woo wwx by doing what he did when he was young and guys my heart has totally melted)

EDIT 2:

Suddenly, a series of wild barks exploded. Wei WuXian seemed as if firecrackers had just bursted beside his ears. He immediately screamed, unconsciously jumping onto Lan WangJi’s body, “Lan Zhan, help me!!!”

(bAbY- *he always have an excuse to wrap himself all over lwj, what a coincidence-)

Lan WangJi gained a complete victory. He finally patted Wei WuXian a few more times and leaped off the wall with him.

The dog’s barks were never heard again, even after they walked for a long while. Wei WuXian was finally able to tear himself off Lan WangJi’s body. His eyes were glazed and his legs shivered. Lan WangJi patted his shoulder, gazing at him with dedication, as though asking if he was fine or not. Wei WuXian still hadn’t recovered from the shock. Now that he could finally catch his breath a bit, he praised, “HanGuang-Jun, you’re so brave!”

(this was-

like, the cutest thing ever. i love how lwj protects him from everything, even things that are not really life treatening. that dedication you see, wwx, THAT’S LOVE, SO LOVE HIM TOO OKAY LOVE HIM LOTSSSSSS-)

Hearing this, Lan WangJi seemed to smile.

The ripple of movement faded at once. Pausing in astonishment, Wei WuXian thought he saw wrong.

(LWJ SMILING IS DANGEROUS, SUCH A DANGEROUS THING, WEAR SUNGLASSES, OMG IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL-

what’s wwx gonna do the moment lwj will smile completely at him?

omg we’re all gonna die in bliss)

EDIT 3:

IS THERE ANYTHING THIS NOVEL WON’T GIVE ME?

Wei WuXian swept them off of him as he laughed, “You’re so dirty!”

Lan WangJi, “Wash my face for me.”

(BOSSY. WE LIKE IT.)

Wei WuXian couldn’t help but tugged his forehead ribbon, “You’ve even learned to order me around!”

The first time he was drunk, Wei WuXian washed his face for him, and Lan WangJi seemed as if he liked it a lot. Of course, this time, he asked for it on his own. Wei WuXian wanted to do it for him in the first place, but now that he was already like this, simply washing his face wouldn’t be enough at all. And so, he asked, “How about I just help you bathe instead?”

A BATH.

A B A T H.

THIS CAN ONLY MEAN THAT THIRD TIME DRUNK LWJ SCENE IS GETTING INTO HOT AND WET TERRITORY. BATHTUB SCENE.

Finally the words i wanna hear.

MY BODY IS READY.

Hearing this, Lan WangJi widened his eyes slightly. Wei WuXian examined his expression carefully, “Do you want it?

Lan WangJi immediately nodded, “Yes.”

lwj is so eager, CUTE

EDIT 4:

He himself went downstairs, boiled water, and carried them up one bucket at a time, filling the entire tub. He tried the temperature of the water. Just as he turned around, wanting to tell Lan WangJi to take off his clothes, he saw that Lan WangJi had already stripped on his own.

(WeIwUxIaN.exe has stopped working)

When he ran into Lan WangJi taking a bath, he didn’t have any other ideas either, and during both those two times, more than half of Lan WangJi’s body was buried underwater. And so, suddenly seeing such an uncovered HanGuang-Jun… It was needless to say that Wei WuXian received quite a big shock.

(ARE YOU MAKING A DICK ALLUSION, WEI WUXIAN?)

At the moment, he didn’t even know whether he should follow his heart and look as much as he wanted or find something with which to cover up Lan WangJi and pretend to be a decent person.

(I AM AN INCOHERENT MESS RN-)

His scalp tingled. He couldn’t help but to walk backwards, but as he walked back, Lan WangJi continued to walk forward. Wei WuXian had already backed away to a corner of the wall. He couldn’t hide at all, and could only braven up as he watched Lan WangJi approach him expressionlessly. The distinct Adam’s Apple, fair-colored skin, and smooth, aesthetic muscles flashed before his eyes so clearly that he didn’t even dare look at them straight, eyes averting slightly. He swallowed unconsciously, somehow feeling a bit parched.

Wei WuXian was almost in a state of despair. He clenched his teeth, pretending like everything was fine, “I’m only pouring the bathwater for you. Okay. You can do the rest now.” As he spoke, he was just about to move away when Lan WangJi suddenly reached out and tore his sash belt into half.

(OKAY I’LL STOP BREATHING RIGHT HERE AT THIS PART BECAUSE MY BLOOD PRESSURE IS SKY HIGH AND IF I GO FURTHER WITH THE READING I THINK I’LL FAINT OR REALLY, LEGITIMATELY DIE AND MY MOUTH IS WATERING AND WHAT THE HELL THIS IS TOO PERFECT

who the hell am i kidding i’m going on, nosebleed or not-)

EDIT 5: I’LL CHOKE WITH MY OWN SALIVA

LWJ DOESN’T WANT TO BATHE WITHOUT WWX AND THAT’S THE SEXIEST, CUTEST THING EVER

And so, he dragged Lan WangJi towards the tub, “Fine, I’ll help you bathe. Come here.” He thought, My loss, my loss. Fine, I’ll just scrub him a couple of times. I won’t do anything else at all.*

*yeah well we all know that’s not gonna happen

also, wwx trying to convince himself he won’t do anything else besides wiping him a bit i’m like >______________>

(esr commenting wwx’s intentions represents all of us)

EDIT 6:

Lan WangJi was finally hauled by him. He sunk into the water again. Wei WuXian also rolled up his sleeves and walked towards the tub.

(i’ll explode, i’ll totally go BOOM POW in a sec when wwx’s hands will be all over lwj omg omg omg omg omg omg OMG-)

Since Lan WangJi had been staring at Wei WuXian without a single blink, Wei WuXian was worried the water might drip into his eyes and make him feel uncomfortable, “Close your eyes.”

(this is how i would explain what love is to me)

Lan WangJi didn’t listen to him. His eyes were still glued to Wei WuXian as if he was scared that if he blinked once, Wei WuXian might have run away. Wei WuXian reached out to shut his eyes, and he buried the lower half of his face into the water, letting out a series of bubbles. Wei WuXian laughed as he lightly pinched his cheek, “Er-Gege, how old are you?”

(omg omg I’M SOBBING SO HARD IT’S MAKING ME SO EMOTIONAL HELP cute cute so cute)

EDIT 7: okay, about lwj’s scars... i think he did that to himself (or made it so that it feels like he was punishing himself, you get me, right)? i mean, wwx describes them as coming from ferocious whipping, so even if lwj deserved to be punished, i can’t think of lqr and lxc being so angry at him to that point (it feels like adding cruelty to the punishment). so, either what lwj did was really bad or... well, he punished himself (whipping himself or having someone do it to him, so to be extremely strict). my heart is crying.

EDIT 8:

Wei WuXian got him drunk and spent almost half the night mulling over the matter, but he still didn’t get any answers. It wasn’t that he forgot. He’d always held in the back of his mind that he gave wine to Lan WangJi just to ask him, “HanGuang-Jun, just what do you think of me?” But every time it was close, he’d find some reason to blur things over, like not being so eager and asking after he played with him for long enough, like not being so casual and asking after they sat down properly… But even with all these excuses, the real reason that he dragged it until now was probably that he feared.

He was scared that he’d hear an answer different from what he hoped for.

omg now my heart is breaking again, i can feel my stomach twisting, he is scared. if only he knew, if only... pls lwj, tell him. tell him how much you longed for him and need him and embrace wwx’s hope to be loved by you, i swear i won’t ever need anything else in my life

#the grandmaster of demonic cultivation #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #the founder of diabolism #the founder of evil magic #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #mdzs translation spoilers #mdzs ch.94 #mdzs fangirling mode #mdzs novel

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jackalopingintothevoid · 6 years

Text

I Now Walk Into The Wild

okay so a few people liked my previous post about x-campus, and with a little encouragement i figured ‘why the fuck not’ so... i’ve written a bit of a fic. teenage wolverine backstory, ho!

Warnings: Drowning, violence, death, dangerously low temperatures, troubling unchildlike behaviour (it’s wolverine backstory; it’s not gonna be pretty and this will be worse because he’s a child. then i went and put it in second person like some kind of monster.)

The wild, cruel beast is not behind the bars of the cage. He is in front of it.

Axel Munthe

Your earliest memory is of drowning.

Ice-cold, all encompassing, doing nothing to ease the terrible fire inside. Panic and pain and fire pulse through your body and you can’t scream because your mouth, your lungs, are full of water.

Hands white-hot with pain beat furiously on the sides of your prison, and after what feels like minutes but must have been seconds your fingers find the edge and grip. And you pull, pull your burning, drowning body up and out of the water with desperate strength, and you gasp and choke and jerk and cough but coughing is like vomiting--

And then you’re breathing, at last you’re breathing but you’re still so cold and you’re still burning and everything is LOUD.

Your eyes fly open and the world is dull grey metal and shouting, shouting, shouting. You see the Men, loud and angry and all around you and you are cold and burning and trapped and so so frightened.

One of the Men holds up his hand and shouts louder, makes the rest slow and quiet and stop, makes them hold still, coiled and poised and waiting to strike.

The Man lowers his hand and bares his teeth in an up-curling sliver, and you bare yours against his threat in warning. You’re small and shivering and in pain and the Man is so much bigger than you, and there are so many Men around him just waiting to hurt you and you are so frightened, but you stand your ground and you show no weakness and you bare your teeth in warning.

“Easy there X, I know it’s quite a painful procedure, but it’s pretty impressive that you’re alive! Everyone else died, and they were all grown-ups, not like you. Now, why don’t you remember your place and calm down so the handlers can sort you out, hm?”

The Man's still moving closer even as you growl, try to make him think you’ll bite, you will, you’ll do it, you’re a threat to him, no no no too close, don’t come any closer please please please--

he reaches out a hand--

to grasp you--

trap you--

hurt--

The fear swells until it snaps, and you are consumed with fury.

You scream with all the power you can muster and the Man startles away. But it’s too late. You are surrounded and enraged and you need to get out and the Men will kill you so the Men must die.

Your senses are filled with stabbing pains and the fresh scent of your own blood as your tiny hands form tiny fists and you are small but you are not helpless.

The next sharp scent is the Man’s blood. He should have heeded your warning.

Then there is the sickly smell of fear, and the Men burst into movement and shouting again, hefting Guns that BANG BANG BANG and you scream in anger as you leap from the water. You run from the Guns and you cut down the Men and the Doors and the Walls and then there is no more grey metal, there is Sky and Snow and Trees and Rocks but still there are the Men and the Guns and you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run

If you look at little kids and wild animals, these are two groups of things that whenever I'm with them forces me to be in the moment.

Dominic Monaghan

It’s so cold Outside, but you make do. You eat the Snow and drink the running Water and you’re always cold, but the burning inside has long faded away and you’re never thirsty for long. You’re not alone Outside, there are Bears and Wolves that you keep your distance from, but you watch. You eat what they leave until you learn to kill your own. You’re always cold and often hungry, but you survive.

You live, you grow, you learn. You run and climb and dig and hunt, and you do these things ever faster and better each time. Sometimes you know words, names for things that rise up into your awareness, first Men and Guns then Sky and Snow then all the names of all the things you need to know Outside if you don’t want to die, and you definitely don’t want to die.

But one day you know the name of a Blizzard, and everything changes.

It is so much colder than before and the terrible wind fills your ears and stings your eyes and sinks the cold into your body until you’re sure it will never come out.

You’re so cold but you can’t see, can’t hear, can’t even smell. You stumble lost and senseless through the driving snow, growing more and more tired, but too scared to sleep. You’re so hungry but you couldn’t hunt a thing like this even if you could find it. You want to keep your arms curled in close, but you need them out and ready to find, to fight, though you barely have the strength to keep walking.

Your hands hit something, but they’re numb and you can’t feel what it is, and you end up pressing your whole body against to identify it. It feels a little like a Tree, except it’s flat and-- moving, outwards, pulled by the wind but you’re leaning and can’t correct quickly enough and though you dodge the swinging wood you still fall past it and crash to the floor.

The floor feels a lot like the-- Door. It’s a Door, and on some level that frightens you but the wind’s not so ferocious beyond it and so despite the smell of Men (you think it’s Men, it’s different from the Men before, more like the faint hints you catch on the air under the sunlight, that the Wolves shy from and the Bears are wary of) you pull yourself Inside and you pull the Door in too as a barrier against the Blizzard and you’re still so cold and so hungry but it doesn’t feel like the Blizzard is trying to tear into you like a carcass anymore.

You crawl in further, swallowing your fear because you need to be Inside, and the relief is almost worth it. You crawl and you curl into the corner and you shake so much it hurts, so much that you can’t sleep no matter how badly you want to, and then the Door opens again.

There is a Man and a Gun and you are terrified.

“Jesus Christ-- Heather, it’s a kid!”

The sound of his shout sets you off, and you’re cornered so you snarl and with some effort stiffly unsheathe your claws and the Man shouts again and leaps back as another higher voice shouts as well--

But the pain of the claws bursting free overwhelms you, the last straw for your taxed body, and you hit the floor without ever making a move. Your claws slip back in, your hands too weak and cold to keep them out as they start bleeding sluggishly, and you know the Man will kill you but you can’t get up, can barely move, so you do the only thing you can and you cry.

You’ve never cried like this. You’ve felt tears well up in your eyes and slither down your cheeks when you were too hungry or cold or tired not to, but now you’re doing everything you shouldn’t. You’re loud, now, sobbing with fear in front of the Men that will kill you and doing nothing to bluff your way out.

“Oh my God--”

“Heather don’t, just-- you saw that, right? He could really hurt you!”

“He’s a little boy, Travis, and you burst in here with a gun! God, it’s a wonder he’s not dead, the poor thing... !”

“Look, just, just hold on a second, we gotta be careful okay?”

“We are not just-- !”

“No, we’re not! Just slow down, Heather!”

The other one doesn’t sound or smell quite like the other Men, and the Gun hasn’t gone BANG and you’re not dead. You can’t stop crying. You’re so tired but you’re so scared and you desperately just want the Men to go away.

Movement-- you see it, but you can’t react-- you shriek as you’re enveloped but it doesn’t hurt, and it’s-- it’s--

Not cold. Not just less cold, but not cold. Warm. It’s Warm and Soft and you curl up under it as tightly as you can, sobbing harder with relief and confusion, numb fingers trying to grab hold of it, trying to keep it.

“Oh sweetheart...”

Pressure, on your back, and you shriek again but you can’t pull away. You try to curl up tighter but you can’t, and your crying carries on unabated, but there’s no pain and no grabbing and the pressure brings even more Warmth.

“It’s okay, honey, you’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Oh you poor baby, it’s going to be alright, I promise you.”

It’s a hand, you realise, one of the Men, the strange-smelling one who sounds too close. The Warm pressure is moving, now, rubbing your back and in spite of how wrong this is and how scared you are, it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt.

“We’re going to take you into our nice warm home, we’ve got some hot food cooking and lots of lovely fluffy blankets, not to mention a big roaring fire. We’re going to take care of you, I promise.”

A second hand is rubbing your leg, and your crying has petered out into hiccups and whimpers as exhaustion drags you down. You know the words Warm and Food, and the Men have never said words you know.

Another sob wrenches out of you as you’re suddenly scooped off of the floor, but the Warm Softness is wrapped all the way around you and it’s too good even as you’re trapped, and the Man’s arms don’t hurt with tightness, swaying you gently from side to side as even more Warmth presses against you, that strange soft voice still cooing to you and your nose full of a smell that you’ve never smelled before but seems so familiar...

You’re so terribly confused, and you can’t help but still be scared, but you’re so Warm and this voice doesn’t shout, this smell isn’t Men, and when you’re shifted until your face is pressed against something that thrums with a steady heartbeat you pry open your eyes.

Not a Man. No Man has ever looked at you like that, nor held you so tenderly, nor spoken so gently.

Your voice rises in a thin, distressed wail. Your instincts scream that this is bad, that this close enough to Men, that there is a Gun and you must escape. But equally your instincts scream for Warmth, for Food, for the pressure and the rubbing on your sore body. Confused and overwhelmed, you let your head rest where it is on the Soft Warmth of the Not-Man as you weep more quietly than before, too exhausted to sob anymore.

“Oh honey, oh sweetheart, you’re so brave. I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay...”

You fade into a light, unwilling sleep, Warmer than you’ve ever been and rocking lightly, and when you wake again the Warmth is everywhere. It feels amazing.

Still wrapped in Softness, you immediately smell the Not-Man, who smiles at you and speaks some more, and you never realised how good a voice could sound.

“Hey baby, you feeling better? It’s nice and cosy in here, isn’t it? You’re warming up nicely now, aren’t you? Uh huh, and we’re going to warm you up some more with some lovely tasty food, how about that? Does that sound good? I bet it does, little guy.”

You watch the Not-Man as it speaks, taking in the shapes its mouth makes and the novelty of a face not twisted in anger or hiding venom. There’s more talk of Warmth and Food, and you can smell the Food-- it’s a brand new scent but it’s incredible, and you whine quietly as your stomach clenches painfully, growling and demanding. The Not-Man’s face changes, like something’s wrong, and you tense in sudden fear, but then a hand is rubbing your poor empty stomach and it’s cooing like it did before, then turning to look at something else before raising its voice.

You’re weeping again, your stomach hurting with hunger and the Not-Man is being loud but you can smell the Food coming closer.

And then the Not-Man has it in hand, is propping you upright against its body, and you eagerly open your mouth as the rich-smelling liquid is lifted to your face, and you don’t care about the metal tang of the spoon because what you’re swallowing is Warm and tastes indescribable and is full of soft chunks that are so easy to chew and immediately begin to soothe the gnawing hunger.

You open your mouth again, making urgent noises when it isn’t immediately filled, but another spoonful quickly finds you and you whimper a little, tearing up all over again but this time because it’s just so good.

Sniffling, Warm and eating, something clicks into place. You were cold, and you cried, and you were made Warm. You were hungry, and your stomach growled, and now you’re being Fed. The Not-Man is Warming and Feeding you and that’s so strange that it’s taken you this long to figure it out.

Mama.

This is Mama. Mama who is Soft and smells good and makes sure her babies don’t die. You’ve seen Mama Wolves and Mama Bears, but you are not a Wolf or a Bear or a Man and neither is Mama. This is your Mama. She must be!

You can smell her on the Man, too, and he doesn’t have the Gun, and he’s not shouting, and he doesn’t smell like the other Men really, not once you get a really good whiff of him, so while you watch him carefully you let his large hand cup your foot. Mama would protect you if he tried to kill you, that’s what Mamas do. Perhaps this is Papa?

His hand is even Warmer than Mama’s, and he rubs your still-cold, aching foot in a way that makes your skin happy. Yes, he’s certainly not a Man, and he’s pressing close to Mama’s side, sharing their scents. Yes, he must be Papa.

“God above. He’s so small! But his face-- he looks too old to be this small.”

“How long has he been out there?”

“Christ, who knows. But he should be blistered and frostbitten, running around in the snow with no shoes. Hell, should be dead in the snow with no clothes at all. You’re something special alright, aren’t you kid? Must be sore, though. Hungry little guy, too. Then you would be, out in that cold.”

“Who would do this, Travis? What kind of monster would abandon such a sweet little boy like this?”

“... You saw his hands as well as I did, Heather. He wouldn’t even need to hurt anyone with those before someone wanted him gone.”

“That shouldn’t matter. He’s someone’s son.”

“Sounds like he’s probably ours, now.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Of course not.”

You’re so Warm and sleepy and wrapped in Softness, with Mama and Papa holding you close. Your stomach is all full now, full like it’s never been and gurgling away, and Mama’s rubbing it like Papa’s rubbing your cold feet and you’re crying again because it’s all so much. You cling to Mama, fingers curling and gripping tightly, and you cry even louder when Papa lets go of your feet and you stretch them out of the Softness towards him and don’t stop until he’s holding them again.

You nuzzle into Mama’s chest, wiping snot and tears on her, and you yawn into her bosom. She coos and pets and presses her lips against the top of your head and for the first time in your life you’re Safe.

The land created me. I'm wild and lonesome. Even as I travel the cities, I'm more at home in the vacant lots.

Bob Dylan

The truck comes to a stop. You raise a hand in thanks to the driver as you take your leave. Now that you’re across the border, you need US currency. Fortunately, you’ve gotten quite good at pickpocketing on your flight from your home, though so far you’ve only managed to get your hands on loose change and a dollar bill, and you haven’t gotten a look at how much it’s worth yet.

You still feel guilty for stealing from your parents back in Canada, but the Men weren’t going to leave them alone unless you weren’t there anymore, and you need money to get anywhere in the human world. You’d miss the wilderness’ simplicity if not for the blessing of clothes and the bag you have with you.

They’re never going to stop chasing you. Escaping the country won’t make them give up. You don’t know why they’re so persistent or what they want you for, but you have to get them as far away from Mom and Dad as you can. You’ll lead them all the way across the planet if you have to.

You duck into the truck stop diner and rustle through your bag. Oh. Oh, shit. The bill’s worth 100 bucks and you can’t hand that over. You’re short for a fifteen year old and you look like you’ve hitch-hiked across the border, and while you seem to have passed as white on the way here (thank fuck for green eyes and stereotypes) anyone really looking at you might realise you’re not just tanned. There’s no way on earth you can buy anything with this without getting detained, and the change isn’t enough for anything either. Fuck it all, you’ll have to go hungry again-- hell, you’ll probably have to ditch the 100 for your own safety. Fuck!

You shove the money back in your bag, turn on your heel, and come face to face with a bald man in a wheelchair. You... you didn’t hear him come in. Didn’t smell him, either, though you can now. That’s really weird and really unsettling, and somehow his benevolent smile does nothing to calm you because the look in his eyes is like he thinks it’s funny that he startled you. You move to the side so he can go past you.

“Uh... hi, sorry. I was just leaving, you can go ahead.”

“But you only just came in!” The man smiled, gesturing towards your bag. “Though I suppose that $100 would look a little suspicious from a young man travelling alone.”

Oh, fuck.

“Why don’t we double up? Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back.”

Wait, what?

“Uh...”

But you can’t find it in you to protest, though you don’t know why. There’s just something about this guy...

Unnerved as you are with the situation, you can’t bring yourself to regret going along with it when you’re halfway through a double cheeseburger with a side of onions rings and a glass of coke. It’s the first hot meal you’ve had in weeks, and the whole thing was no problem at all. It shouldn’t have been that easy, but it was and you’re not going to waste the opportunity.

The bald guy is Professor Charles Xavier and he teaches biology at the Worthington Foundation in Greenwich, Connecticut, which is a special school for gifted children. He also really likes to tell strangers his life story, apparently.

That’s fine. You’re not sure what he’s doing out here, but if he’s lonely and willing to pay for your food in exchange for a listening ear; well, your hearing’s pretty damn good.

Plus he seems... really passionate about education, which is nice you suppose. Too many people in the job seem to be there to shit on kids, but there’s a spark about the Professor that spoke of something more.

“You know... you seem like the kind of driven young man that would do well at the Worthington Foundation.”

You damn near choke.

“Not really.”

He raises his eyebrow, seemingly amused-- but he doesn’t say anything else on the subject.

When you’ve both finished your meals the Professor asks for help manoeuvring out of the diner. Awful trusting of him, you think, but you owe him and it’s no trouble.

Once you’re both outside, the Professor starts going through his wallet, picking out the amount to cover his order after handing back the overall change. He’s actually making good on this, and you’re baffled but not complaining as he hands you reasonably-sized bills to use later.

But then you smell the Men.

You whip your head around, adrenaline flooding your system as you isolate their sounds and smells from the general public around them. They’re not too far off-- you only picked up on them because the wind changed and brought their scents to you. You have to move, now.

“Would you mind walking me back to the car? It’s gotten dark rather faster than I’d thought it would, and I’d feel safer if you accompanied me.”

You nod and take the wheelchair’s handles. That’s rude, probably, and normally you wouldn’t if you weren’t asked but you need to go, quickly, and the Professor doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable with it.

A couple of big guys give the Professor the eye-- he looks like he’s got money in suit like that-- but you know how to make yourself look like a credible threat to most (though it’s not like you’re harmless) so you square your shoulders and glare until they look away.

The Professor lets you know when you reach his car, a hired chauffer service by the looks of it and you’d wonder why he paid to be driven out here if you weren’t acutely aware of the Men still far too close.

So when he offers you a ride, you don’t think twice. You have to get out of here.

He asks you where you’d like to go, and you blurt out anywhere because you don’t have time, come on, let’s go.

It’s only when you’re a few miles down the road that you start to calm down... and realise what an awkward position you’ve put yourself in.

You tear your gaze from the window, no longer looking for signs of pursuit, and find the Professor looking back at you. Waiting for you.

You know things. Things no one else seems to know, even if they’re right next to you and looking at the same thing. You know when a bear is bluffing, you know when a storm is on its way, you know when a stranger is dangerous. Dad had asked once, how you did it, but you didn’t know how to explain. You just know in that way you do, the sixth sense that’s kept you alive all these years.

The Professor knows you’re running.

“You recall I mentioned you would do well at the Worthington Foundation?”

He gives you time to respond but continues when you don’t.

“I stand by that. I would like to invite you to be a part of our school.”

You can’t, even if you wanted to you can’t. You crossed the border illegally and now you think about it you’re not sure you legally exist in Canada either. Did your parents sort that out for you? You don’t know, but after being home schooled for three years you were put into fourth grade, so you suppose they must have done.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle the paperwork. There’s dorms on-campus and the school provides meals to students so don’t fret about that either.”

“Why?”

It’s the only way you can get the question out. So much wrapped up in that one word.

“As I told you, the Worthington Foundation is for gifted students. We would be honoured to have someone such as yourself attending.”

He’s spent the entirety of his time with you watching you eat gracelessly and then act twitchy. There’s absolutely nothing gifted about what he’s seen of you.

“Oh yeah? What makes me so desirable, huh?”

“We’re not looking for geniuses. We want people who are determined, quick-thinking, people with good perception and observational skills. The kinds of skills that are valuable in the working world but simply aren’t provided for by the average curriculum. There are exceptional students out there being failed by the system all the time-- these are the people we look for. To provide the opportunities you need to succeed and a safe, nurturing environment in which to realise your potential.”

He’d picked up all of that? Well, you figure it makes sense he’d have the kind of thing he’s looking for, and you’re certain there aren’t many out there as perceptive as you... what the hell. Why not? Free room and board, legitimised paperwork, and a registered student living on a Greenwich campus would fly under the Men’s radar, seeing as they’re chasing a homeless wild child out of Canada.

If it comes down to it, you can always run again.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll give your school a try.”

“That’s all I can ask of you. I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Logan.”

#xmen #x men #x campus #xcampus #wolverine #i now walk into the wild

9 notes · View notes

whosxafraid · 6 years

Note

Jayden and Luka for the Married Life

Meme: Married Life Meme Status: CLOSED

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Shame. He has it. But not about physical things. At least not a lot. And there’s a certain sort of walk mortals talk about; that you do the morning after. Walk of Shame, if he’s got that right. But that’s not the sort of walk he’s doing is it? Even if for a second he thinks about pulling on lounge pants and a shirt, but she’s already seen what he usually hides from the world….So in nothing more than what he was born in, he gets up. Stepping on clothes that had been shed last night because tunnel vision is one hell of a drug.

Gets the coffee started. Checks the fridge. Realizes they’ll have to go out for breakfast because he’s all out of eggs. Something brushed off for the time being, as he allows the door to fall back shut of it’s own volition. Back to the window to clear the bowl of creme and throw away the burned out candle. The slightest of twitches to his lips, because he doesn’t know why he bothers hoping things will change.

Off to the table, clicking on the tv. Switching it to the morning news, while he surfs through the supernatural want ads. Don’t knock it. Once in a while there’s a high paying job in these things. Not everyone could know him by word of mouth. Why? Because that takes part of the fun out of it. The coffee pings and not a moment later he picks up the tread of feet.

“Mornin’, love. Coffees ready. Be moi’ndin’ bringin’ me o’mug?”

A noise that sounds like agreement so he leaves her be. At least until a handfull of his ass is getting groped.

Ya know most people at least put on pants when they get up in the morning.

“Aye. Mos’ people do.”

forgets to run the dish washer

Time is…rather relative when you don’t age. And getting back from a job can be at any hour. Today it happens to be at two in the afternoon. He’s hungry. He’s tired. And he just wishes he could eat and sleep at the same time. But even he can’t manage that one. So eat first it is. Or would be if not for the fact the dishwashers not full of clean dishes. A minimal sigh, that pulls shoulders down into the dirt.

Okay, plan b. The steak gets put directly on the eye of the stove. Turned over twice. Picked up with tongues, then juggled between his hands a few moments before a chunk is bitten out of it. And that would have been the end of it if she hadn’t come home early. Stopped dead center in the kitchen door way, one brow lifted, like him with a pratically raw steak hanging out of his mouth is the weirdest thing she’s seen all week. Which by the way? He knows would be a lie if she tried it.

“In me de’fense? S’no’ d’weir’est d’ing ye be walkin’ in on me doin’….”

Did you just quote Tony Stark?

“Maybe?”

And there’s a tired grin around the pound of flesh between his teeth. At least until he pulls. Tearing off a bite and chewing.

Just….try not to get any on the floor and wipe up the stove. My mother’s coming over.

“Aye, love. As ye loi’ke.”

pumps gas for the car

It’s one little stop over. I don’t see why you’re…

“Oi’ said no. oi’dunna go d’ere less oi’absolutely have ta.”

Out of the car, leaving the door open. Pushing and pulling a card out. Punching in his pin. Punching the gas selection. He really hated rentals. But it couldn’t be helped.

Have you seriously scheduled every flight you ever taken to compensate for not even wanting to BE in England’s air space?

“Aye. An’ oi’ dunna plan on stoppin’ now, jus’cause i’be shavin’ an hour off travel toi’me.”

Luka this is ridiculous. It’s been what? Twelve hundred years? Let-it-go!

He shuts the driver’s door without response. He’s not going to continue this argument right now. And he lets his ears settle to the clicking of the gas pump. Let it go? Over his damned dead body, he will.

drives when they’re going somewhere

They’ve been driving for a half hour. Not a word between them. And this is not at all how he’d pictured driving to through the Italian country side but here they are. And there’s a small huff, as he lets the window down. Lights up. He’s not going to break the silence, because he’s not going to bend. Not on this. Even if he knows in his heart of hearts of hearts–it is a little stupid. But he’s bitter and he’s been bitter about that one thing for ages.

Fine. There’s a flight out of tomorrow night. Take an extra two hours but the lay overs in Iceland. Happy?

“Aye.”

She’s upset. But he’s not going to apologize for it. Not yet anyway.

rearranges the furniture

It starts with not leaving her be while she attempts to make herself tea. Hands where they shouldn’t be going at one in the afternoon. Hands that get soundly popped, thrice. So he backs off for all of fifteen seconds. Trying again from a different angle behind the couch. Hands on her shoulders that don’t waste a lot of time sinking further down as teeth nibble at her neck. And this time she’s got a hold of his nose. Pulling him up by it.

What’s gotten into you? I told you not right now. I have a meeting to get to in an hour.

“D’at’s plen’y o’toi’me….soi’des how ye expect me ta be keepin’ me hands ta meself when ye smell loi’ke ye do?”

And he’s pushing forward. Stealing a kiss. And there go his hands again. Wandering places he knows will get him what he wants.

Luka O’Ria–

And there’s a dawning sort of sun that rises over her entire being. Because it clicks and oh no. Oh god damn. And there really isn’t a fairness in making him wait. But she’s going to put up her best defense anyway. Because the chase is all part of the process.

So before he can react, she’s faded out of his hold. Appeared again behind the arm chair, and he moving with that one speed he usually saves for when he’s working. And the first thing to fall is the coffee table. The next the couch that’s tipped over, and the frame of it cracking under the pressure. The shattering of a light bulb when the lamp bites the dust. And by the end of it, one would think a small war had occurred in the loft.

Books knocked off shelves, furniture split open and/or split in half entirely. Scatch marks in the wood floors the same as in flesh. And in the middle of it all, the heated pair of them. Echos still drifting on the air, walls settling back into place from the pressure. And if there’s one thing for sure? She’s going to be late, just like he’s going to be furniture shopping after she leaves.

falls asleep with the TV on

Sometimes she can’t sleep. Sometimes he can’t. The only difference is how they handle it. And though each other doesn’t know it…the other always wakes up. The only difference is how they handle that too. But tonight’s a little different isn’t it? Because she wakes up a second time and he’s not come back to bed. The easy sound of water shifting as he cuts up and down the pool isn’t there. And well she can hardly be blamed can she?

Blanket wrapped snugly around her, treading lightly over wood panels. And to be honest she’d expected to find him bent over his table. Researching or working his way through plans for a job but what she finds…

He’s asleep. Head propped up by one hand, in his chair. The record player near by skipping off its track. And she’s twice as careful and quiet after that. Moving the book that’s been threatening to slide out of his lap for who knows how long, to the table. Hanging up the record needle and switching it off; along with the lamp. Pulling his head away from his hand, to lay it back against the chair, that she reclines. No sense in him waking up with a crik in his neck. Then comes the blanket. Cast over him as gently as possible, and there’s a small wince when a rather canine quaffle escapes him. But thankfully he doesn’t wake up. And Jay? She slips off back to bed. Not to say a word about it come morning.

gets to use the bathroom first

Sometimes but not always she wakes up first. Lays there in the stillness of the pre-dawn, wondering how she got here. Where she’d be if she wasn’t here. But then the quiet clink of metal and brown is drawn to the familiar looking up at her from across the room. And that’s her que isn’t it?

She gets up. Quiet and slow so as not to wake him. Not that she thinks a canon going off could do that right now. He’s probably still got enough alchol in his system (to numb the hole in his shoulder), to kill three horses. Something that is only emphasized by the way his hand slides from her middle. Flopping dead weight on the bed that’s already cooling with her absence.

Then it’s off to the bathroom. To shower and find clothes for the day. They’re not normal…they’ll never be that. But every once in a while it’s nice to pretend that they are. And she’ll let him sleep, while she lets Prue out before getting started on breakfast. Because canon fire might not rouse him, but the scent of sweet bread and bacon? That can raise the dead. Just don’t ask her how she knows that.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

I’m back!—-Luka?

“Up here, love.”

Holy shit, what the fuck are yo—

“Fan no’ runnin’. M’replacin’ d’rotor.”

How the hell did you even–

“Pulley ropes. Installed ‘em when oi’ renovated d’place.”

And there’s a few seconds where she’s just standing there with the bag of groceries. Open mouthed staring up into the ceiling where all she can really see are his swinging feet and the occasional flash of red hair. But then she’s shaking it off the almost surreal feeling of it all. Because how long ago had he renovated? The truth is? She doesn’t want to know. It’ll just make her feel like she’s five and remind her he’s older than the dirt her great five times removed grandmother was buried in. And she almost laughs when a question comes drifting down from the ceiling.

“D’ink ye can be doin’ me o’favor and flippin’ d’eigh’d breaker switch?”

sets up holiday decorations

Incessant knocking. And even though it takes him only a few seconds to open it, the person–or rather familiar–on the other side huffs. Pushes her way inside a bit frantically. Tinsel stuck in her hair and garland hanging off her shoulders. A crooked set of reindeer horns half cocked on her head.

Save me.

“From wha’, lass? Ye look loi’ke ye go’o’ttacked boi’y d’at wan’o’be elf.”

Jay. She’s decorating the shop and everything i–wait you’ve met Santa?!

“In passin’….”

Get out!

“Ye know fer o’magical bein’ ye no’ really me’ many people have ye?”

Well I mean yea I have but n—oh no. HIDE ME SHE’S COMING.

leaves the lights on

Sentimental.

There was a time when she’d gone. Disappeared out of his life as quick as a snowflake melts on his tongue. And he’d been forced to move on. Forced to pick up and keep going, because what choice did he have? Though it gnawed at him for decades. More so than any of the others that had come before her. And company…was not sought after in the wake of her. At least not in the same form.

And once a year, every year he’d put a candle of another kind in the window by his reading chair. Tall and strong. The kind of wick meant to burn slow and last well into the wee hours of the morning. And when he rose the next day it was cleared the same as the flameless light by the bowl of creme in the kitchen. So the routine became habit, until he’d stopped thinking his way through the ritual.

Stopped remembering every candle marked another birthday spent without her. Because the day wasn’t important it was the year in between. And though he knew in the bottom of his soul she had to be gone, the kind of gone mortals do not return from, by the fiftieth time, he’d carried onward through the decades.

The corpse of every single tower of wax still encases the single candle holder. Collecting dust now on a shelf. Its existence forgotten most days, because against odds he’d never imagined, she’d come back. So it is left to the ages of the past, where he has every intention of leaving it. Though he never finds the heart to throw it out. It had been his first birthday candle after all.

uses the bathroom with the door open

There are things. That no matter how old you become. No matter how weird the things are that you’ve seen…there is something utterly alien about what he’s currently staring at. Coffee filtering steam up into the air in front of him. To the point that he hasn’t moved in the last thirty seconds. To the point what the feck doesn’t even begin to cover it so it never makes it out of his mouth. Though it suddenly makes sense why the toilet paper would be torn off at weird angles periodically.

The sound of flushing, and then the clitter clatter of claws on the tile turning to wood panels. An annoyed sort of quaffle as the familiar goes click clacking by him. And honestly? He needs another few seconds to process it all; before he turns on his heel and vacates the door way. Because nope. He’s not had near enough coffee to calculate all the ways that didn’t add up. Only to get as far as the kitchen before remembering he had to piss. And its back round again, giving Jay nothing more than a single pointer finger, when she asks if he wants his eggs scrambled or fried.

One thing at a time.

One.thing.at.a.time.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

How should I know?! It just stopped pumping.

Hands up because okay, okay. And back down he goes. Cramming himself into a space he really should not be able to fit at all. Bending in ways he knows his back is going to be punishing him for later. But right now all that matters is getting the pump to the latte machine working. Before Jayden goes nuclear…literally.

Something turned….something else tightened. Flashlight between his teeth starting to taste like lead.

“Proi’y i’mouw.”

What?!

A sigh, worming his way back out. Yanking the flash light out of his mouth.

“Troi’y i’now.”

And there’s a second where he will never admit he’s holding his breath, because if that doesn’t do it….whirling and something fires off and there it goes. The vibration of the pump that’s the tell tell sign hot water is on it’s way up to fill the tank reserve in the machine.

YES!

It almost looks as though she’s going to hug it, instead opting to kiss its metal front; before she’s turning to him. Grabbing his face and planting one right on his lips. And ya know? The last thirty minutes of being squashed in the space too small for a toddler becomes completely worth it. Cob webs still stuck in his hair and beard regardless.

#anonymous #[3495834 years later my dude i am so srry it took this long]#moncaí || jayden morgan #Her Hands Are In His Hair His Clothes Are In Her Room || Jayde and Luka #tra la la la la || main verse #return to sender || answered asks #morgansmornings

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smolfangirl · 6 years

Text

All Too Well

This is what happens when I am not in the mood for my WIP, stumble over an old, old idea that works so much better now and just really need to deal with my own emotions. The title is taken from the very same song that played over and over while writing this, Taylor Swift’s “All Too Well”.

Just a warning, it’s 5.4k words long... Sorry not sorry.

It was the fault of these two idiots. These biggest idiots on earth.

Matteo knows blaming someone changes nothing. Blaming them won’t rewind the present to a better past. He knows it.

Yet he can’t help it, just like he can’t help seeing these pictures in his head. They play over and over again, up to a point where he wants to scream, wants to punch something, wants to fall unconscious just so it finally stops.

The pictures play another time.

“Luna! Oh my god!” Those are the first words coming out of his mouth. Then, “Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Can you stand?” He hurries over to her, thinking that he shouldn’t confuse her with this waterfall of questions, so he shuts his mouth and carefully supports her.

He gets a slight nod in return, and the slightest curve forms on her mouth. She holds onto his neck as she slowly lifts herself up.

“Let me see if you’re bleeding”, he says and takes her helmet off. His grip remains firm on her waist.

In the background, Tino is blaming Cato, for whatever reason – Matteo pays no attention to their stupid discussion. The only important thing right now is Luna.

His fingers gently run over her head, checking for small injuries invisible underneath her curls. Luna hisses when he reaches a spot behind her ears, on the side she fell on. “I’m sorry”, he mutters.

“Hey, don’t be, it’s not your fault this time. You can let go, I can stand on my own”, she replies, finally with a bit more color on her cheeks, “You don’t need to worry, I’m go – “

She faints.

In everything that happens afterwards, the voice inside blaming him grows louder, like sirens in the night and sometimes, he can’t curse on Tino and Cato and the car accident anymore.

He can only curse himself.

“You did nothing wrong”, Monica tells him. Matteo shakes his head. He did nothing right too.

Blood-tainted sidewalks haunt his dreams.

Every time, he shrieks up covered in sweat. He desperately tries to breathe regularly, to cling to some form of existing that doesn’t hurt.

Neither his dreams nor reality grant him this kind of mercy.

The diagnosis knocks them all of their feet: traumatic brain injury with retrograde amnesia.

Matteo isn’t allowed to see her. Her parents call him the day the doctors finish all their tests, they’re crying, and soon he is too. “She doesn’t remember anything about Buenos Aires”, they tell him. Not the rink, not her friends. Not Matteo.

Nothing.

Simón gets to see her. The only thing Matteo gets is a flyer with a list of therapists, a nurse hands it to him the one time he goes to the hospital, wondering if they let him steal at least a glimpse at her. (They don’t.)

Two days after the doctor allow Luna to go home, he knocks on the door, in his hands the biggest bouquet of flowers he could buy without a pre-order.

Her dad opens. “Anything new?”, Matteo wants to know. Does she remember me yet?

Miguel shakes his head as he lets him in.

The familiar knot in his throat appears. By now, Matteo is used to this, to it all. The tears, the never-ending feeling of guilt, no matter how many times someone else tells him he did nothing wrong, he helped, he did everything he could. (But if he did, why was Luna’s memory a blank space?) The hot and cold sweating during a panic attack, and the numbness that fills him after another sleepless night.

The only thing he still stumbles over is this stupid hope her memories might come back, after one more story told, one more day, one more week.

Luna sits by the kitchen table. One of Simón’s beanies covers half her hair, it’s ridiculously big for her, yet seeing her takes his breath away like no panic attack before managed.

She’s still utterly beautiful.

“Luna, darling, there’s someone who’d like to see you”, her dad catches her attention while he searches for a vase big enough to hold the bouquet. Matteo decides to bring a smaller one next time.

Her eyes jump over to him, immediately roaming his face. By the frown on her forehead, she’s trying to connect the dots but fails, and it makes her groan from frustration.

Finally, she sighs. “I guess you’re the boyfriend my parents told me about?” Her accent comes on stronger than he remembered.

“Yeah”, he chuckles and rubs his neck. Although he knows better, the anxiety gets the best of him and he blurts out, “Can’t believe you got so lucky, huh?”

Luna frowns. “I don’t remember you.”

Hearing it out of her mouth stings worse than a stab in the back. “I know.”

“At all”, she goes on, as if she wants to make sure the dagger reaches his heart, “It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time.” Matteo glances at Miguel, who sends him a warm smile. How come her parents know more about him now than she does? It’s not fair. “Yeah, that must be – “

She interrupts him. “I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone I don’t know.”

Matteo swallows, but the knot gets bigger with every word she says, soon he won’t be able to breathe properly, and he will have to repeat the exercise his doctor showed him for those cases. “I, I understand.” He gets no further than that.

“Sorry.” She shrugs. For a moment, they’re silent. He wonders if coming here perhaps wasn’t his best idea, and if she’s done breaking his heart yet.

(Inhale, 5, 6, 7, 8 – stop, 1, 2 ,3 – exhale, 5, 6, 7, 8. Inhale, stop, exhale. Inhale, stop –)

Turns out, she’s not. “I don’t need a boyfriend at all. I need my family and my best friend.”

“Okay.” His voice breaks. Another half-smile from Miguel, but Matteo is sick of all this pity. He doesn’t want it, he wants his girlfriend back. Luna.

The girl in front of him solely resembles her from the outside. When she speaks, her hair whips just the same, and she makes short pauses in between thoughts. Her nails are painted in the familiar shades of yellow and pink, her necklace still dangles from her neck.

Besides that, Matteo recognizes nothing from his solare in her. Coldness surrounds this girl, the temperature in the room drops with a single glance out of her eyes, and even more when Luna turns away from him.

“Dad, I want to go to my room.” She stares at the wall next to Matteo when she adds, “You are not invited.”

Before they leave, Miguel’s lips form what reads like “Mood swings”. Not that he needed to give Matteo an explanation – in the past weeks, he read everything about her diagnosis that he could find.

None of this reading prepared him for this pain now, though.

If life was an ocean, Matteo currently drowned more than he stayed afloat.

Wave after wave hits him, pushes him away from the surface. His lungs fill with salty water until they burn from it. It takes all his strength to swim up, and when he breaks through the surface, he finds himself lost. No shore in sight, only an unforgiving sea.

Sometimes, the ocean calms down for a while, not long enough to recover and find a safe haven, but long enough to think of something other than merely staying alive. Right now, Matteo finds some room in his thoughts for university. His application forms for Oxford aren’t completed yet, and if he wants to start classes in October, he has to organize an early graduation now.

University scares him, if he’s honest. The change, the next fresh start in a new country, it’s more than he originally planned, more than he still wants. But then, what choice does he have? He suffocates in this city.

Matteo shushes the thoughts away. Crying won’t turn back time, so he might as well stop bawling his heart out and focus on university. On his future.

He reaches into his upper drawer, expecting the copy of his references there. What he finds instead is a little green bracelet.

Luna’s bracelet.

Closing his eyes, the tears already fall down while he remembers that moment. She gave it to him as a lucky charm before an audition at a local music label. Her small fingers placed it in his palm and closed his hand around it before she pressed a kiss on his skin. “Keep it, then you always have something that reminds you of me.”

The audition didn’t go well enough, but he always kept this bracelet close.

He falls back into the ocean, drowning, always drowning. Before the accident, Matteo lived in the present. Looking back was never worth the trouble, and after meeting Luna he only cared about the present and the promises of a beautiful future. These days, he’s a slave of these few months with her, of the craving to travel back in time so much that his bones rattle from knowing it can never be.

His tears taste of salt and emptiness. The bracelet gives in under the pressure of his fist. It will never be his lucky charm again.

It will always be his curse and the moon will always control the ocean.

Later, when the school approves of his plan to leave earlier, he tells Gastón. “But you won’t be happy there”, his best friend comments, shaking his head.

“Do you think I’ll be happy here? Where I will see those memories wherever I go, while she will never remember me? It doesn’t even matter if they’ll go back to Cancún or not, because in my heart, she will always be here.” Matteo sighs. Every moment with her flashes through his mind, all day, keeping him sane while killing him from the inside and he still needs to find out how that works.

“I just have to leave.”

Speechless, Gastón pulls him into a hug. It’s nothing like the ones Luna used to give him.

Grieving and heartache, Matteo thinks, do not come in stages. He saw TED talks about it once, nodding during the presentation because a deep running truth seemed to shimmer through those words. At the end he decided it made sense.

It doesn’t anymore.

Instead, those two things come in cycles, a never-ending chain of pain that allows him a short look at the sun here, another glimpse there, but mercilessly pulls him back into the darkness. Maybe he feels okay for a day. Maybe he can sit in classes, concentrate on the teacher. Maybe he can pay a visit to the rink, where he puts on his skates and speaks about trainings, competitions, and Opens without wandering on the edge of tears. Maybe the guards that protect his friends from his overwhelming grief stay in place for three days in a row.

Maybe.

But it will never last.

Because then he goes home (or the place his parents named home), and there is no one jumping on his bed asking for a hug and two kisses with puppy eyes. Because then he takes a shower, and there is no one using the shampoo next to his and he sniffs at it while his eyes end up wet, but he’s surrounded by water drops so it doesn’t matter.

It will never last because at night, the moon is the only thing on his mind.

A day after his last final, Matteo is back at the mansion. The box in his hands weighs nothing compared to the heaviness crushing his heart down. When Luna opens the door, he smiles, knowing it must look forced. It certainly feels forced.

No word leaves her mouth, yet a thought bubble floats above her head, clearly for him to read. Ugh, him again.

(He read about the symptoms that come along with her injury. Thinking your boyfriend is an annoying asshole wasn’t one of them. Then again, mood swings were.)

She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, frowning.

“Long time no see.” She doesn’t sound too fond of him back here.

“Um, I brought the stuff you still had at my place. Thought there’d be no reason to keep it.”

Technically, he’s telling the truth – he excluded the word all on purpose. A few things of her remain scattered in his room, probably always will. A hairbrush. A hoodie that gives off last hints of her perfume if he buries his face in it. A bottle of shampoo in his bathroom and a copy of her favorite book on his nightstand. And a little green bracelet.

Matteo postponed this moment for months. Told himself she’d change her mind eventually, that she’d come to the conclusion he deserved something. A call, an “I’m sorry I was so harsh”-text. In his wildest dreams, an honest attempt at friendship. Anything would have done, really.

But it always remained a simple idea, nothing but a daydream he colored in too vividly and now looked like a vomited rainbow next to a sad black and white movie.

“Cool”, Luna replies while she stares him down.

As it becomes obvious she won’t let him in, he places the box on the ground. His hand rubs over his arm, while he shifts from one foot to the other, trying to find better things to do than to get lost in the ice-cold sea of her eyes. Not always did he feel so unsure around her. So fragile.

Matteo clears his throat. “I, eh, know it’s awkward for you, but can I hug you before I go?”

“Fine.” Her voice contradicts her answer, her body language does too. However, for once Matteo is willing to ignore it.

His hands are shaking when they reach out and softly land on her shoulder blades. One last time. He has this single shot and he plans on savoring the tiniest detail of it.

Closed eyes, the impressions flood his other senses. She’s warm in his arms, soft, a pillow to sink into. Her perfume lingers in his nose, the same meadow planted with the sweetest flowers as always. Her curls tickle his hand. He lets his finger wander through them just for a second before he rests them on her shoulder again. (The back feels too much like pushing his luck.)

Never was the difference between them as striking – her memory is an empty canvas, while his is a crumbled-up piece of paper with every sentence crossed out. He isn’t ready for the thought, fights back tears when his chest uses the opportunity to betray him. An earthquake erupts from his lungs, everything held together by his ribcage crashes down in notorious sobs until Luna notices too.

She steps away, and he knows, after all, that he lost her for good.

“I’m sorry.” The last syllable leaves his mouth in barely a whisper.

“No, I am. I don’t even know what past me saw in you, but I hope you’ll get over whatever this ever was.”

He knows he won’t.

After dinner, when Luna finishes the last exercises her new private tutor gave her, Simón comes over. She’s infinitely grateful for the distraction. School bores her, and when it doesn’t, it gives her a headache because focusing for a long time is still hard. The tutor helps, though, and thanks to Miss Benson the costs are fully covered. She said it’s the least she can do since the two guys responsible for this whole accident were her employees.

Or that’s what the police report said.

(It itches her that Matteo of all things is listed there too, as the one who was there, who helped and called the ambulance. This weird guy who everyone claims was her boyfriend. That guy!)

“How are you doing, Luna?”, Simón greets her while he pulls her into a hug.

She sighs, thinking about what to say. There’s school and the upcoming finals. All these people calling themselves her friends offered help already, and they’re nice, really. However, they tip-toe around her too much, avoid certain topics too obviously. A part of her continues to search for the missing memories that could kill the awkwardness in these interactions. She never finds it, which is overly frustrating, to say the least.

There’s mom and dad too. They worry. A lot. It gets better now that she returned to the Blake, and Luna hopes they can look at her soon without a nervous spark in their eyes.

Simón knows all this, though. They’d been over this more than once, the topics annoy even her.

“He was here again; can you believe it?”, she finally says. For a moment, her best friend glares at her in silence. “Who? Oh, Matteo?”

Luna nods, letting herself fall on her bed next to him.

“Really? Why, what did he want?”

Her gaze settles on the ceiling until little figures step out from the spots. Weird-headed animals, a mermaid without arms, and, in the right corner of her vision, a crumbled heart. She blinks.

“He said he wanted to bring back all the things I still had at his place. I don’t understand why he bothered, it’s not like I would know if something was missing.”

Simón musters her, it’s evident even before she moves her head to return his stare. Matteo is the only sore spot between them. Luna fails to grasp why her best friend picks his side every time his name drops, when just that name alone is a blank space to her.

His reaction (silent, but judging) comes as no surprise, though. It’s the price she decided to pay for venting about this guy. Ever since he hugged her on the doorsteps, she felt the urge to talk to someone about it, and Simón is the only option she trusts.

“Anyway, I think he finally understood I am not interested, so I’m pretty sure I will never see him again unless he runs into me at school. And that’s only a possibility for two more months. You said he’ll graduate this year, right?”

Simón shakes his head. He already picked sides, and he wouldn’t jump teams, Luna knows that. Right now, though, she’s close to cursing at him. Where was his support as her best friend?

“What?”, she demands as she nudges her arms against the spot over his waist that tickles the most.

“Did you say that to him? That you have no interest?”

His mouth forms a straight line where usually a smile rests. Luna frowns, trying to figure out what exactly bothers him so much. Something about her words stole his smile, the easiness in his voice, and it digs a cliff between them although he lays right next to her.

She can see the ground already.

“Not like that, no”, she shrugs. “I said I don’t know what past me saw in him, but he received that message loud and clear, I think.”

Abruptly, Simón sits up. In the process, he bumps against her shoulder, not that she really senses it when his expression crumbles faster than a house of cards in a windstorm. “You said what? That is…” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Ultimately, he looks away, speechless, hand running through his hair.

A pout slips on her face while she robs closer to take his hand. Her fingers look small on top of his, always have, always will, but the view provides a comfort she rarely finds these days. “Are you mad at me?”

“I just don’t understand it. I don’t understand why you go out of your way to be… I don’t know. I guess I can’t understand why you won’t give him a chance. He’s really heartbroken about it, and you had no problem talking to your other friends again.”

“I wouldn’t call them friends.”

“But you talk to them. You see them in school, you try. Why not with him? I’m not asking you to make out with him.”

“Good, cause I would never!”, she fires back, she’s mad now even when she doesn’t want to be. “Simón, come on, the first thing that came out of his mouth was ‘Can’t believe you got so lucky, huh?’ What kind of person says that? He’s just weird, okay?”

He made her feel weird too. She doesn’t say that. But she remembers the look in his eyes the second he went in to hug her. Pain, a lot of it. He flinched at her words before, like a wounded animal, but in that moment, he looked like giving up.

Yet, it’s not what causes a shiver on her spine.

What haunts her is the way he looked at her like no one had ever before, like she never imagined someone would. Like he loved her.

Luna shakes her head. Even if they were a couple, he could barely grow to love her in the few months they supposedly dated.

Meanwhile, on her bed, Simón chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“He said that, I can’t…”, another huffed laughter, another gasp for air, “He went full fresa on you and you don’t even remember you called him chico fresa all the time.” A grin rests on his lips, the mattress vibrates softly.

“I dated a snob? That’s not funny, that’s sad.”

Now it’s Simón reaching for her ticklish spot. Luna shrieks, but decides not to fight back when he answers, “I’m sure he was super nervous about seeing you again.”

“Don’t defend him”, she replies. Then, she changes her mind and attacks. They spent the next minutes tickling each other and pleading for air and mercy. When the battle is over (she wins), no one brings Matteo up again.

Her old phone lays in the drawer of her nightstand. She stumbles over it when she searches for one of her bracelets from Cancún, but seeing the phone erases every thought, it’s prominent against all the white noise in her head.

It fits perfectly into her hand but doesn’t react at any pressed button. The battery ran out many weeks ago. In the two hours it takes to recharge, her mind jumps back and forth. Should she glimpse at the life she doesn’t remember? Between yes and no, Luna never settles on one decision. Whatever she chooses, she doubts it will bring her peace.

(But she’s so curious.)

She grabs her post-accident phone to text Simón. Surely, he knows her pin code, and if he doesn’t, even better. Then the decision isn’t her burden anymore.

He remembers. A few minutes later, the line of numbers he sent her indeed unlocks the screen – to a picture of her and Matteo.

Luna groans. Hesitates. Stares at the picture. Objectively, it’s nice, even pretty. They’re on some rink, both wearing skates, and the light dances over them. He carries her, bride-style, and they’re lost in each other’s eyes while the most stupid, love-drunk smiles grace their faces.

If this wasn’t her, Luna would have rolled her eyes at so much cheesiness. But it is her, so instead, she feels weird, as if someone punched her in the stomach.

She hesitates even more, her thumb hovering over the Messages icon. If the home screen already evoked such a response from her…

“Luna! Dinner is ready!”, her mom yells from downstairs. With a sigh, she throws the phone on her bed.

Not once can she stop thinking about it.

Chico fresa: Someone just fell in the park, first thought it was you but then I remembered you were still in school :P

Haha you are so funny, oh wait, no you are not

Chico fresa: Aww, is someone unable to take a joke?

Said the one who pouted at me for half a day bc I laughed when Gastón roasted you for the burned pizza

Chico fresa: The pizza wasn’t burned!! Just crusty

Thx for proving my point :D

Chico fresa: …

Chico fresa: As my princesa demanded, the curls are back :D

Chico fresa sent a picture.

I love it C Asked mom btw and she said it’s okay so see you tonight!!

Chico fresa: Can’t wait, don’t forget the popcorn, love you

I won’t, promise! Love you more

Luna can’t stop reading. She’s attached to this phone now, over breakfast, in between classes, at night before her eyes get too heavy to read.

The messages pull her in like her favorite book does, the world around her fades as she dives in deeper into her own story. The Matteo she reads about is funny, he cares about her, although his ego elicits an eyeroll on more than one occasion.

The Matteo she reads sounds different from the one she saw these two times. But in the end, the texts make her relationship with him real. Undeniably real. And although she keeps scrolling and scrolling, the texts never come to an end. Not three weeks before her accident, not half a year before.

When focusing on words becomes too exhausting, she opens the gallery to a collection of selfies. On the same rink from her home screen, in a café, and a lot of other places unknown to her. One folder is named “Matteo” with a heart emoji next to his name. He’s handsome in every single picture. His smile probably breaks all the hearts at the Blake. His smile probably breaks all the hearts, period.

She saw these photographs so many times, that they remain crystal-clear in her memory when she closes her eyes.

They still don’t make any sense to her.

“You said there’s this girl who films everything.”

Simón glimpses at her from half-shut eyes. He lays on his back, head dangling over the top of her mattress. “Huh?” Given the rough tone in his voice, she interrupted him in the middle of a nap.

“I was wondering if there are videos of… well, Matteo and me. Together.”

He sits up, checking her with his head tilt, but then he shrugs and reaches for his phone. “Sure. Wait a sec, I’ll ask Jazmín.”

It’s so much worse than she imagined.

“This was your first competition with him”, Simón declares, and a bit later, Luna watches herself kissing Matteo.

Her cheeks burn so badly, she feels the urge to crawl into the freezer.

As she buries her head in her hands, Simón softly taps her shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

“I… That’s maybe my first kiss, and then it’s with that guy!” Silence. She shakes her head and gestures at the screen, where they’re melting into each other, frozen. “Ugh, and look at me, it’s so obvious I wanted it!”

At that, her best friend flinches.

She watches the other videos on her own.

Most videos show them skating on a rink. Figure skating that means – Luna had no idea she could do that. Everyone told her, and there’d been a few pictures on her phone. Yet she only stops brushing it off now that she’s seeing herself. A few videos of them singing on stage, voices in harmony like two birds from the same feather. A shiver runs over her back and arms before she sighs and presses the Pause button.

Before he left, Simón told her they hadn’t been a couple in all these videos, but honestly? It’s hard to tell the difference. There’s one clip from what looks like a café, he’s stealing her milkshake and she complains but bursts into laughter. The video ends when they notice someone is filming them, they yell “Jazmín!” and the screen turns black.

Luna can’t decide which video gives her the most goosebumps. She could imagine living in Buenos Aires, liking the city, even going to a fancy private school and calling a luxurious mansion her home. But Matteo is the one puzzle piece that doesn’t fit the picture. He feels out of place, like he doesn’t truly belong with her.

All the proof she collected so far makes her wonder if she was too quick to judge.

Warm water falls on her, the scent of her shampoo fills the sticky air and she hums along to the songs playing from her phone. She rinses her hair as the playlist ends, leaving her in silence. Except there’s suddenly a new melody, one she doesn’t recognize but vibrates in her throat nevertheless.

Vienes a quebrar la soledad, te encuentro despierto

Te miro y espero

Dame solo un poco de paz

Like fish out of water, these snippets strand on the beach of her consciousness. They shimmer in the sun, but the colors are new to her, nothing alike to what she knows. Luna can’t tell whether it’s a memory or a song idea, but she never wrote a song, never developed the aspiration.

Maybe the accident turned her into a songwriter. The nurses told her crazier stories, about a man fluent in French when he woke up, although he’d never learned it.

Writing a song isn’t that crazy.

Back in her room, Luna searches for both the lyrics and the man on the internet. Google shows only results for the latter.

Her parents don’t recognize the song either.

It’s Nina who eventually gives her a lead. They sit in the sun during lunch break, and despite her best efforts, the words slip out in half a whisper. Once they begin to play, they repeat like a broken record, she’s sick of it, she wants to hear the rest.

(She tried writing this song. To call it a disaster was an understatement.)

“Is that the song Matteo wrote for you?”, Nina finally asks, face hidden behind a layer of hair.

“What?”

“Oh, my bad”, she mumbles. “I forgot you don’t want to hear about him. I’m sorry, really.”

Well, Nina wasn’t wrong. Luna used to avoid the topic like other people avoided spiders or heights or emotional commitment. She used to hide behind every possible excuse to explain why she rolled her eyes at his name and changed directions as soon as she spotted him in the hallways. He’s weird, he looks like he knows he’s better than everyone else. He’s too handsome to be trusted. I don’t need a boyfriend, I have to focus on getting better.

I have no idea what past me saw in him.

“No, it’s okay, I… I think I want to know. You said he wrote a song for me?”

“Well, that’s what you told me, before the accident? But we never heard him play it, so it was just a guess. Do you remember something?” Her gaze settles on Luna. Anyone else who looked at her like this, asked her questions like this, made her uncomfortable. Even her own parents, even Simón.

With Nina, it’s different.

Nina is careful. Not just with her, but with everyone. And Luna can’t explain why, but it’s all it takes for her to call Nina a friend, to admit a truth to her that she herself barely accepts yet. “I wish I would.”

In class, Luna unlocks her old phone to the chat with Matteo. Somewhere between all the pictures they sent back and forth, she stumbles over an audio from him, four minutes long. Many things could be an audio record this long, she tries to not get ahead of herself, to be realistic, although her chest fills with excitement already.

Getting home takes way too long.

Her hand tight around the phone in her pocket, she takes the first step on the staircase, just when her mom shouts her name from the kitchen.

“What?”, Luna shouts back, unwilling to move if it doesn’t involve getting to her room as soon as possible.

“Don’t forget we have to leave for your doctor’s appointment in an hour!”

Doctor’s appointments, the one thing she hates more than the silence when someone realized they talked about a past lost to her. The doctor asks too many questions, about headaches, about how she feels, about her everyday routine, if she wants to see a therapist.

Her answers always remain the same: rarely, okay, she sticks to it, no.

“Yeah, okay!”, she replies, not meaning it, then hurries up to her room. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears when the audio message opens and a gentle guitar strips every thought away until there’s only the music, a soft voice and an ocean of feelings.

Hi.

Error: invalid phone number. The number you are trying to reach no longer exists.

Hey, it’s Luna here... I found the song Matteo wrote, and Idk he’s not at school anymore so I tried to text him but my phone keeps saying his number doesn’t exist anymore and what I want to ask bc I guess you’re his best friend… do you have his new number?

Sorry for the unnecessary long message

Gastón: Yes

#soy luna #lutteo #my sl fanfiction

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squireren-blog · 6 years

Text

“Advice” for Women Suffering Period “Discomfort” with Commentary (or How I Learned to Want a Menstruation Hut)

Source: “Can’t Sleep While You’re On You’re Period? Here’s Why from The Huffington Post

Your body temperature rises over the course of your menstrual cycle

Your core body temperature rises between a half and a whole degree during your period. This can be a problem because an evening drop in body temperature is one of the main biological triggers that makes you feel sleepy.

How to fix it: Make sure your bedroom is cooled to optimal sleeping temperature: about 60-67 degrees Fahrenheit. ….[Trick] your body into drowsiness with a warm bath or shower, because moving from warm water to your cool bedroom will make your body temperature drop. And consider sleeping with fewer covers.

Take a warm, soothing, comforting shower then expose yourself to un-comforting cold. Just stop feeling so icky; just take off the blanket and the other blanket and the other one.

Mood swings make you feel anxious or depressed

Period-related mood swings are very normal; hormones like estrogen and progesterone drop right before your period, making you experience negative emotions more strongly. And anxiety and depression make it tough to fall asleep at night.

How to fix it: First, just being aware that some of your mood swings can be attributed to hormones can help ease the problem, by untangling your mind-body matrix. So consider tracking your period with an app or on a calendar. During your period itself, you can try deep breathing, meditation or yoga to relax and unwind before bedtime.

NO FUCKING SHIT! Mood swings make you feel anxious or depressed or both! But just think it away. Simply tell yourself, “eh, I’m on my period. That’s why I’m moody. Ok. Back to being well-adjusted.” Let me just set up an app or calendar so I can have alerts for these miserable days. Being aware will make it all better.

Then take your period achy body and contort it into positions that might not feel natural to your inflexible corporeal self. Obsess further on the negative thoughts that will send you spiraling into a deeper depression.

Nausea, indigestion, and other stomach issues make it tough to fall or stay asleep.

You may have noticed digestive upsets during menstruation such as indigestion, nausea or diarrhea, all of which can disrupt sleep.

How to fix it: Although you may be tempted by ice cream, chocolate or other comfort foods…[avoid] heavy meals before bedtime. Instead, try one of these snacks that can actually help you sleep, like toast, trail mix or plain rice.

Yummmmmmmmmmmy! Browned bread, nuts and raisins or the stuff my raw fish lays on in my sushi instead of creamy ice cream or sweet, comforting chocolate. Why does anyone suffer from period pain when these delicious foods are available? After all, these are same tasty foods that are recommended to people who are nauseous or have diarrhea.

Cramps, headaches and muscle pain can make it hard to get comfortable.

This one’s a no-brainer: For many women, periods = pain, whether that’s through cramps or generalized muscle pain. Left untreated, this pain can make it hard to get comfortable enough to fall asleep.

How to fix it: Try changing your sleep position, adding or subtracting pillows, or using a heating pad to relieve pressure. You can also pop a mild painkiller like Tylenol or Advil to relieve discomfort. But, Dr. Duncan cautions, don’t overdo it: If you regularly take Advil or other painkillers, you can actually experience withdrawal when you quit, which can make the problem worse. “Know your own body,” Duncan says.

When it comes to headaches, a small amount of caffeine can be helpful, but overdoing it can have the opposite effect. To make sure you’re tired enough to fall asleep, Duncan recommends cutting caffeine out altogether in the afternoon.

Can’t sleep? Toss and turn. Move the pillows around in various places in and around under and between body parts (Are you still trying to sleep with the blankets on? Tsk. Tsk.)

Take a painkiller…but wait, not too many. You don’t want to make your period give you withdrawal symptoms or liver damage now do you?

Didn’t we mention earlier that your period will make you tired? Okay because don’t try to use caffeine to help you get through your day if it’s already the afternoon.

And for pain, wait, I have the blanket off to keep cool, but should I use a heating pad?

Your cycle actually causes insomnia

During your period, your body’s levels of the hormone progesterone drop dramatically. This can make it hard to sleep because progesterone is a “soporific” hormone, meaning it has a mild sedative effect. (Higher-than-usual progesterone is also why you may feel sleepy the week before your period, during PMS.)

The fix: Again, Duncan recommends avoiding caffeine for several hours before bed because it will exacerbate the issue. And the week before your period, recognize the fact that increased progesterone increases your need for sleep, and try going to bed 30 minutes earlier. Or take a 20 minute power nap, suggests Duncan. You can also keep a sleep log or make a sleep schedule to regularize your bedtime, and note any fluctuations in sleep behavior for next month.

Duncan suggests one thing that can blunt many of these symptoms: any type of hormonal birth control (like the pill or a certain IUDs). “Any hormonal birth control decreases the fluctuation in estrogen and progesterone that is responsible for nearly all of these symptoms,” says Duncan. “So an added benefit of these forms of contraception can be better sleep!”

While you’re deep in the pit of despair from depression and bawling uncontrollably because your crush doesn’t exist in real life or simply because you dropped your child off at school, or you yell at the CVS cashier because he’s trying to save you money on your feminine hygiene needs, sure, take a moment to just be logical and recognize that your progesterone is increasing and you should take a nap or go to bed early.

So what if you’re a single mother who has to work 2 jobs or stay up late grading papers or have a child who broke out in hives – forget all that. Throw in a power nap that you usually askew on non-PMS or period days simply because you don’t need it, not because you have absolutely no free time. Do laundry or power nap because I’m on my period? Shower or power nap because I’m on my period? Leave my child unsupervised because I need to get to bed early?

Go on the pill? Bitch, this is all happening and I’m already on the pill!

Isn’t there just a magic pill? One thing I can take to help to make this all go away?

Painaway Advertisement

Having a period is a natural thing. Didn’t mother nature make sure there were things in nature that can help relieve this. What about supplements? Hold on. Let me try another source.

Source: unknown

So, shit, being on my period, my memory is impaired, and I forgot to keep track of where the following information on supplements came from. Being certain I will be busted for plagiarism will give me something to fixate my sharpened anxiety on as I lay awake from insomnia.

A number of supplements have been shown to help ease PMS symptoms by improving metabolic function and hormone metabolism. Here are the superstars:

Magnesium citrate or glycinate — Take 400 to 600 mg a day.

Calcium citrate — Take 600 mg a day.

Vitamin B6 — Take 50 to 100 mg a day along with 800 mcg of folate and 1,000 mcg of vitamin B12.

Evening primrose oil — Take two 500mg capsules twice a day.

EPA/DHA (omega 3 fats) — Take 1,000 mg once or twice a day.

Taurine — Take 500 mg a day to help liver detoxification.

A good daily multivitamin (all the nutrients work together)

Herbs and phytonutrients can also be very helpful. Here are the best studied and most effective:

Chasteberry fruit extract (Vitex Agnus-astus) can help balance the hormones released by the pituitary gland that control your overall hormone function. Studies of over 5,000 women have found it effective. Take 100 mg twice a day of a 10:1 extract.

Wild yam (Dioscorea villosa) and cramp bark (Viburum opulus) can help regulate cycles and relieve menstrual cramps.

Dandelion root can help with liver detoxification and works as a diuretic.

Isoflavones from soy, red clover, or kudzu root improve estrogen detoxification by boosting the activity of specific detox enzymes. They can be taken as supplements or consumed in the diet.

Flax seeds contain lignans that help balance hormone metabolism and block the negative effects of excess estrogens.

Chinese herbal formulas may also help. One of the most effective is Xiao Yao San, or Rambling Powder. It contains: Bupleurum Root (Bupleurum chinense), Chinese Peony Root (Paeonia lactiflora), Dong Quai Root (Angelica sinensis), Bai-Zhu Atractylodes Root (Atractylodes macrocephala), Poria Sclerotium (Poria cocos), Ginger Rhizome (Zingiber officinale), Chinese Licorice Root (Glycyrrhiza uralensis),and Chinese Mint Leaf (Mentha haplocalyx)

Replacing healthy bacteria in the gut also helps normalize estrogen and hormone metabolism. Take 5 to 10 billion live organisms in a daily probiotic supplement.

For intractable cases, I will occasionally use topical, natural bioidentical progesterone in the last two weeks of the menstrual cycle. The usual dose is ½ tsp (20 to 40 mg) applied at night to thin skin areas for the last two weeks of the menstrual cycle.

Oh, good, only 15 – FIF-TEEN! – supplements, herbs, and phytonutrients to take. Do I fucking use all of them? Where the fuck do I even get these?

Source: “13 Ways to Deal with Menstrual Insomnia” from Reader’s Digest

Adjust your pill times

On the other hand, if you’re already taking another medication that has drowsiness as a side effect, ask your doctor if you can take that drug an hour before bed instead of whenever you’ve been taking it. A side effect like drowsiness can work against you during the day, but you can use it to your advantage at night.

Oh shit! Which one of those 15 supplements will make me drowsy and which will keep me awake so I can follow advice about not taking medications that might keep me awake?

Watch out for wild cards

“Some women may have other conditions that worsen during their cycle,” says Dr. Moline, and any associated sleepiness may become exaggerated, possibly because of changes in blood volume. When blood volume increases, your blood levels of medication may drop outside the therapeutic window.

If sleepiness may become exaggerated then why is there insomnia still a symptom? As for the blood level thing, do I need to take extra doses of supplements for them to have an effect?

Kill the pain

If pelvic pain keeps you up during your period, talk to your doctor about taking an over-the-counter NSAID (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug) like ibuprofen, plus a vitamin B complex and magnesium supplement. And don’t forget the old remedies of a heating pad or sex to relieve the pain. You can also often block the chemicals that produce pain with a daily aerobic workout.

Again with a heating pad but try to stay cool by keeping off the covers. Oh, aerobic exercise! Sure that’s what I’m motivated to do when it feels like my uterus is being inflated into an iron maiden, and I’m tired because the other source told me that I might be so tired that I should take a power nap. Should I schedule the aerobic exercise before of after the power nap that I squeeze in by avoiding eating or spending time with my child?

And kill the pain with sex? Well, I ruined that possibility while I was PMS-ing. The guy I might consider having sex with almost lost his head when I tried to bite it off after I misinterpreted something he said the other day. This was after I threw my drink in his face. After my PMS-yelling-and-sobbing-for-forgiveness fit, I did straddle him, but for some reason, he wasn’t interested in sex, then, so I’m not so sure he’d be willing now. Besides, I’m too damn tired to fuck because my god-damned period causes fatigue.

Pay Attention To Basics

Increase the likelihood you’ll sleep by creating a restful environment. Make your sleep area a comfortable, dark place in which you feel safe. Keep soothing teas and herbal hot packs within reach.

Wait, keep hot drinks and hot packs near me while I sleep when I’m supposed to try to keep myself cool, kicking off the blankets? What? I’m so fucking confused and more irritable from this advice than I was when I desperately began seeking advice for relief of this misery of menstruation.

Stick with just a nibble

Menstruating women sometimes get so hungry they seem to eat every couple of hours. But eating heavily right before bed could leave you wide awake with an overly full belly. If you’re hungry close to bedtime, stick with just a bite or two of something light, like a few nuts. Find out the best foods to eat during your period here.

So this is even more restrictive than the other source’s advice. Just nuts. Not even the toast or rice. But like the other advice: No chocolate. No ice cream. No bag of chicharrones. No cans of frosting. What about all those 15 supplements suggested by that other source? That’s more than a nibble…

Channel your thoughts

Focus on things you love, like the flowers you might put in the garden next spring or remembering taking your kids to see the ocean for the first time. Trying to work out problems right now will only leave you wide-eyed and anxious.

Oh, my fucking god! Shut the fuck up! Fucking, fuck are you fucking kidding me? Flowers? Kids? Yes that is all those of us with a uterus love: Flowers and kids. Fuck! Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously? Fuck!

My advice: Menstruation Hut

I know, I know that the idea of hiding away women in a menstruation hut is a horrible, deadly reality for some women around the world, and the Red Tent effort to make the menstruation hut a positive experience by bringing women together in this small shelter is not my idea of a good time, even when not on my period.

However, my version of a menstruation hut would be to isolate myself for the safety of others and myself. No way do I want a bunch of other women in there bugging the shit out of me. It would be a place I could go to upon the onset of PMS and through the end of bleeding. I would need to have someone lock me in there, cut off my access to social media, stock it with lots of Kleenex, a heavy bag, a baseball bat, padded walls, a soaker tub and shower, comfort foods and sedatives, lots and lots of sedatives.

My menstruation hut could, hell, should really just be a state of unconsciousness. My worst PMS is usually on Saturday and I’m done bleeding by Thursday. So once a month, just knock me unconscious from Sunday to Thursday. And I, and the world, will be better for it.

#period problems #menstruation #once a month #period advice #period rant #shark week #menstrual cycle

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tea-and-toblerones · 6 years

Text

The One Where Ed Brings the Heat | A One Shot

Let's have some sweet Teddy Moments shall we?

Rated M for minor smuts. Mostly just feel good feels.

____________________________________

You paced around your apartment, throwing glances at your clock every time you passed it. Ed had been away for work for a week and was due back at any minute. It wasn't like this was the first time you guys have had an extended time apart but that didn't mean it made it any easier on you. You had gotten a text from him that read 'Just wrapping up lunch and then I'm on my way to you, love x' You had debated on waiting for him in bed completely naked but you loved the way he slowly undressed you, like you were a gift, to deny either one of you that pleasure. You hear the tell tale click of the door unlocking and your head swivels to see his smiling face. He looked a bit tired, but as soon as his eyes fall on you he perks up, all traces of jetlag vanish. Within seconds he has you in his arms, the scent of cinnamon surrounds you as you bury your face in his neck.

"Did you miss me sweet girl?" His hands were rubbing smalls circles on your back as you give him a koala hug.

"Of course I did." Your words coming out muffled since you're still face first in the soft, creamy concave of his neck. Soaking in his scent, warmth and the way he feels wrapped around your body. You feel him shudder at the way your warm breath rushes across his neck.

"I'd like to see the face I've been waiting a week to come to." His hand moving up to the back of your head, his fingers working through your hair.

You finally lift your head and he takes no time planting his lips on your own. Moving in that sweet, familiar rhythm that not only fills you to the brim but drains you at the same time, leaving you wanting more. Your hands moving to his hair, threading those silky cinnamon locks between your fingers as his tongue expertly traverses the interior of your mouth. You let a soft moan fill his mouth as his hands travels down your body, coming to a stop at your hips. You press them up against his and you can already feel his erection beginning to form, struggling behind his zipper. You unclasp his belt and let your fingers slip past the waistband of his boxers, letting them glide over him. He lets out a soft moan as you begin to stroke him, your other hand still twisted in his hair. His moan grows a little louder as you begin to lightly run circles over his head.

"I'd like to take a shower before your mouth is on me, love. I've been on a plane for most of the day and I'm in desparate need of one." He must see the frenzied state that kiss has left you in and quickly adds, "But that doesn't mean I can't taste you."

You make your way to youe bedroom, articles of clothing being stripped off along the way. By the time you're on your bed, you're down to just your panties and Ed's in his boxers. He begins teasing your nipples with his tongue, you let out a shuddering moan as his teeth graze over the pebbled flesh. You can already feel that you're almost dripping in excitement as he drug his finger across your slit. You feel his throat vibrate as he let's out a soft chuckle.

"Already so wet for me, my naughty girl." He playfully rolls your nipple with his teeth, chuckling again at the groan.

His fingertips begin tapping on your clit, working in tandem with his mouth and tongue that have just moved to your other nipple. He finally sinks his middle finger into you, curling in, hitting the spot he knows makes you moan his name. He sinks his second one into you and that's when you start to notice a slight burning sensation. You brush it off, thinking your body is just getting reaqquainted with Ed's larger fingers. It isn't until the burning get worse do you realise it's something else entirely.

"Teddy, what did you eat for lunch?" His mouth lifts from you as he looks at you with a mix of confusion and slight disbelief. His fingers had stopped moving but stayed in place.

"Lunch isn't really the meal I had on my mind, love. Especially when you look absolutely delicious." The burning is began to get slightly more intense, causing you to squirm a bit in discomfort.

"Did you happen to have chicken wings?" Your teeth coming down on your lip as you began to squeeze your legs shut around his hand.

"Yeah, yeah I did actually, how'd did-" Your query mixed with the way you were almost writhing underneath him caused him to come come to the realisation. He quickly pulls his fingers out, wiping them on your duvet. "Shit, I swear I washed my hands after I ate them! Hold on, I'm going to go get a cloth to wipe it off. Stay put."

He launches himself from the bed, stumbling a bit over his discarded Timberlands as he makes his way to the bathroom, swearing all the way there. You hear the faucet turn on as his runs, what you know is going to be warm water over the cloth. "I'm gonna fix this!" He calls over the running water. "I'm gonna fix you right up."

"Teddy, wait, water makes it worse!" You call out. You hear the faucet turn off and his head pop around the door frame.

"What do I use then?" His voice slightly panicked as your discomfort is growing more obvious since you've been all over the bed.

"Milk. It kills the burn of the capasium." You begin to whimper, your fingers coming down to rub the burning areas, looking for some form of relief.

"You want me to put milk WHERE?!" He asked incredulously, his voice shooting up an octave or two as he clung to the dry wash cloth.

"Just pour a glass of milk, dip the cloth in there and do the same thing you would have done before."

He nods heading to the kitchen. You hear the cabinet door swing close and the fridge open. After a bit of shuffling you hear the fridge close and Ed come back in with a mug full of milk. He sets it down on the nightstand, dipping the cloth in it, squeezing out the access before he gently presses it against your burning core.

"I'm so sorry baby, I could have swore I washed them after I ate." He couldn't have looked any more apologetic even if he tried. He had pulled his bottom lip up between his teeth , his brow was furrowed as he worked. You sigh has he continues to dab the cold cloth against you with firm, yet soft pressure. Every time the cloth came in contact with you, he'd utter another apology.

"It's okay Teddy, it's an easy mistake to make. No real damage done. It was Dr. Teddy to the rescue." The burn had great subsided, down to a minor irritation. You set up on your elbows, laying your hand on Ed's causing him to pause. "It feels alot better now, thank you." He removes the cloth, placing it into the mug before returning to you, placing a kiss on your forehead.

"Stay here, I'm gonna draw you up a bath so you can clean up properly." You open your mouth to say it wasn't necessary. You'd just climb into the shower but his finger came down on your lips, quieting your protest before it even began. "Doctor's orders." He added with a wink, a little smirk playing on his lips.

You flop back down on the bed staring up at the ceiling as you hear the tub being filled. This isn't at all how you pictured his homecoming yet you should know by now, you can plan all you want with Ed but inevitably, things hardly ever go how you planned. Not that that was a bad thing. It kept you on your toes but you alway knew at the end of the day you could alway count on Ed to make everything better. His hand gently cupping your face pulled you from your reverie.

"Your bath awaits you, darling." He assists you up and leads you to the bathroom. Your mouth falling open as your eyes travel over the room. Not only had he drew a bath, he had added your favorite bathbomb, along with some of your bubble bath for an extra bonus. He had found your stash of tealight candles you kept in your sink drawer and placed them strategically around the room. He had turned the harsh overhead light off, so the room was filled with a soft romantic glow. "What do you think?" His mouth fluttering over your ear as he spoke softly into it.

You never knew what the day would bring you but rest assured he would do everything in his power to make you feel taken care of. "It's perfect!" You whisper in wonderment as your fingers trailed over the water's surface. The water at the perfect temperature. You look up from the edge of the tub to see him watching you, his smile the brightest thing in the room.

"Well get in, love. You're letting my hard work get cold." He urges, his smile turning from adoring to playful.

"Join me? It seems like a shame to enjoy this wonderful bath all by myself."

"Let me do one quick thing and I'll join you. Get yourself comfortable, I'll be right back."

You climb in, instantly feeling your muscles react to the warm water. You lean back, expecting to shudder at the cooler material you to your surprise it's just as warm as the water. You glance over and see a wet washcloth folded one the edge of the tub. You marvel at the fact that he even thought of warming the unexposed part of the tub. He hear him return with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses.

"Can't have a proper soak with wine now can we?" He pours a glass and hands it over to you before climbing in beside you. Once he's settled he pours one for himself, placing the bottle on the floor, before turning to face you. "To finding pleasure in unlikely ways." His eyes glinting over his wine glass as it clinked against yours.

He told you all about the trip as you both enjoyed the invigorating effects of the warm water. Both of you were soon laughing as he told you about James, the nightmare child that had driven everyone in his vicinity to drink at 9 in the morning. How he had just barely managed to escape the horde of fans that caught wind he was flying in. His radio interviews and how his business lunch went. He had insisted on washing your back before exiting the tub, which you readily agreed to. The warm cloth rubbing across your back as his peppered your neck in kisses. Once he deemed your back thoroughly clean he began to massage your neck and shoulders, not stopping until you were an utterly relaxed puddle.

You both begrudgingly climb out of the now cool water and change into your comfiest lounge wear, vowing to not do anything productive for the rest of the day. Wrapped together in your duvet that you drug off the bed, you relax on the couch with your glasses of wine, your body pressed tight against his as his arm wraps around you. You rest your head on his chest, the steady sound of his heartbeat lulling you into a state of semi consciousness. When it came down to it, this is what you missed the most when he left. The way his fingers were always moving, whether it's playing idly with your hair or tapping out beats only he can hear. The way his lips curl up in that little smile when he glances over at you. The way that his nose whistles when he breathes deeply. The sleepy mutters he make in his sleep. The random outbursts of song when he's happy or the quiet humming when he's concentrating. The way he struggles to hide a smile when he's trying to surprise you.

"What's got you smiling, love?"

"I'm just really happy to have you home." You look up at his face, wearing that adoring smile once again.

He places a kiss on the top of your head. "I'm happy to be home too."

#ed sheeran #teddy sheeran #code ginger #ed sheeran fanfic #ed sheeran fan fiction #ed sheeran mature fanfic #ed sheeran smut #ed sheeran fluff

36 notes · View notes

silverlight013 · 6 years

Text

Ebony and Fire CH 2

Chapter 2

"Wake up my dear." I can hear the milky English accented voice through my sleep and it gently brings me back to consciousness as a gentle hand is placed on my shoulder. Drifting out of a dreamless sleep I roll over onto my other side facing the source of the voice with a groan.

My eyes open slowly and panic sets in as the room appears unfamiliar at first but then I set my sights on those familiar emerald eyes and the panic subsides as his name slips from my tired lips.

"Ignis?" The hand disappears as I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes.

My body feels like a rock…and I'm all sweaty…I need a shower…bet my hair is a wreck too…

With the rest of the drowsiness from my nap fading away I can now see that Ignis is sitting on the side of my bed. "Are you feeling any better?" He puts a bare hand to my forehead as he checks for a fever, seeming satisfied after a second he pulls his hand away and re-gloves it.

"I'm a bit stiff, but yeah." I gaze into those eyes once more; they make my heart skip as he smiles gently.

"I'm glad to hear it." He pauses a moment. "Are you hungry?" My stomach growls instantly in response.

When was the last time I ate…I don't even know…

"Famished." He raises an eyebrow but smiles.

"Very well." He stands up and claps his hands on his thighs. "Since you are feeling better, why don't you go ahead and brush up. You can leave your current clothes outside the door and I will wash them for you, by the time you get out dinner will be ready." I stare at him in shock.

He's gonna wash my clothes and make dinner? Oh my god…its dinner time? How long was I out…?

He seems to read my face. "I can tell you have a lot of questions, but they can wait until after you've eaten." I nod not seeing any way out of this. He looks at me with an unreadable expression. "You've been in the bed for some time; I don't feel comfortable leaving until I know you can walk on your own."

I take the hint and flip the covers over, finally seeing what I'm wearing. I have on my favorite pair of jeans that have turned 'ratty' with time, holes in both knees, threads up an down from where there were strings hanging out and I pulled them all the way through, red paint in some areas, and one of the pant legs, at the bottom, the seam has separated from the leg where my heel is because of years of walking on it. I have my stud belt on as well, the older one though, it's clear that I've had it for a while by the bending and cracking of the leather. Luckily though, it has all its studs. For a top it seems I appeared here in my grey tank top with a low neck. It's like a sports top, and judging by my comfort level, I have on my favorite sports bra. I take a mental note that I thought I saw my favorite hoodie around the room and as I look at the end of the bed, there it is. As I see it I also see my black socked feet.

Well at lease I'm comfy…but the idea of having Ignis wash my undergarments is making me super uncomfortable.

Ignis clears his throat and I realize that I almost forgot what he wanted me to do. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and place them on the floor, as they touch the cold wood boards they tingle like crazy.

Man I must have been in bed for a really long time for them to be this bad.

I glance up at him and he smiles, giving me the courage to try to stand.

I'm not scared; I just don't want to fall flat on my face.

I place both hands on the end of the bed and inch myself forward, I give Ignis one last look and he nods.

Alright you got this…

I suddenly push off the bed and into a standing position. I wobble for a second and get my balance. Ignis seems happy because he's smiling; he makes a gesture for me to try to walk. Panic grips me, but he holds his hands out as if he's going to catch me if I fall and it drifts away. I look at the floor and take a step, every things fine until I put my full weight on it. Pain shoots up through my foot and I begin to fall, Ignis comes to my rescue with his hands under my arms. I put my hands on his shoulders and go to speak, but I catch his eyes as his glasses fall to the tip of his nose and my words are lost.

"Oh dear, are you alright?" Luckily he still has his words and I just nod. "Let me help you." He takes one arm and puts it around me and under my arm to hold me weight. He pauses and fixes his glasses, my heart begins to pound. "Ready? One step at a time." I nod and we head toward the door one step at a time.

With each step the tingle in my legs and the pain in my foot goes away. We get half way to the bathroom and I nudge him off because I feel like I can walk by myself. He gently removes himself, but still has a hold of my left hand just in case.

I make the last few steps to the bathroom without a problem and reach into flip the switch, the room illuminates and I turn back to the doorway where Ignis is still standing.

"Are you sure you'll be alright, my dear?" His whole face displays concern.

"Yeah, I'll be fine, if I feel faint or anything I'll just sit for a bit." He nods.

"Alright, just remember to put your clothes outside the door and don't hesitate to call if you need anything." I nod

Yeah okay, there's no way I'm gonna call for you to come help me when I'm butt ass naked…

"Okay I will." I back up into the bathroom and close the door before leaning on it and sighing.

Well that was interesting…I pull my long black hair over to my nose and sniff, scrunching my nose at the slight smell and greasy feel. Yeah…I need a shower.

I sigh again and walk over to the shower, it's a tub shower with a curtain so the handle is simple; I just have to turn the one to the temp I want between cold and hot. No messing with two to three different turn-able handles just to get piss warm water…or messing with two and coming up with the wrong combination that freezes me…

I reach in and turn the handle three quarters to the top, closer to hot. I like my showers to be just hot enough to where I come out a bit red otherwise I'm freezing through the whole thing. Once the water starts to come out of the faucet I pull the little lever that turns it to the shower head and go over toward the door and begin to strip.

I can see myself in the mirror and I sigh at my appearance; porcelain skin, average build with too wide hips, creating the ever annoying 'love handles' as I call them. My stomach showing just a small pouch of pudge that I've never quite been able to get rid of but can hide easily until I sit down. Less than 'B' breasts that frustrate the ever living crap out of me and will never give me the look of normal cleavage, but an ass that as I've been told, more than makes up for it, but isn't too big. I sigh slightly before catching my left shoulder tattoo in the mirror a memory bubbles up from the abyss; the phoenix I got for my birthday, representing all the shit I went through, and survived, even though it felt easier to give up at the time. "A phoenix rises from its ashes and begins a new…"

I bundle all my clothes and make sure that my bra and underwear are hidden in the mess before opening the door a crack and sliding the bundle out into the other room. My heart skips a beat as someone on the other side grabs them and takes them away.

That had better had been Ignis…I run a hand through my greasy hair, ignoring the mirror showing me that my fears about how messy it is were valid, before walking back to the shower. Before doing anything I take off my dragon mood necklace and carefully set it on the vanity. After, I put my hand in the stream to gauge the temperature; it seems warm enough to my hand so I step over the tub side and into the water.

The water is warm, very warm, but it's not too warm where I have to turn it down. After a few minutes of facing the stream and enjoying its heat, I turn and let it run through my hair. All the aches and pains which I had previously had that were too minor to even mention, melt away as the warmth relaxes me. I run my hands through my hair pushing my bangs up to get them wet. When I feel as though my hair is fully soaked through I look around the shower for shampoo, conditioner and whatever else I might need to begin washing the grime from my body.

. . .

I'm not sure how long I take, but I enjoy the crap out of it. The warmth of the water, the relaxing massage the shower head gave my shoulders, the smell of the, what I assume by the size, hotel soap samples, and just watching the dirt come off me, everything about it just made me feel refreshed. My foot steps onto the soft rug, soaking that particular spot, as I reach for my towel. Ignis had placed one on the toilet seat ahead of time and I wrap it around my shoulders before sitting in its place. I take this time to relax and finally ponder my situation, feeling confident that anything I think about can't get me worked up enough to have a panic attack in this state.

So at least this place has a nice hotel with good water pressure…wherever here is. I honestly don't remember how I got here…I can barely remember my damn name…I wonder if I hit my head. I remember bits and pieces of home…just little things, like I had a house, and cats…every time I try to imagine them, my heart aches. I can't remember how many or what all of them looked like, but it feels wrong to say just one. I know that those clothes I gave to Ignis to wash are my favorite because I feel this comfortable feeling and slight attachment…especially with the dragon necklace…

I eye it from my spot on the toilet an a need to put it on overtakes me so I stand and walk over to the vanity. With the towel around my shoulders it's impossible to put it on without the towel falling off so I wrap it around my body under my arms before reaching for the string. The origin of the necklace still eludes me, but the feeling I get when I look at it tells me it's very important. It has a double knotted adjustable string on it so after I pull it over my head I pull it tight enough so it sits just on my breastbone under my trachea. I sigh as the mood stone turns to a deep blue, signaling that I'm relaxed.

I wish I knew why I can only remember certain things…It's crazy to think there is selective amnesia…what could be keeping me from remembering…a barrier? Wait a minute…something about this place is familiar…the faces of those boys, Ignis, the layout of the hotel room…where do I know it from? I try to dig deep, but with come up with nothing but a headache.

A light sigh escapes me as a light rapping interrupts my thoughts. Slightly startled I rise in my towel and make my way to the bathroom door, whoever is on the other side knocks again just before I open it a crack.

"Yeah?" To my surprise, it's Blondie. His face goes red with embarrassment and he avoids my eyes as he seems to realize that I'm in just my towel.

"Oh, um hi…Ignis told me to bring you your clothes…they're uh, clean now." He pulls a tote bag up to eye level and I peer inside to see all my clothes neatly folded within.

"Oh wow, that was quick." I reach one hand out and carefully take the bag. "Thanks for bringing em over…um." It occurs to me that I never got his name. I can't keep calling him Blondie…

"Prompto. I'm…uh…Prompto." I smile at him and his blush intensifies.

"Thanks Prompto, where is Ignis anyway?" I'm still leaning with my head out of the bathroom door, but all the warm air is escaping so I have to get back in there soon, but my curiosity is getting the better of me.

"Oh!" He looks up and into my eyes, embarrassment forgotten. "He's in the other hotel room making dinner, he said that he would be done by the time you got out and would bring it over here for you." He smiles and I wonder what Ignis could be making. My stomach growls at the thought and I nod at Prompto and lift the bag slightly.

"Okay, well I better get these on; I'm starting to get cold." The blush returns and he nods as I retreat behind the bathroom door and peer back into the bag.

I dig a little in the bag for a minute and find that not only is everything folded but Ignis was kind enough to hide my bra and underwear under my shirt so poor Prompto wouldn't see them. I can feel my face redden in embarrassment as reality hits me.

Oh my god! Ignis saw and folded my underwear!

I quickly take everything out of the bag and set it on the closed toilet seat before lifting up my folded underwear by the elastic so it unfolds.

I'm completely mortified right now. What did he think of this old dark grey thing? My favorite pair no doubt, but…was he surprised? Was he expecting something more girly with lace? Did he even give it a thought or just throw it into a washer with the rest of my clothes and ignore it?

With my towel still around my chest I carefully slide into my underwear, happy to realize that it's fresh from the dryer and still warm. I turn back to the toilet seat and pick up my old sports bra by the strap and let it unfold only to be mortified once again because the little pads inside have been fixed and set.

Oh my god…every time I wash this thing I have to pull out those damn things and fix them, but Ignis…he not only washed them but fixed it for me…I'm not sure whether he's thoughtful or creepy. Suddenly his soft face and peaceful eyes pop into my head and my fear melts away slightly only to be replaced by a quickening pulse. I sigh as I stare at it dangling from my hand. What about this…it's old and comfy as all hell, but I doubt he expected it…probably thought I'd be in something lacy…the damn size is on here too…does he think I'm small? My heart sinks slightly. Wait a minute! Why am I thinking about this stuff? I don't even know this man, and I'm talking like I want to get in his pants…what is wrong with me.

I sigh and shake all the naughty thoughts from my head as I drop the towel and pull the bra on over my head before glancing in the mirror.

Besides…even if I did like him like that, which I don't, I bet my feelings wouldn't be reciprocated…someone like him would never like someone like me.

I sigh and run a hand through my wet hair before pulling on the rest of my clothes and putting my hair up in my towel. Then with one last look at the mirror I head out into the other room.

. . .

When I walk out into the room Prompto is waiting for me, sitting on the couch fiddling with his phone. It's now that I realize the layout of the room is different that I first had seen when I woke up. There are actually two beds and the one I had been in is the closest to the door. There is a small kitchen with a table and chairs, a couch, and small TV too. The hotel room seems to be like a small apartment. Something catches my eye between the beds and as I look closer there seem to be multiple travel bags lying about the room.

Wonder if the guys were sleeping here before I showed up.

I glance back to Prompto on the couch; it seems someone had previously been sleeping there too. He stands as he finally looks up from his phone and notices me.

"Hey." I smile to him as he gets closer, a shit eating grin beginning to take the place of his smile.

"Heyaz." He starts to giggle slightly, and it doesn't take long for me to realize that he's laughing at the towel on my head so I pull it off and drape it over my shoulders so the water doesn't soak my shirt.

"Wanna borrow a hair dryer?" I grimace at the thought of what my hair normally looks like if I don't blow dry it and stick my hands in my back pockets.

"Yeah…that...uh…would be great." Prompto chuckles lightly and walks over to one of the bags and fishes through it for a sec before pulling out a black, super high end hair dryer.

I'm kinda surprised that a group of guys would have something so…nice? No that's not the word…something so expensive for doing their hair I guess.

I must be making some sort of face 'cause he seems to know exactly what I'm thinking. "This one is Iggy's, but I got one too." He pauses and that shit eating grin returns. "It takes a lot to get this pretty you know." I start laughing immediately and he makes his way past me and into the bathroom where he plugs it in. He quickly shows me how it works gives me a brush from Iggy's bag, apparently, and then I'm on my own.

. . .

It takes a few minutes, but soon my hair is dry and fluffy as ever. I check the mirror and make sure that my bangs don't look stupid before strolling out into the other room where Prompto is sitting back on the couch phone in his hand, only this time he looks up immediately and waves.

"Heeyyy, you clean up good." He stands and puts his phone away, but I just stop in my tracks and can feel it as the blush makes its way to my face.

"Ahh…thanks, Prompto." I begin to twirl my long black hair with my finger as an uncomfortable blanket of silence descends on us, it seems neither one of us know what to say.

Well…this is awkward…

Suddenly the door swings open and Ignis walks in carrying a tray of food. The smell hits my nose and my stomach growls painfully as my mouth begins to salivate.

"Ah, it seems my timing was correct, I hope you're hungry." He walks into the kitchen and I follow him without really meaning to.

"Oh man that smells amazing, what is it?" He turns to me and smiles, my heart skips as I catch his eyes.

"This would be a Mother and Child Rice Bowl." My heart and stomach drops as he speaks.

"A what now?"

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#kitty writes #Final Fantasy XV - Ebony and Fire #Ebony and Fire #Ebony and Fire Chapter 2 #Chapter 2 #ignis scientia #prompto argentum #Mystery OC #Ebony and Fire Fic

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