#This has been stuck in my head so I must inflict it upon all of you!! <3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

krizaland · 2 years

Note

ok but. zib, pilot dib, and normal dib x reader. bonus points if zim has feelings for y/n

YES! I LOVE THIS IDEA SO MUCH?

Also thank you so much for waiting all this time.

The only thing is, I felt like it was too many Dibs at the time when I started writing this, thus this is more of a Pilot Dib vs Zib fic. I hope you don’t mind!

Be warned: This fic deals with obsessive behaviors, mentions of death, and grotesque depictions of allergies.

Also I got waay too carried away with this fic so there’s probably gonna be more than one chapter lol.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. One minute, Zib was just minutes away from taking down the first of many Irken Empires, the next his world went dark and he awoke in a new yet oddly familiar place.

This new place seemed just like his old dimension before it had been destroyed.

Same yellowed sky. Same polluted rain. Even the technology seemed the same.

Zib felt what was left of his shriveled heart sink.

Everywhere he turned he was reminded of the world he had once destroyed.

The guilt swallowed him like a black hole!

Zib found himself wishing he had just died instead of ending up in this bitter memory of the past.

He sunk to the ground and buried his face in his knees.

Just as he was about to burst into tears, a familiar voice ring out

“Hey....Are you ok?”

Zib’s eyes widened as his head jerked up.

Staring down at him was another Dib!

Both Zib and Dib gasped simultaneously.

“Wait! Another Dib?!”

Dib’s eyes lit up!

“This is amazing! I- Wait! You’re not one of Zim’s experiments sent to trick me are you?”

Zib blinked in shock before announcing,

“Of course not! Zim ruined my life! I cant stand being in the same room as a Zim let alone working for one!”

“Oh really? Then tell me, other Dib, if that’s what you actually are, What are you doing in this dimension huh? What happened to yours?” Dib pressed as he glared down at his counterpart.

Zib went quiet for a moment before muttering under his breath

“My Zim destroyed it.”

“What? Sorry I didn’t quite catch that.”

“My Zim destroyed it ok?! He destroyed my home, chased my dad off a cliff, and stuck this stupid PAK to my head!”

While he was indeed spewing lies, Zib couldn’t help but feel like there was some truth to his rant.

After all, Zib was certain that he wouldn’t have snapped if Zim hadn’t invaded his life.

Dib hummed as his eyes narrowed.

Zib started to sweat a bit as his counterpart stared him down for a moment.

“Makes sense to me!” Dib chirped as his face perked back up.

Zib let out a sigh of relief as Dib continued,

“I’m guessing when your dimension was destroyed, the fallout must have sent you to this one!”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” Zib grumbled impatiently.

“Well I’m sorry for your loss and all but perhaps you were sent here for a reason?”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really! You were sent here to help me take down my world’s Zim!” Dib announced dramatically as he pointed to Zib.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not it but I’m still pretty bitter about all the drama that my Zim put me through. So I don’t mind lending one of my ingenious helping hands.” Zib boasted as he rose to his feet.

“So you’re really going to help me?!”

Zib nodded and examined his claws.

Dib’s signature unnerving grin nearly split his face in half.

“This is great! With our minds combined we’ll be able to take down my Zim once and for all!”

And with that, Dib burst into a fit of maniacal laughter.

Zib found himself joining in as he imagined all the horrors he could inflict upon this dimension’s Zim.

After spending all night scheming, the two Dibs finally concocted their plan to take down Zim.

The next day, the two Dibs made their way to skool.

“Ok, other me-“

“Please call me Zib. It...it’ll make it easier to differentiate our names.”

“Ohh-kay. Zib! Remember: Once I lure Zim to the cafeteria, you-”

“Yes. Yes. I activate the net and capture him.”

“Excellent! With you by my side nothing can stand in our way!” A crazed giggle escaped Dib’s throat as he spoke.

“I couldn’t agree more! I don’t think there’s anything that can even try to get in our way!”

No sooner had those words left Zib’s lips-

BAM!

In the blink of an eye, all of the air was sucked out of Zib’s lungs.

There, standing on the skool steps, was you!

You were the most beautiful creature Zib had ever seen!

From your beautiful eyes to your playful smile, You were truly captivating.

“Who is that?”

“Why that’s Y/N! The most beautiful creature who ever graced this unforgiving world! No one else can compare! They’re kind, beautiful, and have the most melodic voice!” Dib gushed as his face melted a bit.

Drool poured from Zib’s mouth as his worm like tongue slid out.

“Y/N.....”

“Ah... Soon Y/N will be all mine.” Dib purred.

Zib’s bubble of euphoria burst!

“Wait! Yours?! Who says you get to have Y/N?!”

“Well me of course! I say I get to have Y/N! No one else is worthy of their glorious presence!” Dib cooed as a faint blush dusted his cheeks.

“Tch! As if! The only one worthy of that vision of beauty is me! Not you!” Zib growled as he snapped a claw at Dib.

Dib’s signature unnerving grin spread across his face as he let out a crazed laugh.

“Oh you’re so funny Zib . You truly are a joker. For a minute there I thought you were trying to steal Y/N from me. Good thing you wouldn’t do such a thing right?”

Zib simply chuckled and shook his head.

“Oh don’t worry. I don’t intend to. After all, how can I steal someone who was never yours to begin with? I’ll just simply claim them for myself!”

Dib’s left eye twitched as a low growl escaped his throat.

“You take that back! Y/N is mine! Ive already claimed them for myself! I won’t allow you to steal them away!”

“Oh yeah? Just you try and stop me!”

ZAP!

Zib activated the net and threw it at his counterpart.

Dib let out a screech as he fought against the net.

Zib let out a maniacal laugh as he activated his PAK legs and made a run for you.

You felt a cold chill run down your spine as Zib landed by your side and cleared his throat.

“Hello there. You must be an alien because you look out of this world.”

If it was said by anyone else, you would’ve laughed at the cheesy pick up line. However, seeing Zib made you scream in horror.

“Dib?! What the hell happened to you?!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not from this dimension! I’m the most superior Dib in the multiverse! And I was sent here to be your boyfriend! Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s why I ended up here when all of my hard work imploded in on itself.” Zib chuckled as he threw an arm around you.

You blinked in shock for a moment before peeling Zib’s arm off of you.

“Well other Dib-“

“Please call me Zib. I want to separate myself from this dimensions inferior Dib!”

“Ohh-Kay. Well* Zib,* umm it’s nice to meet you I guess-“

“Oh ho the pleasures all mine.” Zib purred as he pulled you close.

Despite how nervous he made you, Zib constantly touching you was getting on your nerves.

“Ok, look. I’m flattered and all but I already have a boyfriend!”

“Well of course you do! He’s me!” Zib giggled as he caressed your cheek.

“No! He’s actually-“

“Right here!”

As if on cue, Zim’s voice rung out like an alarm bell.

You let out a sigh of relief, pushed Zib off of you, and ran into Zim’s arms.

“Zim! Oh thank god you’re here! This guy is apparently another Dib with the hots for me!”

“So I’ve gathered...” Zim growled as he held you protectively.

Zib’s left eye twitched as a crazed giggle escaped his throat.

“Oh. So you’re dating a Zim?”

“You’re god damn right they are! And they’re not dating just any Zim! Oh no! Y/N is dating THE GREATEST ZIM WHO EVER ZIMMED! So keep your grimy... Zib filth off of them!” Zim hissed as he shot Zib a glare.

“Is that so? Well isn’t that just lovely? A beauty dating a beast” Another crazed giggle escaped Zib’s throat as he struggled to keep his composure.

“The only beast here is you filthy Zib-creature! So why don’t go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and leave my beloved Y/N alone?!” Zim snarled as he snapped a finger in Zib’s direction.

“Oh don’t worry. You won’t have to deal with me for much longer. Enjoy your Y/N...for now...” Zib chuckled darkly as he vanished into the shadows.

“Jeez. And I thought our Dib was creepy.” You shuddered.

“Worry not, sweet Y/N! Zim shall protect you from all Dibs no matter how creepy they may be!” Zim reassured as he took your hands in his.

You couldn’t help but giggle at Zim’s reassurance.

“I know you will, babe. Now c’mon let’s get to class.”

And with that, you and Zim hooked arms and walked to class together.

Meanwhile, Dib finally managed to free himself from the net, only to find Zib chuckling to himself.

SMACK!

Dib’s hand collided with Zib’s cheek.

“Ow! Hey!” Zib snapped as he rubbed his sore cheek.

“How dare you betray me like that! I thought we were partners!” Dib wailed as he put his hands on his hips.

“Well we were partners but it seems there’s been a slight change of plans. You see, I haven’t seen another human in such a long, long time. Y/N is such a lovely sight for my oh so sore eyes. I simply cant let anyone else have them! A beauty such as Y/N needs to be protected from the unworthy.” Zib explained dramatically.

“But Y/N is mine! I saw them first! I learned everything I could about them! I even have several samples of their blood in my closet! You can’t just barge in and ruin all of my hard work!” Dib whined as he threw his hands in the air.

“Look Dib, I feel for you. I really do. It can be so difficult living in a world where you’re left unappreciated. But you’re just too soft for such a lovely Y/N. It would practically be cruel to leave them with you! They need someone strong enough to protect them from anything. Especially a Zim.” Zib spat out Zim’s name like it was poison.

“I’m not soft! I can protect Y/N! I know-“

“Oh really? Then tell me why Y/N is trapped in Zim’s clutches! Go on, tell me why they’re glued to his side instead of yours!” Zib interjected

“I....Well...”

Dibs face fell. He really didn’t have a proper answer for his angry counterpart.

“That’s what I thought. The fact that your Zim is even alive is more than enough proof that you’ve not only failed Y/N but you’ve failed your dimension as well! Face it! You’ll never be worthy enough for someone as beautiful as Y/N! So do both Y/N and yourself a favor and give up!” Zib snarled as he glared down at his counterpart.

Dib let out a small whimper before shaking away his sadness.

“No! I’ll never give up on Y/N! I’ll keep fighting for their safety as well as the safety of my world too! I’m not gonna let you bully me into stopping!”

Zib simply smirked and folded his arms

“You really don’t get it, do you? You’ve already had your chance and you blew it! Now it’s time for an actually competent Dib to take the wheel! Once I’ve claimed Y/N as my own, I’ll take down your Zim myself!”

“What?! Oh no you don’t! You’re not you going to steal Y/N nor the glory of exposing my Zim from me!” Dib roared as his face burned red.

Zib chuckled darkly and slowly shook his head.

“Expose your Zim? Oh no, Been there done that. No, I’m going to annihilate your Zim down to his every last cell. I can’t have that vile alien monster trying to steal Y/N away from me.”

“What? You mean, you don’t even want the glory of exposing the existence of aliens to the world?”

Zib sighed as he patted his counterpart’s back.

“Oh Dib. Sweet, naive, Dib. I’ve already tried exposing my Zim and do you know what happened?”

Dib simply gave Zib a quizzical look.

“No one cared. Not even dad! Isn’t that funny? Everyone simply shrugged and ignored me! Ignored all of my hard work! I’m doing you a favor here! I’m saving you from getting your heart broken by Y/N and your fellow humans.” Zib explained gently as he threw an arm around his shoulder.

Dib shook Zib off of him and growled,

“That’s a load of shit! You’re just trying to trick me into giving up on Y/N! Well guess what?! I’m never gonna give up on Y/N! I’ll keep fighting for them! And I won’t let anyone stand in my way! Not even another Dib!”

And with that, Dib stormed off into the skool.

“You can run but you can’t hide from the truth!” Zib called out as he slithered inside.

#invader zim #invader zim x reader #zib x reader #pilot dib x reader

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rebrandedbard · 3 years

Note

could I get 49 for the prompts pleaseeee? (:

*weeping* Em, I love you, defending my honour, giving me a way out. You’ve spared me my dignity.

49. “Well this is awkward ...”

WC: 2106

Tidings and Tarradiddles

Jaskier returns to Posada and his path crosses with Geralt’s once more after the unfortunate affair on The Mountain™

How was it? Truly, how was it that of all places on the great, wide Continent, Geralt should come to take a contract in Posada, at the farthest of reaches, after months and months of separation, on the one day Jaskier should be in town? And how was it that he’d come the only hour Jaskier had lingered for a drink? It was too great a coincidence, and Jaskier would not give Destiny the credit. She’d not earned the right to claim it. Jaskier scorned her and had stripped her of the right to interfere in any of his further adventures. After all, Geralt had blamed him for her follies—follies which, by rights, Geralt had brought upon himself in the first place.

Even so, he could feel Destiny’s audaciously long and twitchy nose poking about his business the moment Geralt walked through the tavern door. Jaskier huddled in his corner, hoping the shadows were darker than they had been the day he’d found Geralt hunched beneath them. He ought to have known better than to come in the first place. There had been a whole flock of magpies in the middle of the bridge leading into town—a tiding of magpies. Detestable harbinger of tidings, foul and fair. They’d startled at the sight of him and alighted once more on the tavern roof. But he’d ignored their superstitious warning.

Of course the shadows were of no use to him. The moment Geralt stepped inside, Jaskier saw him twitch, cocking an ear his direction. Probably heard the familiar grinding of his teeth: an annoying habit he so often complained of. Jaskier curled up against the wall, trying to make himself smaller to blend in with his surroundings.

For once, it was not so difficult. He’d grown out his hair, had even maintained a healthy bit of scruff on his face in keeping with the stylings of his fellow tavern-goers. He was tired and worn, but above all, he was plain. He no longer wore bright colors, standing out like a beacon in the dark of night. He wore his linen dyed a plain, sensible, muted green. The jerkin on his back was brown and of a practical fit. Altogether, it did not so much scream of sensibility as it mumbled. If he kept his head low enough, he might pass as just another local come in for a pint.

But he was not just another local.

Geralt stopped before his table, standing at Jaskier’s elbow. The click of metal upon the table made Jaskier look up from his drink. It was a coin, spinning round and round. It wobbled and fell on its face, the etching of a worn coat of arms before him.

“Will … will you sing for us, bard?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier stared at the coin. His ears began to fill with cotton, a faint ringing in them. A flash of hot blood coursed through him and he ground his teeth to a halt. He knew this was Geralt’s way of easing into things, working towards something, whether or not an apology was waiting at the end. He knew this was Geralt offering him an out. It was distant. Impersonal. But even in the depths of his rage, Geralt had called him by name. To call him bard and toss a coin to him like some stranger now … it flamed something red and barbaric to life under his skin. He was so deafened by the blood in his ears, he did not hear the approach of the figure standing at Geralt’s side.

“Well, this is awkward,” Jaskier sneered. He picked up the coin, twiddling it between his fingers. Putting up an impassive mask, he juggled the coin over his knuckles in his best impressive manner, as if it were nothing but a worthless toy. “You see,” he said, “I’m not a bard.”

Geralt was quiet a moment. Jaskier could feel his eyes roaming over him. It raised his hackles to know what Geralt must see: the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of age now more pronounced with exhaustion, crow’s feet so defined they might as well have been dug by the claws of vultures. And then, Geralt must have taken notice at last. Gone were the bold silhouettes and blinding colors, gone were the perfumes and oils—but there was one thing more important than all the rest that was missing.

“Your lute,” Geralt said.

There it was. “Gave it up this very afternoon,” Jaskier replied. He slapped the coin down on the table and leaned back, snatching up his half-empty mug. “I travelled a long way to return it home; Filavandrel has it now.”

He took a drink, still avoiding eyes contact. He continued, mumbling over the rim of his mug. “Had a visit. They’re doing better than they were when last we met. I helped them dig rocks from their crop fields for an hour or two. Figured as long as I was shovelling things, I might as well master the art. Use it productively.”

He was being petty. He knew he was, but by the gods, he’d earned it.

When at last he looked up, he did so because he saw a hint of blue beside the table. The potmaid had been wearing a blue dress, and he thought he now saw his escape. He slid his mug to the edge of the table and lifted his head to ask for it to be taken away when he saw a familiar pair of green eyes looking back at him.

“Cirilla?” he asked, surprised. He blinked at the princess, who looked down at the table as his eyes fell upon her. He remembered her as someone taller, regal head held high, smiling, her hair half up in decorative braids and twists. This was not a princess before him, but a girl: her hood casting shadows upon her hollow face. It seemed wrong. She had always been a girl, but a girl with a name. This creature before him stood as a reflection of himself, a thing wishing to hide away, nothing more than a shell.

She glanced up at him, then down once more. Slowly she raised her hand to the table and placed it over the coin. She pushed it towards him with a quiet slide, then dropped her hand once more. “He said you sing wonderful,” she muttered, as if she had not heard him singing in Cintra’s court nearly every midsummer since birth.

Jaskier’s voice stuck in his throat. The memory of a song sat heavy on his tongue. “I … I don’t sing anymore,” he grit out. He turned to look away again, staring at the crack between his bench and the wall. “Can’t sing without music anyway. Might as well be poetry.”

Having no music left him exposed. There was nothing to lift him up, nor anything to hide behind. He could sing among the crowd and raise his voice to join a drinking song, but there was something vulnerable about singing alone. Who sang among bar patrons without some barrier? Even the drunks had their drink to shield them.

He saw Geralt shift out of the corner of his eye. Something new slid across the table, stopping just short of his hand. He looked and saw one of his old notebooks.

“You write good poetry,” Geralt said.

Jaskier scoffed and picked up the notebook. “If there were anything in this worth keeping, I would have remembered to bring it with me when I went down the mountain.” He flipped through the pages, then let the notebook flop back on the table. “You obviously have poor taste,” he huffed.

Without warning, Geralt picked up the notebook and thwacked him on top of his head with the cover.

“Gah! Hey!” Jaskier shouted. He stood up and snatched the book back, smacking Geralt’s arm with it. “What in fuck’s name did you do that for, you brute!”

But he’d looked at Geralt, forgetting to snub him if only a moment. And Geralt plucked the book from his hand with an upward quirk of the lips. “It’s worth keeping,” he said. He handed the book to Ciri, who clutched it tight to her chest in agreement, but still, she looked at Geralt with a stern expression.

“That wasn’t what you were supposed to say,” she scolded.

Geralt’s eyes rolled back and he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Not to me.”

Geralt opened his eyes. He looked at Jaskier, opening his mouth to speak once more. But the look on Jaskier’s face stopped him. Instead, he turned to the door, stalking quickly across the room, words aborted on his tongue.

Jaskier gaped.

“Geralt!” Ciri called. “Where are you going?”

“Just wait here.”

“Geralt!”

“Dinner. I’ll be back in the hour.”

Ciri threw up her hands and dropped onto the opposite bench. She slammed Jaskier’s notebook down on the table and crossed her arms over it. She groaned in frustration, then turned her head to look out at the tavern floor.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she grumbled.

Jaskier looked between her and the door, feeling quite at a loss. “No,” he replied.

“Then you can eat Geralt’s share.” She rummaged in her cloak and pushed a little drawstring bag into his hands. “Here, he left me his purse.”

“And left you from the look of things. Shall I charge him for babysitting?”

“Do. And order another drink.”

Jaskier snorted. “Trying to get me to stay?” He wasn’t so irresponsible as to leave a child alone, even with the threat of Geralt’s return. He didn’t need to be persuaded.

“No. Punishing him for running out; you get his drink into the bargain. Think of it as sending him to bed without supper.”

“I’ll drink to that. It’s the least of the punishments I could inflict.”

They both chuckled mildly at that. A bit of the dense atmosphere lifted and they shared a look. Jaskier cleared his throat and waved for the potmaid. He ordered fare for the two of them, a mug of ale for himself, and a cup of small beer for Ciri. Once they’d both had a bite, they began talking. They traded stories: how Ciri came to Geralt’s care, and what Jaskier had been doing since the separation. Though the conversation was tense, it felt … good … to have a bit of company. He’d been worried since word of the fall of Cintra had reached him. At least Destiny had brought Ciri to Geralt safely. He hoped Destiny would be kind to her where it had failed him.

Jaskier startled when Geralt returned. He’d crept up so silently. Jaskier had been listening to Ciri describe her most recent success in outdoor cooking and hadn’t noticed the movement beside him. Geralt set the lute on the table in front of Jaskier’s empty plate with a sudden thunk, not a word of explanation. He stood there silently, holding the lute upright by its neck.

No one spoke.

Jaskier simply stared at it, felt Geralt stare at him. But this time, he refused to look up. Slowly, Geralt lay the lute down on the table, then slipped away. A minute passed, everything still and quiet. Then, Jaskier peeked out of the corner of his eye and saw Geralt nudge Ciri, nodding his head toward the door.

Ciri looked at Jaskier, her brow anxious and furrowed. She clutched her cup, nearly finished, her plate barren. He could see her mind at work, trying to find an excuse to stay. But she set her cup down obediently. As she turned to stand, she left the notebook behind. Eyes downcast, she slumped to her feet. Geralt held out his hand for her, no longer looking at Jaskier. The moment Geralt’s back was turned, Jaskier felt a cold panic run through him.

“Wait!” he said, fumbling to his feet.

Geralt froze, turning his head back slightly to listen.

But for what? Jaskier reached out, hesitating. He picked up his lute, finding the coin beneath it. The noise made Geralt turn back and Jaskier met his eye. He’d never seen Geralt look so blank, completely unreadable.

Jaskier slung the strap of the lute over his head. He pushed the coin deliberately into his pocket and braced his hands on the strings. When he looked at Geralt again, there was the barest crack in his armour, and hope shined dimly through. Jaskier smiled. It was a timid thing, but he still remembered how it was done.

“You asked for a song,” he said.

Send me a drabble prompt!

#my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #ask game #tidings and tarradiddles fic #the whole situation LEADING to the WRITING of this fic is awkward asdfghjkl #than you em #bless you #pancakes' tag

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kattsukki · 3 years

Text

A Love Only I Can See

Ghost!Kamado Tanjiro x Fem!Reader

Warnings: MANGA SPOILERS!!! Doesn't follow the manga/anime plot but has a bunch of details from the manga. Death. Takes place in the post showa era in japan (1950's to be exact)

Sypnosis: A sickly girl who has the ability to see spirits falls in love with one, how lucky that you get to meet him in the afterlife.

Kat: Happy Halloween!! (It's already november and I posted this rlly late but let's just pretend xoxo)

It's been a long time since the taishō era. Years since Tanjiro Kamado died.

While yes, he succeeded in killing the infamous Muzan Kibutsuji and turned his demon sister back human, but as most good things come to an end, he never recovered himself. Dying tragically from the serious injuries inflicted upon him.

A kind kind soul Tanjiro was, so sweet and nice. If only he could've lived longer to be with his sister and his friends. What a shame.

Few years later, the post shōwa era began, you grew up in the city with your well-off parents. They did everything money could pay to ensure you wouldn't be in so much pain all the time. But even so, being cooped up in your house and can't even go on something as simple as a walk is just plain lonely.

Despite being sickly and fairly weak, you weren't that different compared to other girls your age, you liked reading, enjoyed the company of your peers and so on. But ah, theres just one more thing, you have the ability to see ghosts.

You loved talking to them ever since you were a kid, some of them were pretty nice! You see, souls of the dead are given a choice if they could go on to the afterlife or continue to stay on earth for a while to roam around. Whether they're here watching over loved ones or just roaming around, there's always bound to be a kind spirit you'd meet.

Like this one, recently you've met with a spirit named Kamado Tanjiro. Your granny always warned you about your special ability ever since the time you started talking to your deceased grandfather when you were about six. You never even knew he was dead! He passed away before you were born.

Well moving on, it all led up to this very moment. Tanjiro was astonished. Of all the years he'd spent watching over his family and friends and even their families, he's never met anyone who could see him. He sure thought you were special.

With a surprised look, he points to himself in shock. "You can see me? I thought humans can't see the deceased," you nod in response. Honestly, you're actually used to this response from other spirits.

Seconds later you've gotten along easily, I mean it is Tanjiro we're talking about. Talking for hours straight, you didn't even realise you should be going home. Saying your goodbyes, you bid farewell to the kind spirit.

The same thing happened the next day, and the next, and so on. You don't even talk to the other spirits you've befriended as much as you do with him. You must really like him. And if you're being honest, you so do. You know a human can never fall in love with the dead but you've been falling head over heels for the boy each and every time you talk to him.

Walking up to where he usually hangs out, a small place near a shrine where his grave sits. You ask to talk. "I'm afraid my sickness is getting worse, I don't think I'll be able to visit as much." Bowing your head down apologetically, "It's alright, I can always visit you myself instead." He waves off.

"I'd like that." You smile, already looking forward to the next time you'll get to see eachother.

It's worse. So much worse. You've gotten so weak over the past month to the point where you couldn't leave the bed at all. Your parents have done all they could, but the doctor says you'll only have half a year at best.

The only thing calming you down during these painful times was Tanjiro. He stuck by your side always, he never seemed to leave. Always accompanying you when you were left alone.

Finally, your last moments were upon you. But you were alone. Well- not alone per say, Tanjiro was with you of course. After saying your goodbyes to your family, you had wished for your last moments to be alone, with him.

Vision becoming blurry, hands shaking, you didn't have much time. With your last dying breath, you let out a single sentence you've been wanting to tell him for so long. "I love you."

As soon as you went cold, you've awoken in a bright place that gave you a warm and at home feeling, this must be the afterlife. You feel light, like all the pain you've been dealing throughout your life had vanished.

The rough pads of a hand gently grab ahold yours, the sight of Tanjiro sweetly smiling at you made you feel more at ease. The smile you fell in love with.

Lightly interlocking your hand with his, he utters out a sentence that fills you with relief. The kind of relief you've been yearning for.

"I love you too."

#demon slayer #kamado tanjirō #tanjiro kamado #tanjiro kny #kny #kny tanjiro x reader #tanjiro x you #tanjiro x reader #kny tanjiro kamado #kny tanjirou #tanjiro #tanjiro kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #tanjiro fluff #demon slayer tanjiro

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thirstyforcharacters · 3 years

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When the Universe Collides (Sam Wilson x Reader)

Summary: Every person has a soulmate. When your soulmate experiences pain, so do you, and any bruises, scars, or other markings that they get appear on your skin. Or, the story of how smacking yourself in the face with a cabinet was the best thing to ever happen to you.

Notes: Hi! Since the first episode of Falcon and the Winter Soldier comes out today, I wanted to write something for Sam! He’s super underrated and deserves more love! Also, this soulmate AU is extremely self-indulgent and has absolutely nothing to do with the TV show, but tbh I don’t care. Hope you all enjoy it too! (no y/n, no pronouns) (PS: any italicized text is Sam texting and the italicized and bold text is the reader texting!)

Warnings: mentions of a stab wound (nothing explicit), cursing I guess

WC: 2.2 k

Your soulmate must have one hell of a job.

Almost every day, you woke up with dark bruises covering your body. It seemed that whenever one faded, another took its place. At completely random times, you would double over in aches that you certainly didn’t inflict upon yourself. One time, in the middle of the night, you woke up with pain in your stomach so intense, it felt like someone had stabbed you! It turned out that it was a stab wound, but given that no one had stabbed you lately (or ever), you figured it was from your soulmate. You definitely didn’t appreciate that hospital bill.

But you still desperately wanted to meet them. Meet that person that completed you: your other half. As a teenager, you made your parents tell you the story of the day they finally met so many times, you knew it by memory. They were both in the library at college, and your mom dropped a psychology textbook on her foot! Her howl of pain was only matched by the “SON OF A BITCH” that came from your dad on the opposite side of the library. When the two of them made eye contact, they instantly knew they were the ones for each other (they were also immediately kicked out for making such a ruckus). You wanted to have that moment so badly; meeting your soulmate was a huge milestone in every person’s life, and you needed it.

Your best friend and roommate, Brianna, had met hers just two months ago. They had met at the beach, when out of nowhere, Bri had shrieked in shock and pain.

“A crab just pinched me!”

When you had looked at her foot and told her nothing was there, she was totally confused, until you saw a handsome guy with a crab hanging from his foot! He had introduced himself as Julian, and the two had been inseparable since. He was living with you now, and you had honestly never felt more lonely in your life. Sure, you had your dream career; you ran a music shop in New York City, selling instruments, making repairs, and meeting all sorts of interesting people. You had a decent apartment, a chill best friend, and the cutest Yorkie, named Muffin, on the planet. By all accounts, you had it pretty good. You were just missing your other half.

It was a rainy day in NYC. The chill of winter was still clinging onto the March air, and you shivered as you trudged from your apartment to your shop. Even though you had an umbrella to protect you from the rain, the wind blew right through the too-thin jacket you yanked off of the coatrack in a rush. Still holding your half-eaten toaster strudel in your hand, you pushed open the doors to Major Instruments and Minor Repairs, your pride and joy.

It was two floors: the first was where you sold instruments, and the repair shop was above. Acoustic panels were attached to the burnt red walls to help quiet down the place, since the hardwood floors didn’t do much to help with that. The checkout desk was directly in the center in the room. Surrounding it were reeds, bottles of valve oil, and guitar strings. Picks were placed in two clear, plastic bowls on the desk itself. In the front left corner of the room was a grand piano, situated right in the window so passersby could see whenever someone plucked its keys. The entire back wall was covered in guitars and basses. To the right of the desk was a large drumset, accompanied by a pair of drumsticks and brushes. On the right wall were string instruments; string basses and cellos were leaned against the wall, while the violins, violas, and bows were displayed on it. Woodwind and brass instruments were scattered across the room in various display cases. Instrument stands, bow rosin, and miscellaneous instrument parts were on shelves throughout the room as well. The spiral staircase leading up to the repair shop was in the back left corner of the room. Behind the staircase was the door to the back store room, where you kept your extra supplies and also where you took your breaks.

“Good morning!” called Andrew, one of your closest friends from college, from behind the desk.

You waved in reply, wandering to the back store room. You were lucky you had Andrew; you could rely on him to run the front desk while you and Brianna assisted customers on the floor. Unfortunately, Bri had the flu today, so it would just be you on the floor, which would make things a little more hectic. You hurriedly finished your strudel, took off your jacket, which left you in a black and white flannel, a matching black tank top reading “Music is Life,” black leggings, and black combat boots (you had an aesthetic to uphold), and strode back out to the main area.

“You seem in a bit of a rush. Everything okay?” asked Andrew, who was currently restocking bell covers.

You sighed, “Just a whirlwind of a morning. Bri has the flu, Muffin nearly choked on a chicken bone, I almost burned my toaster strudel, and I smacked myself in the face with my cabinet door by accident.”

“Oh, that’s where the new bruise on your eye is from,” he mused.

You snorted, “Yeah, for once it’s not from my soulmate.”

“Maybe he’s a spy. Or a superhero!”

“Yeah, or a criminal,” you joined in on the restocking, grabbing some trumpet mutes since the place opened in just half an hour, “thanks for opening up, by the way.”

“It’s no problem,” he replied, “you know I don’t mind.”

The doorbell jingled and two of your instrument repair people, Sarah (for strings), and Natalie (for brass), entered. Natalie was lugging what was unmistakably a tuba case, while Sarah carried both of their instrument repair kits.

“Morning, ladies!” called Andrew.

“Good morning,” Sarah replied pleasantly.

Natalie huffed out a “morning” and dragged the tuba up the stairs.

“Her tuba’s broken. The tubing that holds up her mouthpiece completely snapped off. She’s going to try and repair it before her appointments today,” explained Sarah.

You winced, “That’s rough.”

Sarah dropped off both of their jackets and followed Natalie up the stairs leaving you alone with Andrew again. Soon after, Erik, your percussion guy, and John, the woodwind repairman, arrived, and it was time for the shop to open. For a while, it was just another mundane Thursday. Customers came and went. People tested the piano and drumsets, someone bought $100 worth of jazz scores, and a teenaged boy came in who somehow got a ping pong ball stuck in their trombone (you learned to never ask). But at exactly 1:47 pm, a time you would never forget, two very unexpected customers walked through the threshold of your store. You were up on a ladder, carrying a large, rather heavy, box of violin bows to situate on the wall, when you heard their voices.

“I’m telling you, Buck, I’m a wizard at the saxophone.”

“Sure, Sam. I’ll believe it when I hear it.”

“I’m serious, dude! I played all the time before I joined the military, and I picked it back up a little bit again after the whole Avengers thing. I just need to get a new one.”

“Hmm, okay. We’ll see.”

“Bastard.”

You whipped your head around and saw the Falcon and the Winter Soldier themselves in your shop. Having superheros in your place was a first. And who knew Sam Wilson played the saxophone?

Andrew offered them a cheerful greeting and directed them toward the saxophones, which happened to be near the ladder you were teetering on. Every time you leaned up to put a bow on display, it wobbled so badly you thought you were going to fall. You really needed to allocate some funds toward a new one.

As you continued to place bows on display, you heard the conversation of the two gentlemen browsing the saxophones. Apparently, Sam much preferred the tenor sax (which you happened to play, quite well you might add). Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him pick up a Selmer Paris model and inspect it. Those didn’t come cheap, but you were sure that saving the world gave a man a pretty decent paycheck.

“You think I can test it out?”

“I don’t know, dude. You should probably ask.”

You saw him nod, “Yeah, I guess so. And there’s not a reed in here, anyway. Excuse me!”

You realized he was calling you, so you craned your head to look at him. Both men were looking up at you, both with kind smiles on their faces.

“Is there any way I can get a cheap reed to test this out with,” Sam asked, “and are we even allowed to test them in store?”

You smiled back, “Yes, you can. We have test reeds at the front desk, just ask Andrew and he’ll give you one. That’s the only one you’ll get though.”

“Cool, thanks,” he replied while looking around, “nice place you’ve got here.”

Your smile grew a little wider, “Thank you! It took a little while to get it off of the ground, but I’m really proud of how it turned out.”

It was almost as if the universe wanted you to suffer. You stretched up to display yet another bow, and the ladder toppled to the ground, taking you with it! You shrieked in surprise and braced yourself for the impact with the floor.

But it never came.

Instead, you were caught in a pair of (ridiculously) muscular arms. When you looked into the arms of your hero, of course it was Sam himself. He was too handsome for his own good. The thing that stood out most to you were his deep brown eyes. And how, on the left one, was a bruise that exactly matched the one that you gave yourself this morning.

“Are you alright? That ladder must have it out for you,” joked Sam, though you could tell that he was concerned for you.

“I’m okay,” you squeaked, “thank you.”

“It’s no problem. All a part of the job.”

You nodded distractedly, still fixated on the bruise adorning his eye. He couldn’t be your soulmate, could he?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he questioned.

“I-yes. I just got a bit, well, distracted.”

“By what?”

Well, it was now or never. You might as well just go for it.

“When did you get that bruise?”

He looked a bit surprised by the question, “The one on my eye?”

You nodded.

“This morning. It just popped up. Hurt a little bit, like something hit me in the face. Can’t be worse than what I’ve given my soulmate, though. I got stabbed in the stomach once and all I could think about was how confused and hurt they must’ve been,” came his reply.

It was him. It had to be! All of your random, serious injuries made so much more sense now.

“It did hurt,” you murmured back, “but not as much as the hospital bill.”

His face went from apologetic to elated faster than you had ever seen, “Wait, that means it’s you?”

“I think so,” you said, “I hit myself in the eye with a cabinet door this morning, and that-” you gestured to his face, “matches mine.”

“Oh, it does!” he exclaimed.

“Are you two done over there?” complained Bucky.

Thankfully, the Winter Solider had successfully rescued your box of bows.

Sam stood you up, and you could feel the embarrassment slowly creeping over you, “Yeah. Sorry about that, guys. Promise I’m not usually that clumsy.”

“Seems like you need a new ladder,” Bucky told you.

“You don’t say,” you sassed back, prompting a laugh from Sam.

Bucky then strode off to return the fallen box to Andrew. He gave Sam a knowing look as he passed by. He wasn’t very slick, though, you totally saw him.

“Listen, since apparently we’re soulmates and all, I’d love it if I got your number. I’ll take you somewhere nice to make up for all of the times I’ve gotten you hurt,” explained Sam.

You smiled bashfully, “That sounds nice.”

He handed you his phone and you input your digits. As Sam and Bucky were in the checkout line, your phone buzzed.

Hey, gorgeous. It’s your new man.

You giggled softly and looked up at him. He gave you an exaggerated wink and launched finger guns at you, making you laugh a bit harder. You entered his number into your phone and decided to send a text back.

Looking forward to you making up for all of those broken bones.

Me too.

You knew you’d be happy with him. Whenever the universe collided in this way, it always turned out for the best. If your parents and your roommate weren’t enough proof, soon you would discover it for yourself. You couldn’t wait for all of the memories you’d make together.

#sam wilson #falcon #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x you #sam wilson x y/n #sam wilson fanfiction #sam wilson fic #sam wilson fluff #soulmate au #x reader #x reader fanfiction #x reader fluff #x reader fic #marvel #MCU

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unholyhelbig · 3 years

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Artifice | Chapter 10: The Escape

For previous chapters, click here | To Read on A03, Click here

The leather was cool under Beca’s fingertips. It smelled of oil paints, and clove, and the faintest bit of smoke. There was salt and sun all at once. She had carried the bag everywhere with her, strung against her shoulder. There were only ever a few cotton shirts, and pants that were worth well with dirt and blood.

She kept her sketchbook, bound in the equally fine leather, close to her heart. A small section of charcoal was folded into a cloth. It was hard to come by, nearly impossible, but Beca knew the right people. Emily Junk knew the right people. She pulled strings for fine clay and even finer parchment.

They were simple gifts, but intricate. When Beca’s stomach was rolling and the ship rocked steadily against black waves, she would sit and sketch Emily, focused so fully on the maps, the charting, and the stars that they followed. Moonlight would dance across her features in pale magnificence.

She kept the sketchbook, the one that reminded her of the ocean before she met Christian and felt the sting of his open palm against her cheek, at the bottom of the bag, away from Chloe, and Aubrey, and Garrett, and the rest of the prying eyes of the world. It was her solace. It made her sick to her stomach.

Beca peeled the bag open. She didn’t’ care much for folding the clothes that she had strewn across the room in her time at the Beale Estate. They had fit just fine when they were pressed and smelling of fresh linen, they would fit just fine now.

Sadness pricked at the back of her eyes. She thought of betraying her own unspoken rules as an artist and tearing the cleanest page from her sketchbook out. She would scrawl a note in charcoal on the back, dirtying the pads of her fingertips and forgetting herself fully.

Unlike her first night here, she could navigate the hallways that were meant for staff with her eyes closed. Stacie had pressed the lanterns hours before Beca returned from the pub. The wax had hardened and the scent of ash hung stubbornly in the air.

Moonlight flitted through the kitchen. She figured she could slip through the back doors into the warmth of the night without anyone missing her too much. Her throat stung with two mugs of brew she had downed to quell her emotions at the pub. It spurred her on, told her to press forward.

Forget the commission, forget the billionaire that had wronged the seven seas, forget his siren wife with hot copper ringlets, and fair lambskin.

“You’re leaving without saying goodbye.”

The statement had no infliction behind it. Beca felt her heart in her throat and her fingers numb against the strap of her leather bag. She hadn’t moved yet, hadn’t gotten past the threshold of the patio door. She hadn’t estimated how long she stood there, counting the blades of grass, but the voice startled her.

“I have to go,” Beca said.

She turned to face Aubrey Posen. A tin mug with water rested at her side, half consumed. The blonde may have watched her as she watched the world, those cold apple-green eyes. They gave her away as human instead of an animal, focused instead of sure.

A silk robe covered her shoulders, the lavender material rich, and rarely seen by someone of her caliber. The whole estate was like that, fancy vases and sculptures, and iron workings that Beca had seen from the outside, looking in, but never the other way around.

“You’re a coward.”

She scoffed “A coward? No soy un cobarde.”

Even as she said it, she knew she was wrong. Someone who didn’t’ shy away from confrontation would have kneeled in front of the woman in the house by now- they would have told her about the band of looters, and pirates that intended on storming her personal palace.

Her face must have softened and given her away. Aubrey quirked an eyebrow, raising the mug to her lips before humming in satisfaction. It made Beca’s skin burn and her heart prickle.

“Leave, then. Making Chloe suffer by contemplating your own actions is doing more harm than good.”

Beca hated to swallow her words twice in one sitting but found herself taking the remaining three steps towards the kitchens island. Aubrey seemed to tense at the movement, dry-mouthed and thick with contempt.

“It’s for the better.”

“For you, or for her?” Aubrey lowered the mug and let out a sigh “Listen, you being here… has been good for Chloe. I thought you would be like them all, the artists. They waltz into the estate with their oils, and charcoals, and parchment, and think that they have the world at their fingertips. Instead of painting her, they use her. And she lets them.”

“I understand your hand over her, Aubrey,” Beca said.

“Hand over who?”

The two women glanced towards the opening to the kitchen. Chloe stood under the archway, her hair caught the moonlight like the rest of the kitchen, but in a deeper, cherry-colored way. She looked sleep-worn and content. That soon shifted against her features as she took in the leather satchel, the swept way Beca stared, and the fingerprints on the glass sliding door.

“You’re going,” She murmured.

The shatter of her words cut deep against Beca’s skin. She felt as if she might bleed there, bite her tongue until she swallowed mouthfuls of red. Her shoulders slumped, her resolve nearly broke. “I don’t have a choice.”

“A choice… Beca you’re here to paint. Have I scorned you that horribly with my antics that you’ve given up the fight?” She scoffed “I’ll ease on the chase. We can start tomorrow>”

She turned and glanced towards the backyard. The moonlit the path beautifully towards the ocean, and the docks, and the fire-filled lights that reflected off the waves. If she searched hard enough, she could see Emily’s ship, its red sails, and drafting architecture.

Aubrey scooped her mug up and was halfway out of the kitchen by the time Beca mustered up the courage to turn back to the woman. She hated the weight of the two of them this close to one another, standing off with nothing but a few inches between them.

“Garrett has wronged a very dangerous group of people,” Beca meant to sound powerful, strong, and sure of herself, but she wasn’t. There was a meekness to her words. “They’re planning to storm this place, to take back what is rightfully theirs.”

Chloe pursed her lips, frowning as she stared at the terracotta tiling. She had her own silk robe wrapped tersely around her, her blue eyes hard and unreadable. “My husband does not speak about his business and I am kind enough not to ask.”

“He’s robbing people, Chloe. Good innocent people.”

“Pirates.” She snapped back “the last I checked they’re the ones that pillage, and murder, and go entirely feral at the sight of a pint of ale. Garrett is doing this world well.”

“They do what they can to survive. I don’t expect you to understand.”

It came out harsher than intended. Chloe snapped her gaze up to the woman with such ferocity that it chilled her to her bones. She steadied her hand against the island, fingers white as they pressed into the countertop. “Excuse me?”

“Rich, and stubborn enough not to go with me if I asked you to.” Beca whispered, this time sure of herself “I know these people, grew up with them, love them. And they are more merciless than many. Yet you would stay to defend your home, your possessions. Your paintings.”

The words felt bitter against Beca’s tongue. As if her saliva had turned to acid. She would never speak out against the lady of a house, much less one that had offered to pay for her services. But Chloe’s world was sheltered, and it was close to crumbling.

“You never asked.” She snarled, taking another step forward, closing the gap between them. Beca could feel the anger rolling off her in waves. “You packed your things and were going to escape into the night.”

Her breath came out in a shudder, it pressed against Chloe’s collarbone, making goosebumps rise against her skin. Blue eyes flicked to her lips, to her jawline, and to her own chest heaving up and down. It would take nearly nothing to push forward and escape the space left between them.

She swallowed the hot taste in her mouth “Would you have gone?”

Chloe met her question with silence. Maybe the words were stuck in her throat, or maybe they had no place where they were to begin with. Beca frowned, fretted, and took a step back. Chloe could have held her there, tethered her to one spot. She had enough power to convince her to stand against Emily and her intent. But nothing was said. The silence dripped heavily between them.

“Give Garrett my apologies.” She said, “I pray he can find an artist to capture your likeness one day.”

Before the tears that were welling up in Chloe’s eyes could escape, Beca had turned, opened the patio door, and began to walk across the moonlit grass. There were clouds in the sky, prominent against the dark backdrop, covering the ball of light enough for her to slip through the trees that turned to swamp and swamp that stretched into an alcove.

Garrett had spared no expense, the jutting cliffs that dropped straight to the docs and choppy waves had a staircase carved into it. Metal for the same lanterns that lined the Beale estate was set up in sporadic intervals. Beca had trusted only her instinct and anger to get her down to the docks.

Emily’s ship sprouted with blue and amber lights. A man grizzled and half-drunk with the swells of the sea stood as Beca approached. He drew his sword with a slick sound of metal upon metal. The tip of the weapon found its home under her chin, close enough to slice the hair from her head.

“State your business.” He purred, lilting his head at his prize.

“Jasper,” Emily’s voice came from the deck of the ship. She leaned over the railing, having shed her leather coat, and her captain’s hat, simple and beautiful in the moonlight. The man never hesitated. “She’s fine. Come up,”

She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, running her finger over the raw spot against her throat. He could have easily sliced through the skin, could have made a meal of her before the night had even begun.

Beca scaled the rope ladder leading to the main deck of the ship. By the time she had reached the top Emily had a grin on her face, nothing short of pride and warmth. There was a subtle rocking beneath her feet that reminded her so fully of home.

“Do my eyes deceive me delicately?”

“They don’t,”

Emily furrowed her brow and lilted the woman’s head up with the curl of her finger, the opposite of the blade with her softness, and tender stare. “You’re sure about this? I can get you off the island.”

“I’ve already turned my back once tonight. No puedo hacerlo de nuevo. I wish to join you.”

The captain withdrew her touch, worry etched into her features, catching every spare light that the night sea had to offer. Her eyes flitted to the last remaining glow in the kitchen of the Beale Manor, entirely visible from the docks. Past the trees, and the hedges, and the swamps, she could have sworn she saw a woman, backed by a lantern, and forlorn with fear.

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Bechloe #Fanfiction #Historical au

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seeuonadarknite · 4 years

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good girl -- yandere dazai + chuuya x f. reader

request: Hey! Can I get a Dazai and Chuuya sharing darling noncon and punishment + I was the one that asked for Dazai and Chuuya! Is it ok if you add breeding kink please. 🥺

❀ yes ofc bby :) this has been in my drafts FORVER.. i just never got to formatting it :’)

warnings: noncon, spanking, fingering, facefucking, breeding kink, implied kidnapping

"Oh? And where do you think you're going?"

You really messed up this time. Something must have possessed you for you to believe that trying to sneak out of the house these two ruffians confined you in whilst they were home was a good idea. Sure, they left you unrestricted during the times that they were home, but that didn't mean you weren't being supervised.

In a sense you were like an unleashed dog running off from its owners on a walk around the block. Although it would be a hassle to take time out of their day to retrieve you, they'd still do it in a heartbeat because you mattered to them. That didn't mean that it wouldn't still entail punishment; they couldn't just let you off the hook after pulling an immature stunt like that.

And the worst part was that you weren't surprised that you were caught red handed whatsoever. Dazai had eyes and ears everywhere. How foolish could you possibly be thinking that he wouldn't catch on with your little escape plan? Hell, you didn't even manage to make it past the welcoming mat before you were stopped dead in your tracks.

It was frustrating beyond belief how nonchalant he seemed about it, because you knew damn well that he was just as livid as his partner, Chuuya. Only difference was that Chuuya was visibly smoldering with anger, whereas Dazai just sported a condescending grin that had vexation written all over it.

Stood at the bottom of the stairs near the door, you cowered away from the two seething males like a cat, coincidentally backing yourself into the nearest wall. Good going. It felt like your heart was pounding out of your chest with all of the nerves you were feeling, because you knew you were royally fucked. These two certainly didn't play nice, not even with their beloved girlfriend.

It was hard to shake off their blazing glares burning holes into your figure. You couldn't tell if Chuuya was about ready to either eat you alive or tear you to shreds. Either way, he'd at least be quick in his movements; it made him the lesser of two evils. Dazai would probably take his sweet time in tearing you apart, relishing in the way your face would contort in agony. It really shocked you that people called this man a masochist.

"I-I'm sorry! Please, don't hurt me.." You whimpered, hugging your body as if it would provide protection from the two males staring you down like a piece of meat. It really sucked that you were even stuck in this position in the first place. Your relationship with the two boys started off pretty innocent, but there was a point in time where they lost trust in you for whatever reason. Their insecurities poisoned your "unbreakable" bond, driving them to lock you up and hide you away from the public eye.

The mischievous pair both shot each other a look, before Dazai calmly approached your cowering figure. He wrapped his slender fingers around your wrists, forcefully pulling them off of their spots on your sides. "Dear [y/n], you're not gonna get out of this with just a tap on the wrist.." Dazai trailed off, giving his partner a chance to finally butt in. "We've been way too fucking lenient with you. It's about time you learn your place." The hotheaded male barked, watching as you automatically flinched at the increase in volume. However, it wasn't as if you could instinctively hide your face in your hands. Not with Dazai forcefully prying them apart with his iron grip on each wrist.

Before you could retaliate, Dazai was already carrying you bridal style towards your shared bedroom with Chuuya hot on your trail. Yeah, shared bedroom. With all three of you. Every single night you'd be sandwiched between the two, with Chuuya hugging you from behind like a teddy bear, and Dazai with his lanky arm draped over your side and head sitting atop yours. Even without any technical forms of restraint, they still offered you no opportunity to slip from their grasps whilst they slept.

After taking a seat on the edge of the king bed, Dazai bent you over his knee within a fluid movement. Meanwhile, Chuuya sat adjacent to Dazai in order to wrap his fingers around your jaw and forcibly tilt your head upwards towards his. You could feel your blood rush to your cheeks in embarrassment. The fact that there were two of them getting off to this only added insult to injury.

"Ahh, I'm going to have to take your bottoms off, my darling. You've been quite naughty, haven't you?" Dazai purred into your ear, unable to contain the smirk that stretched across his face at the sight of his partner glaring you down. His snarl made him look like a feral animal foaming at the mouth. It almost tore your attention away from Dazai wrapping his lengthy fingers around the elastics of your shorts and panties, pulling the clothing articles right off of your body with one harsh tug.

"Osamu please—" Your pleads were abruptly cut off by Chuuya's free hand swiping across your cheek, causing an ear deafening smack to echo through your ears. It took a second for you to process the stinging sensation left on your skin.

However, before you could really brood on it, Dazai's calloused hand was already gently rubbing on the skin of your lower cheek. It may have seemed like a loving gesture, but you knew all too well what it entailed. The way he ran his hand over your rear rivaled the way a nurse would wipe your arm before injecting it with a needle. It was merely preparation for the real thing.

Words couldn't describe how agonizing it was anxiously awaiting Dazai's next course of action. It wasn't as if you could anticipate when it would come, not with Chuuya forcing your head in place with his fingers digging into your jaw. All you could do was pathetically stare into the shorter male's eyes as you idly stood by.

Chuuya, however, had a perfect view of your rear end and could easily predict when Dazai would finally begin your dreadful punishment by watching him finally swing his open hand down towards your ass cheek. "Count." Chuuya's stern voice overlapped with the sharp sound of Dazai's hand delivering a hefty smack to your rear. A shrill yelp escaped your lips at the all too familiar burning sensation.

"O-One.." You stuttered, feeling slightly intimidated with Chuuya's gaze burning holes into you. There wasn't anything you could do to avoid it with the way his hand locked your face in place. You had no other option other than to stare into your tormentor's eyes as his partner assaulted your rear end with his large hand.

By the time that Dazai had delivered the final blow to your rear, you felt hot, salty tears pouring down your face and onto Chuuya's hand. Nine spanks must not have been enough for him, judging by the way he made you count to ten. The reddened skin of your ass cheek felt like it was on fire with the burning sensation Dazai had inflicted upon it.

A small smirk tore across Chuuya's face as he finally let go of your aching jaw, diverting his attention towards your previously assaulted cheek. The way your skin rose ever so slightly in the form of a vibrant, red handprint left his cock twitching in his pants. It seemed that Dazai for once shared the same mindset with Chuuya, seeing as his clothed bulge was poking onto your bare leg. They had to be joking. Wasn't humiliating you by holding you down and bruising your ass under their scrutiny enough of a punishment? Your body would probably give out if they kept going at this rate.

Unfortunately for you, these two men were insatiable and held absolutely no regard for how you felt. They'd dish out any type of punishment that they deemed necessary; you did this to yourself, anyway. They weren't holding you at gunpoint when you pathetically tried scampering away from them. Everything that you did was all on your own accord.

Dazai ran two fingers along your folds from behind, tracing the sensitive skin in a V motion. Meanwhile, Chuuya was unbuckling his trousers whilst staring you down with a menacing grin tearing across his face. This was just great; your most sensitive parts were being rubbed and prodded at like a toy, and your mouth was about to be used as a fuckhole. That damned smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

Whilst you unintentionally rubbed yourself against Dazai's thigh in order to create friction, his slim fingers dipped into your needy hole, automatically evoking a sharp gasp from you. Chuuya took advantage of your parted lips and slipped his erect cock into the warm, wet caverns of your mouth. His lengthy cock felt foreign in the confines of your mouth; his length never looked like something you'd be capable of taking without gagging, but the aching pains he left on the back of your throat after bruising you with his tip proved otherwise.

"Take it like the good little whore that you are. You like that, gagging on my fat cock while getting your pretty little cunt fingered at the same time?" Chuuya grunted, tangling his fingers into your sweat permeated hair. Your lack of responsiveness seemed to tick Dazai off, because he suddenly began pumping his fingers in and out of you at a hostile pace, sporting a distinctive glare that would most definitely send chills running up your spine had you been able to see it.

What were you supposed to do? It wasn't as if you could speak with a massive cock stuffing your mouth full and a pair of fingers knuckle deep inside of you. All you could really do to help your case was focus on breathing and try not to gag. Chuuya was already infuriated enough.

It was when Dazai began palming your clit and curling his fingers on that spongy spot inside of you that you began to feel the coil in your stomach begin to grow tight. It was unbelievably difficult to contain yourself with Dazai's fingers continuously curling up against your g-spot, and Chuuya's swelling tip hitting the back of your throat at a bruising pace.

Tossing all rational thoughts to the side, you felt yourself clench tightly around Dazai's nimble fingers. However, once your hips stilled on his hands, preparing to release your juices on his fingers and coat them with your slick, his movements completely ceased. What?

"Aw, [y/n], did you forget? Bad girls don't get to cum." He mockingly cooed into your ear, watching as Chuuya forced your head in place in order for him to shoot ropes of cum into your wet cavern. Thanks to the sticky substance flooding your mouth, rendering it impossible to breathe, you weren’t given a chance to sulk on the absence of Dazai's fingers.

You did, however, notice him abruptly drag your hips towards the center of the bed with him, forcing you to release Chuuya's cock from your mouth. It barely gave you enough time to frantically swallow his seed. But you knew damn well that if you spat it out on the sheets, Chuuya would simply make you lick up your mess like a mutt.

This was all your fault. None of this would have happened if you had just stayed in your lane and knew your place. If you had just been obedient from the start, you wouldn't have to whine at the feeling of Dazai's tip prodding against your weeping hole. You wouldn't have to cast your eyes towards the floor whilst Chuuya jacked himself off at the sight of his partner slowly easing himself into your tight hole. Hell, you'd probably be cuddling up with the two on the couch right about now if you had just listened like a good girl.

"Fuck, look at you. Do you like getting used like a fleshlight? Because that's all you're good for." Chuuya spat into your ear with malice lacing his tone. If you weren't so hung up on the feeling of Dazai vigorously pummeling into you from behind, you would've been hurt by his harsh words.

"O-Osamu— please, slow down!" Asking him to stop was out of the question. The most you could do to defend yourself was to at least try and get him to alleviate his bruising pace. If he continued at this rate, his palms would end up leaving dark contusions on your hips and his ferocious thrusts would weaken your lower body strength, immobilizing for who knows how long.

Alas, your pleads fell upon deaf ears as Dazai only fastened his feral pace. "Ahh, keep singing for me, my darling!" The bandaged brunette practically moaned, relishing in the lewd mewls and keens that fell from your lips. Within every moment that passed, your walls would hug around his cock even more tenaciously. It would only be a matter of time until his end neared.

The once silent room was now filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping, synchronized grunts, and pathetic whines. Chuuya finished himself off a lot quicker than Dazai, as he pumped his throbbing cock one last time before spilling his seed. However, this time his aim was towards your face, his fluids permeating your skin and a bit of your hair.

"Lick it off." Chuuya ordered in a stern tone, admiring his grotesque handiwork from afar. He made a complete mess of your face, his cum smudging your makeup and dribbling down your chin. You made a pathetic attempt to stretch your tongue out and lap up whatever remaining cum you could reach on your face.

It wasn't easy to pretend that you couldn't see the triumphant smirk etched across Chuuya's face as you halted your movements, overwhelmed by the feeling of Dazai's tip hammering your cervix. If it wasn’t for your cervix blockading your womb, he'd probably be fucking that as well. With each bone breaking thrust, it felt like he impossibly reached deeper into the constricting walls of your cunt.

It was when Chuuya forcibly melded his lips with yours in a viciously hungry kiss that you finally broke, your cunt clamping around Dazai's cock, lubing it up with your slick. As you rode out your long awaited orgasm, Chuuya swallowed your gasps, exploring your wet caverns with his skillful tongue.

"Are you trying to drain me dry? Very well, you call the shots, [y/n]. I'm sure you would look a lot cuter with my baby in your arms." He cooed, training his eyes on Chuuya's contorted expression as he rapidly rocked his hips against yours, almost as if aiming to shoot his seed as deeply as possible inside of you. "You shithead! I'll cum inside 'er too once you finally get off!"

In any normal case, you would've tried stepping between them by now. But their clashing of heads meant nothing when Dazai's twitching cock was readying itself to empty its contents inside of you. God, you weren't ready to be a mother. You didn't deserve this. You didn't—

"Osamu, let me go!" You began wailing and screaming, but it was to no avail. It wasn't hard for Chuuya to shut you up by forcing your face down into the mattress with the simple shove of his hand.

With one last hostile thrust, bottoming out inside of you, Dazai shot his load into the fluttering walls of your cunt, completely draining his balls directly into your womb. He painted your insides white with each thick spurt of cum. "Ahh, sorry, what was that?" He taunted before reluctantly dragging his cock out of the twitching walls of your heat at an agonizingly slow pace. Once he finally pulled out of your weeping cunt, he watched with utter bliss as his semen began pooling out of your quivering hole.

Without another word, Dazai tucked his cock back into his pants and began to retreat from your trembling form. However, before he stepped out of the room, he shot Chuuya one last glance, watching him flip you over and throw your useless legs over his shoulders. "Try to make it quick. I know you have the freakish stamina of an animal but I'd like to feed our [y/n] some dinner before bed, okay?"

"I'll do what I want, shithead!"

Good luck catching a break between these two.

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sk1fanfiction · 3 years

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the many faces of tom riddle, part 4

-attachment, orphanages, and yet more child psych: time to add yet another voice to the void-

FULL DISCLAIMER THAT THIS IS JUST MY OPINION OF A CHARACTER WHO DOESN’T HAVE THE STRONGEST CANON CHARACTERIZATION, AND THUS ALL THIS IS BASED ON MY CONCEPTUALIZATION.

I'm going to be super biased, because my favorite portrayal of Tom Riddle is actually Hero Fiennes-Tiffin as eleven-year-old Tom Riddle, in HBP and I get to chat about child psych in this one, sooo here we go.

First of all, I’m just so impressed that a kid could bring that much depth to such a complex character.

This is the portrayal, I feel, that brings us closest to Tom’s character. Yes, Coulson’s brought us pretty close, but by fifth year, the mask was on.

We don't really get to see Tom looking afraid very often, but it's fear that rules his life, so it's really poignant in our first (chronologically) introduction, he looks absolutely terrified.

The void being the fandom's loud opinions on a certain headmaster. I wouldn't call myself pro-Dumbledore, but I'm certainly not anti-Dumbledore, either. (Agnostic-Dumbledore??)

Since I'm not of the anti-Dumbledore persuasion, I decided to poke around in the tags and see what the arguments were, so I don't make comments out of ignorance.

Most of the tag seems to be more directed towards his treatment of Harry and Sirius, but a few people mentioned that Dumbledore should have treated Tom with ‘exceptional kindness’ and tried to ‘rehabilitate’ him.

As I said in Parts 2 and 3, I am 100% in favor of helping a traumatized kid learn to cope, and I don’t think Tom Riddle was solidly on the Path to Evil (TM) at birth, or even at eleven. Not even at fifteen.

Could unconditional love and kindness have helped Tom Riddle enough for the rise of Lord Voldemort to never happen? Possibly, but...

Yes, I'm about to drag up that Carl Jung quote, again.

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.”

The problem with this is that if you’re going to blame Dumbledore for this, you also have to blame every other adult in Tom’s life: his headmaster, Dippet, his Head of House, Slughorn, his ‘caretakers’ at the orphanage, Mrs. Cole and Martha, and possibly more. In fact, if we're going to blame any adult, let's blame Merope for r*ping and abusing Tom Riddle Senior, and having a kid she wasn't intending to take care of.

Furthermore, you cannot possibly hold anyone but Tom accountable for the murders he committed. (I should not have to sit here and explain why cold-blooded murder is wrong.) And if you like Tom Riddle's character, insinuating that his actions are completely at the whim of others is just a bit condescending towards him. He's not an automaton or a marionette, he's a very intelligent human being with a functioning brain, and at sixteen is fully capable of moral reasoning and critical analysis.

I've heard the theories about Dumbledore setting the Potters up to die, and I'm not going to discuss their validity right now; but he didn't put a wand in Tom's hand and force him to kill anyone. Tom did it all of his own accord.

And while yes, I have enormous sympathy for what happened to Tom as a child, at some point, he decided to murder Myrtle Warren, and that is where I lose my sympathy. Experiencing trauma does not give you the right to inflict harm on others. Yes, Tom was failed, but then, he spectacularly failed himself.

We also have no idea how Dumbledore treated Tom as a student.

In the movies, it’s Dumbledore who tells Tom he has to go back to the orphanage, but in the books, it’s Dippet. We know that Slughorn spent a lot of time around Tom at Slug Club and such, yet I don’t really see people clamoring for his head.

I regard the sentiment that Dumbledore turned Tom Riddle into Lord Voldemort with a lot of skepticism.

But let's hear from the character himself -- his impression of eleven-year-old Tom Riddle.

“Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?” said Dumbledore. “No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his."

Now, assuming that Dumbledore's telling the truth, I'm not seeing something glaringly wrong with this. No, he hasn't pigeonholed Tom as evil, yes, I'd be intrigued, too, and it's a very good idea to keep an eye on Tom, for his own sake.

“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — inadvertently, I am sure — been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school."

Again, it seems like he's at least somewhat sympathetic towards Tom, and is willing to at least give him a chance.

More evidence (again, assuming Dumbledore is a reliable narrator):

Harry: “Didn’t you tell them [the other professors], sir, what he’d been like when you met him at the orphanage?” Dumbledore: “No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance.”

Now, I think Dumbledore is pretty awful with kids, but I don't think that's malicious. Yeah, it's a flaw, but perfect people don't exist, and perfect characters are dead boring. I am not saying that he definitely handled Tom's case well, I'm just saying that there's little evidence that Dumbledore, however shaken and scandalized, wrote him off as 'evil snake boy.'

It's also worth taking into account that it's 1938, and the attitudes towards mental health back then.

Why is Tom looking at Dumbledore like that, anyway? Why is he so scared? What has he possibly been threatened with or heard whispers of?

"'Professor'?" repeated Riddle. He looked wary. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?"

"I don't believe you," said Riddle. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course -- well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!

Tom keeps insisting he's not mad until Dumbledore finally manages to calm him down.

I'm really upset this wasn't in the movie, because it's important context. Instead we got these throwaway cutscenes of some knick-knacks relating to the Cave he's got lying around, but I just would have preferred to see him freaking out like he does in the book.

There was extreme stigma and prejudice towards mental illness.

'Lunatic asylums,' as they were called in Tom's time, were terrible places. In the 1930s and 40s, he could look forward to being 'treated' with induced convulsions, via metrazol, insulin, electroshock, and malaria injections. And if he stuck around long enough, he could even look forward to a lobotomy!

So, if you think Dumbledore was judgmental towards Tom, imagine how flat-out prejudiced whatever doctors or 'experts' Mrs. Cole might have gotten in to 'look at him' must have been!

Moving on to the next few shots, he is sitting down and hunched over as if expecting punishment or at least some kind of bad news, Dumbledore is mostly out of the frame. He’s trapped visually, by Dumbledore on one side, and a wall on the other, because he’s still very much afraid. uncomfortable, as he tells Dumbledore a secret that he fears could get him committed to an asylum (which were fucking horrible places, as I said).

It brings to the scene that miserable sense of isolation and loneliness to that has defined Tom’s entire life up to that point (and, partially due to his own bad choices, continues to define it).

And, when Dumbledore accepts it, his posture changes. he becomes more confident and more at ease, as he describes the... utilities of his magical abilities.

"All sorts," breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.

I do think Harry, our narrator, is being a tad bit judgmental here. Magic is probably the only thing that brings Tom happiness in his grey, lonely world, and when I was Tom's age and being bullied, if I had magic powers, you'd better believe that I'd (a) be bloody ecstatic about it (b) use them. And, like Tom, I can't honestly say that I can't imagine getting a bit carried-away with it. Unfortunately, we can't all be as inherently good and kindhearted as Harry.

Reading HBP again, as a 'mature' person, it almost seems like the reader is being prompted to see Tom as evil just because he's got 'weird' facial expressions.

So... uh...

Nope, let's judge Tom on his actions, not looks of 'wild happiness.'

To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick. The wardrobe burst into flames. Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.

Okay, one thing I dislike is Tom's lack of emotional affect when Dumbledore burned the wardrobe, in the books, he jumped up and started screaming, instead of looking passively (in shock, perhaps?) at the fire. Incidentally, I can't really tell if he's impressed or in shock, to be honest. I think they really tried to make Tom 'creepier' in the movie.

This is one of the incidents where Dumbledore's inability to deal with children crops up.

I think he was trying to teach Tom that magic can be dangerous, and he wouldn't like it to be used against him, but burning the wardrobe that contains everything he owns was a terrible move on Dumbledore's part. Tom already has very limited trust in other people, and now, he's not going to trust Dumbledore at all -- now, he's put Tom on the defensive/offensive for the rest of their interaction, and perhaps for the rest of their teacher-student relationship.

Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. "Where can I get one of them?"

"Where do you buy spellbooks?" interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.

But I'm not surprised Tom is 'greedy.' He's grown up in an environment where if he wants something, whether that's affection, food, money, toys, he's got to take it. There's no one looking after his needs specifically. I'm not surprised that he's a thief and a hoarder, and I don't think that counts as a moral failing necessarily, and more of a maladaptive way of seeking comfort. It would be bizarre if he came out of Wool's Orphanage a complete saint.

Additionally, I think given that the Gaunt family has a history of 'mental instability,' Tom is a sensitive child, and the trauma of growing up institutionalized and possibly being treated badly due to his magical abilities or personality disorder deeply affected him.

And there are points where it seems that Dumbledore is quick to judge Tom.

"He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control."

"Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination."

"I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless?..."

And while this is all empirically true, these are (a) a product of Tom's harsh environment, and (b) do not necessarily make him evil. But the point remains that child psych didn't exist as a field of its own, and psychology as a proper science was in its infancy, so I'd be shocked if Dumbledore was insightful about Tom's situation.

But I've gone a ton of paragraphs without citing anything, so I've got to rectify that.

Let's talk about Harry Harlow's monkey experiments in the 1950-70s.

If you're not a fan of animal research, since I know some people are uncomfortable with it, feel free to scroll past.

Here's the TL;DR: Children need to be hugged and shown affection too, not just fed and clothed, please don't leave babies to 'cry out' and ignore their needs because it's backwards and fucking inhumane. HUG AND COMFORT AND CODDLE CHILDREN AND SPOIL THEM WITH AFFECTION!

I will put more red writing when the section is over.

This is still an interesting experiment to have in mind while we explore the whole 'no one taught Tom Riddle how to love' thing and whether or not it's actually a good argument.

Andddd let's go all the way back to the initial 1958 experiment, featured in Harlow's paper, the Nature of Love. (If you're familiar with Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, him and Harlow actually collaborated for a time).

To give you an idea of our starting point, until Harlow's experiment, which happened twenty years after Dumbledore meets Tom for the first time, no one in science had really been interested in studying love and affection.

"Psychologists, at least psychologists who write textbooks, not only show no interest in the origin and development of love or affection, but they seem to be unaware of its very existence."

I'm going to link some videos of Harry Harlow showing the actual experiment, which animal rights activists would probably consider 'horrifying.' It's nothing gory or anything, but if you are particularly soft-hearted (and I do not mean that as an insult), be warned. It's mostly just baby monkeys being very upset and Harlow discussing it in a callous manner. Yes, today it would be considered unethical, but it's still incredibly important work and if you think you can handle it, I would recommend watching at least the first one to get an idea of how dramatic this effect is.

Dependency when frightened

The full experiment

The TL;DW:

This experiment was conducted with rhesus macaques; they're still used in psychology/neuroscience research when you want very human-like subjects, because they are very intelligent (unnervingly so, actually). I'd say that adult ones remind me of a three-year old child.

Harlow separated newborn monkeys from their mothers, and cared for their physical needs. They had ample nutrition, bedding, warmth, et cetera. However, the researchers noticed that the monkeys:

(a) were absolutely miserable. And not just that, but although all their physical needs were taken care of, they weren't surviving well past the first few days of life. (This has also been documented in human babies, and it's called failure to thrive and I'll talk about it a bit later).

(b) showed a strong attachment to the gauze pads used to cover the floor, and decided to investigate.

So, they decided to provide a surrogate 'mother.' Two, actually. Mother #1 was basically a heated fuzzy doll that was nice for the monkeys to cuddle with. Mother #2 was the same, but not fuzzy and made of wire. Both provided milk. The result? The monkeys spent all their time cuddling and feeding from the fuzzy 'mother.' Perhaps not surprising.

What Harlow decided next, is that one of the hallmarks being attached to your caregiver is seeking hugs and reassurance from them when frightened. So, when the monkeys were presented with something scary, they'd go straight to the cloth mother and ignore the wire one. Not only that, but when placed in an unfamiliar environment, if the cloth mother was present, the monkeys would be much calmer.

In a follow-up experiment, Harlow decided to see if there was some sort of sensitive period by introducing both 'mothers' to monkeys who had been raised in isolation for 250 days. Guess what?

The initial reaction of the monkeys to the alterations was one of extreme disturbance. All the infants screamed violently and made repeated attempts to escape the cage whenever the door was opened. They kept a maximum distance from the mother surrogates and exhibited a considerable amount of rocking and crouching behavior, indicative of emotionality.

Yikes. So, at first Harlow thought that they'd passed some kind of sensitive period for socialization. But after a day or two they calmed down and started chilling out with the cloth mother like the other monkeys did. But here's a weird thing:

That the control monkeys develop affection or love for the cloth mother when she is introduced into the cage at 250 days of age cannot be questioned. There is every reason to believe, however, that this interval of delay depresses the intensity of the affectional response below that of the infant monkeys that were surrogate-mothered from birth onward

All these things... attachment, affection, love, seeking comfort ... are mostly learned behaviours.

Over.

Orphanages, institutionalized childcare, and why affection is a need, not an extra.

His face is lit the exact same was as Coulson’s was in COS (half-light, half-dark), and I said I was going to talk about this in Part 3. I think perhaps it's intended to make Fiennes-Tiffin look more evil or menacing, but I'm going to quite deliberately misinterpret it.

Now, for some context, Dumbledore has just (kind of) burned his wardrobe, ratted out his stealing habit, and (in the books only, they really took a pair of scissors to this scene) told him he needs to go apologize and return everything and Dumbledore will know if he doesn't, and, well, Tom's not exactly a happy bugger about it.

But interestingly, in the books, this is when we start to see Tom's 'persona,' aka his mask, start to come into play. Whereas before, he was screaming, howling, and generally freaking out, here, he starts to hide his emotions -- in essence, obscure his true self under a shadow. So this scene is really the reverse of Coulson's in COS.

And perhaps I'm reading wayyy too much into this, but I can't help but notice that Coulson's hair is parted opposite to Fiennes-Tiffin's, and the opposite sides of their faces are shadowed, too.

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said finally, in an expressionless voice.

Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, "Yes, sir."

Here's an article from The Atlantic on Romanian orphanages in the 1980s, when the dictator, Ceausescu, basically forced people to have as many children as possible and funnel them into institutionalized 'childcare', and it's absolutely heartbreaking.

There's not a whole lot of information out there on British orphanages in the 30s' and 40s', but given that people back then thought you just had to keep children on a strict schedule and feed them, it wouldn't have a whole lot better.

The only thing I've found is this, and it's not super promising.

The most important study informing the criteria for contemporary nosologies, was a study by Barbara Tizard and her colleagues of young children being raised in residential nurseries in London (Tizard, 1977). These nurseries had lower child to caregiver ratios than many previous studies of institutionalized children. Also, the children were raised in mixed aged groups and had adequate books and toys available. Nevertheless, caregivers were explicitly discouraged from forming attachments to the children in their care.

Here's a fairly recent paper that I think gives a good summary: Link

Here, they describe the responses to the Strange Situation test (which tests a child's attachment to their caregiver).

We found that 100% of the community sample received a score of “5,” indicating fully formed attachments, whereas only 3% of the infants living in institutions demonstrated fully formed attachments. The remaining 97% showed absent, incomplete, or odd and abnormal attachment behaviors.

Bowlby and Ainsworth, who did the initial study, thought that children would always attach to their caregivers, regardless of neglect or abuse. But some infants don't attach (discussed along with RAD in Part 2).

Here's a really good review paper on attachment disorders in currently or formerly institutionalized children : Link

Core features of RAD in young children include the absence of focused attachment behaviors directed towards a preferred caregiver, failure to seek and respond to comforting when distressed, reduced social and emotional reciprocity, and disturbances of emotion regulation, including reduced positive affect and unexplained fearfulness or irritability.

Which all sounds a lot like Tom in this scene. The paper also discusses neurological effects, like atypical EEG power distribution (aka brain waves), which can correlate with 'indiscriminate' behavior and poor inhibitory control; which makes sense for a kid who, oh, I don't know, hung another kid's rabbit because they were angry.

Furthermore...

...those children with more prolonged institutional rearing showed reduced amygdala discrimination and more indiscriminate behavior.

This again, makes a ton of sense for Tom's psychological profile, because the amygdala (which is part of the limbic system, which regulates emotions) plays a major role in fear, anger, anxiety, and aggression, especially with respect to learning, motivation and memory.

So, I agree completely that Tom needed a lot of help, especially given the fact that he spent eleven years in an orphanage (longer than the Bucharest study I was referring to), and Dumbledore wasn't exactly understanding of his situation, and probably didn't realise what a dramatic effect the orphanage had on Tom, and given the way he talks to Tom, probably treated him as if he were a kid who grew up in a healthy environment.

In case you are still unconvinced that hugging is that important, there's a famous 1944 study conducted on 40 newborn human infants to see what would happen if their physical needs (fed, bathed, diapers changed) were provided for with no affection. The study had to be stopped because half the babies died after four months. Affection leads to the production of hormones and boosts the immune system, which increases survival, and that is why we hug children and babies should not be in orphanages. They are supposed to be hugged, all the time. I can't find the citation right now, I'll add it later if I find it.

But I think it's vastly unrealistic to say that Dumbledore, who grew up during the Victorian Era, would have any grasp of this and I don't think he was actively malicious towards Tom.

Was Tom Riddle failed by institutional childcare? Absolutely.

Were the adults in his life oblivious to his situation? Probably.

Do the shitty things that happened to Tom excuse the murders he committed, and are they anyone's fault but his own? No. At the end of the day, Tom made all the wrong choices.

And, for what it's worth, I think (film) Dumbledore (although he expresses the same sentiment in more words in the books) wishes he could go back in time and have helped Tom.

"Draco. Years ago, I knew a boy, who made all the wrong choices. Please, let me help you."

#tom riddle #the many faces of #tom marvolo riddle #character analysis #character study #albus dumbledore

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darkpurpledawn · 4 years

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So content warning for seemingly-dire-but-mostly-nonsensical medical situation in the aftermath of an accident and mild body horror played for laughs in this ficlet.

For @racketghost 's 13 Days of Halloween and prompt "bones"

“I almost hate to do it, that radiologist is positively glowing. And the residents are fascinated by your labwork.”

Crowley attempted to glower at Aziraphale through a tangle of tubes that were trying to assess his blood oxygenation, measure his pulse, and deliver saline solution, but were mostly just prompting their associated machines to beep in abject terror.

“You could be making a better attempt, I must say,” Aziraphale went on. He sounded ferociously, unnervingly calm as he picked at a disappointing muffin from the cafeteria. “I reckon I’ll have to wipe the memories of half the A&E at this point.” His voice had that particular tranquility which precedes major volcanic eruptions.

“Sorry I couldn’t look normal for the technicians, I was a bit preoccupied with my, what was it”--Crowley lifted a piece of carbon paper off the blanket with his unshattered hand and read--“extensive and irreversible blunt force trauma injuries and systemic organ failure. It was an accident, you know.”

“You hit three pedestrians.”

“I healed three pedestrians while I was bleeding out on Balfour Mews, angel!”

“Yes, I know, they’ve been telling the Daily Mirror they were chased by a swarming nest of vipers.”

“Look, demonic healing has some trade-offs, OK? Sometimes it makes sensible people give interviews with the Daily Mirror. Why are you so angry with me, I’ve never been more sympathetic in my life.” Crowley stuck out his bottom lip and indicated his numerous monitoring devices and broken limbs.

Aziraphale gave a quiet huff and looked back at the magazine whose crossword he had completed thrice in increasingly obscure languages. Despite the fact that he had at no point been thrown through a windshield that day, he seemed to be in a far greater state of shock.

Crowley appeared to lose his nerve at Aziraphale’s silence, and addressed his next inquiry to the muffin crumbs.

“Is the Bentley, er, doing alright?”

“Well that’s the trouble,” Aziraphale said, angry at once. “The sodding Bentley didn’t crumple at all, didn’t even dent! After you were--forcibly ejected, it drove itself off to the Cartoon Cinema without so much as a by-your-leave.”

Crowley let out a relieved sigh that almost displaced his nasal cannula.

“One would think,” Aziraphale continued, crushing the muffin in clenched fingers, “that you were more concerned with keeping your car looking nice than not getting yourself discorporated, even now. I don’t trust that Hell would ever let you out again if--if it came to that.”

The heart monitor flatlined and began wheedling for supervisory attention. Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it, then after poking at the juncture of IV and arm he said “Angel, look, I didn’t--”

There was a knock on the open door frame.

“Mr. Crowley, is this a good time?” a short man in a long lab coat asked.

“Actually we’re rather occupied,” Aziraphale started, but Crowley cut in.

“Yeah. S’fine.”

The doctor paced up and down for a moment, looked at the flatlining heart monitor and the flickering oximeter, and swallowed heavily. “Ah, I don’t really know how to say this or where to begin. Quite frankly, Mr. Crowley, you are the luckiest man who has ever been admitted to this institution, and not a single person on our staff has the faintest idea how you are still awake and speaking.”

“Er, prognosis good, then?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale snorted without mirth, then covered the awkward moment by getting up to throw the crushed muffin in a rubbish receptacle labeled BIOHAZARD.

“Mr. Crowley, I don’t want to alarm you, but these are your x-rays.” He handed Crowley a bluish film.

Crowley stared at them for a moment.

“So this is...bad?”

The doctor blinked once, and switched into a tone of voice like the one Aziraphale used for small children and Crowley used for especially recalcitrant rhododendrons.

“Sir, your entire skeletal structure amounts to your skull, a spine, and some supernumerary vertebrae. Your arms and legs appear to be made of cartilage developed subsequent to the rest of your bones. Your liver is nonfunctional and is covered in scar tissue that one of the ICU nurses noted appears to spell ‘PLEASE STOP’ in Latin. According to medical science and our leading bioethicists, not only are you already dead, it is completely unclear how you were ever alive.”

Crowley flashed an uneasy smile. “Miraculous, eh?”

“Mr. Crowley, you have the internal organs of a ball python and the pulmonary damage of a five hundred year old smoker.”

I quit in the nineties, Crowley mouthed at Aziraphale, who hid his head in his hands.

“Furthermore,” the doctor said, “Your body temperature was at 11 C before you underwent extensive blood rewarming, during which it was discovered your blood has the physical properties of tar bitumen and the pH of battery acid.”

Crowley twisted his several blankets. “It, er, runs in the family.”

“Mr. Crowley, I have never been so completely at a loss for diagnosis. A year’s worth of Lancet articles could be published on your congenital ocular condition alone. Your heartbeat has been undetectable for seven of the last eight hours, and yet you entered the trauma ward slurring to the paramedics about a recent purchase of beachfront property.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up.

“I’m afraid we’re really rather occupied,” he said, and drew his hand down with a brusque finality. There was a bright glow of light that made Crowley wince.

“Of course, Mr. Fell,” the doctor said in an altered voice. “I’ll have the discharge papers brought up presently.” He left the room, after glancing at the heart monitor and writing down a number it did not display.

“So, ah. Beachfront property.” Aziraphale bit his bottom lip.

“Erm, yeah. I, well, I might have driven off the road a bit when I saw the message from the real estate human. Angel, I, ah, I sort of bought us a house. I’d like a--gosh why is it so hard to talk? must be all the morphine--a future. If you want to erm, live in it with me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were overflowing with tears, so it was perhaps understandable that he collided with Crowley’s bandaged face a little too hard when he bent to kiss him.

“My dear,” he said as his throat made a noise like a dolphin hiccupping, “may I kindly suggest that if you want a future so badly you put some airbags in your bloody car?”

Crowley flinched at the word ‘airbags’ like he flinched at ‘Pater noster qui es in caelis.’

“Fine, angel, fine. But if I do, I get veto power over all tartan slipcovers, seasonal wreaths, and chintzy fireplace knicknacks at that seaside cottage. In perpetuity.”

Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s less-injured hand, squeezed tight, and began to daydream about inflicting quaint garden statues upon the years to come.

#good omens #good omens ficlet #my fics #racket's 13 days of halloween #bones #body horror #medical

368 notes · View notes

just-come-baek · 3 years

Text

get in, loser 3

Pairing: Taeyong x female!reader

Themes: smut | mafiaboss!taeyong | streetracer!reader | carthief!reader

Word count: 6.8k

Summary: Taeyong has another assignment for me, and though it seems quite simple, I could not foresee these complications. Also, why do actions have consequences? Somebody should’ve warned me before!

A/N First of all, special thanks to Ally for supporting me through ko-fi! 🥰 Also, sorry for not updating it sooner, I’ve been busy with work and college, the next chapter will be probably around New Year, since I’d like to write something christmasy. 🎄Enjoy~~

There’s something unexplainable about Taeyong.

He’s a living paradox; on one side, he’s a ruthless mafia boss who won’t hesitate to attack people who had dared to wrong him. However, on the other, he’s a caring leader that is ready to go out of his way to protect his loyal associates.

Though it was, give or take, two weeks since I got to know him personally, I could deduct this much. There was nothing he valued more than loyalty, and I made a mental note to myself to never let him down, especially in this department.

Despite witnessing him murder Haechan and Jisung, I felt oddly safe in his arms, and it was alarming as fuck. Only God knows how many red flags I decided to ignore this night for the sake of his warm embrace. Perhaps it was stupid and reckless, but I didn’t care.

I was scared, and it provided me with warmth and comfort. Taeyong was the one who inflicted the wound on my mind by making me torture Haechan. However, at the same time, he was helping me to treat it with his support.

I didn’t do anything wrong. However, according to Taeyong’s twisted sense of justice, it should be me to punish them – an eye for an eye and all of that bullshit.

As soon as Taeyong led me out of the basement, he leaned in. His whisper tickled my sensitive skin as he ordered me to wait for him in my new car. With a slight nod of my head, I exited the mansion, awfully glad he let me go. Though I tried to forget it even happened, my mind was replaying all of the events from the last hour, making me sick.

The cold fresh breeze hit my face, making me shiver. Wrapping my arms around my torso, I made my way to the vehicle. Once inside, I turned on the music player, looking through for my therapy playlist.

The first song on the playlist was “Don’t Cha” by The Pussycat Dolls, and I nervously began tapping my fingers against the steering wheel in the rhythm. At some point, I unconsciously started singing my heart out, and it actually helped me calm down my nerves.

Unfortunately, the sensation was short-lived. As soon as Taeyong sat down in the passenger seat and closed the doors, I once again became a nervous wreck.

What did he want to discuss with me in private?

“Your opponents didn’t make it easy for you, did they?” Taeyong asked with a mischievous smirk upon his face after he saw the current state of the car.

“It’s just a couple of scratches; it’s no big deal,” I stated, trying to brush it off. Though it pained me, I knew Doyoung would gladly help me fix the vehicle in exchange for a fancy bottle of booze. (And some free ride coupons if he happened to be extra whiny.)

“So…” I cleared my throat, trying not to seem overly intimidated by his presence. “What did you want to talk to me about?” I asked, avoiding his dominant gaze. Under the influence of Taeyong's penetrating eyes, I’d most likely agree to anything in a heartbeat, and that’s not what I wanted at the moment. I had to be assertive and stand my ground.

“First of all, where is the money you won tonight?” Taeyong inquired, and I tilted my head toward the glove compartment, where I had stuffed all the cash I had won in the race. With a playful smirk, Taeyong reached in, pulled out the bag, and looked inside.

“You made me really proud tonight,” he commented, staring at the money before he put his hand into the bag and threw a handful of cash on my thighs. “That’s the tip, spend it wisely,” Taeyong added, and I smiled sheepishly, having no idea what I could spend this money on.

“Thanks,” I answered out of courtesy.

“I know you must be exhausted, so I’ll be quick,” Taeyong started, and I smiled, glad he understood my state. I had survived a couple of terribly tiring days, and right now, I just wanted to return to my tiny apartment, crawl under the covers, and sleep to my heart’s content.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Next Saturday, I have a business to tend to, and I’ll be needing a driver,” Taeyong explained vaguely, and I nodded my head, making a mental note of it. “Normally, I’d ask Lucas, but we’re a bit understaffed right now, so he’s going to be pretty busy.”

If I wasn’t half-asleep by now, I would be outraged. Ever since I had stolen Taeyong’s vehicle, I put my blood, sweat, and tears into proving I could be a legit gang member. And now, they were looking for recruits, the nerve! Partially, I might’ve been an indirect reason they were understaffed at the moment, yet it still managed to anger me.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll do it,” I replied dismissively, not even bothering to ask for any additional information. The case seemed too easy; there must’ve been a catch, but at this point, I didn’t care. I just wanted this conversation to be over with. Taeyong wouldn’t assign me to this task if he didn’t believe I could pull through, so I naturally agreed, hoping I wouldn’t regret this negligence.

“Someone will text you more details sometime next week until then, get some rest, you look like you need lots of it,” Taeyong spoke teasingly as he once again eyed me from head to toe. I could only guess how awful I looked with the bruises, the eye bags, and an unimpressed frown on my face.

“Gee, thanks for that,” I jested, making Taeyong smirk in response.

“See you soon, doll,” having leaned toward me, he whispered before pressing a delicate kiss in the corner of my mouth, confusing the hell out of me.

What the hell was that?

***

Though at first, I was doubtful, I somehow managed to get better over the week. I still had a vivid picture in my mind of the crime scene unfolding in front of me, but it didn’t bother me as much as it had earlier. Also, I didn’t feel like throwing up out of stress when I thought of Taeyong. As time passed, all the intensity seemed to wear off, and I was glad because I wasn’t ready to take in any more stress.

Right now, I felt great.

Most of the bruises already healed, and I slept to my heart’s content and even went to the fitness club for some yoga classes. Last night, Doyoung and I had a sleepover at my place with classic 90’s movies, unhealthy snacks, and fruity face masks.

Life’s beautiful, I’d say.

Just as Taeyong had said, someone had texted me the details about the next gig. It was Lucas, and as much as I liked hearing from him, I’d much prefer a face-to-face encounter. He was hot as fuck, and though out of my league, I would love to appreciate his ethereal beauty in person instead of imagining him in yet another gorgeous outfit. I just couldn’t help myself; it was his fault he looked like his place was on the cover of Men’s Health.

His message was short, but it provided me with a lot of information, and in all honesty, I was glad he didn’t give me too many details. All I had to do was to escort Taeyong and his friend to a nightclub outside the city and drive them back to the mansion. The car would await me in Taeyong’s driveway, and I should arrive about half an hour before the departure. Oh, and of course, what the dress code was – nightlife extravaganza.

I had no idea what business they were to tend to, but I decided it was for the better. The less I knew about Taeyong's dirty dealings, the less trouble I was getting myself into. If I knew what they were about to do, I might’ve found myself in yet another one stress-heavy episode. It seemed like the only reasonable option to stay the hell away from any possible stress factors.

“How do I look?” I asked Doyoung as I stepped out of my bathroom, letting him check out the outfit. I was wearing a black two-piece, consisting of a cropped top with straps around the waist and a pair of high-waisted leather skinny pants. With ankle strap red high heels, a matching quilted purse, and sharp make-up, I felt sexy and empowered.

“You look like a badass CEO, is this the look you were going for?” Doyoung stated after carefully judging my outfit. Sighing, he put one leg over another. “I like it,” he smiled, giving me thumbs up. “Top it off with that leather jacket, and you’re good to go.”

“The black one or the red one?” I asked, looking at the jackets, wondering which would suit me better, ignoring ‘the really???’ look that Doyoung was giving me. “OK, never mind, sorry I asked,” I groaned, throwing the black jacket at Doyoung’s face, putting the red one over my shoulders.

“Mr. Bad Boy won’t be able to take his eyes off of you,” Doyoung remarked in a snarky manner, and I stuck my tongue out, trying to ignore the verbal jab. Very sophisticated conversation between two best friends, I had to admit.

“I won’t even reply to that,” I sighed and went to the mirror to check out if my make-up needed any retouch. Doyoung must’ve really thought I was trying to impress Taeyong with the outfit, and to be honest, it was the least of my worries. Though we barely spoke with each other, Taeyong didn’t seem to understand the meaning of personal space, so I doubted he cared what I was wearing. As long as I’d let him take it off, he would be satisfied.

Not that I thought about letting him do that…

I was a professional, and sleeping with my boss, or even thinking about it isn’t at the top of my priorities. I’m a skilled car racer and a thief, and that’s what I’m planning on focusing on.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back. Close the doors when you leave, okay?” I told Doyoung, and he smiled, lying on the couch, reaching for the TV remote.

“No worries, I’ll just watch the game, clean up the mess you made, and leave,” he said before he stuffed his mouth with a handful of potato chips. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

***

Punctually, I parked my cute Fiat on Taeyong’s driveway right next to a big ass black Hummer. Having got out of my tiny vehicle, I made my way around the monster truck, seeing Lucas in the driver seat, setting up the navigation system. I knocked on the window, and the man turned his head around in a second, sending me a playful smirk.

God, he’s ridiculously hot. My memory didn’t do him justice. With his hair swept back, in a loose red jacket and a low-cut black t-shirt, he looked mesmerizing. A minute later, he exited the vehicle, and I saw him in all his tall glory, and for a brief second, I forgot how to breathe.

It was the effect® Lucas had on regular people.

“The keys are in the ignition, the location already typed into the GPS system. Taeyong and the other guy should be here in a few,” Lucas said, and I nodded.

Who’s the other guy?

Not even Lucas knows his name?

Strange…

“Hello to you, too,” I spoke, smiling at him. Taeyong was nowhere to be seen, so I cleared my throat before firing a question, initiating small talk. “How is recruiting going?” I inquired, genuinely curious about the progress he must’ve made.

“Nothing much yet, but I’m full of hope,” Lucas answered honestly, scratching the back of his head. “Actually, you inspired me to broaden my horizons,” he added, and I cocked up my eyebrow, wanting him to continue. Did I inspire him? Wow.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you’ve done some impressive shit,” Lucas confirmed, and I blushed at the compliment. “I’ve figured we need more women in our field, and I’ve talked to two best female candidates I could find. Right now, we discuss terms of recruitment,” Lucas explained excitedly, and I was positively shocked to hear such news.

Did someone hit him in the head with the feminism manifesto, or what?

“I don’t know what to say…” I whispered, trying to wrap my head around the newest revelation. Having experienced the treatment I received from most of them, it was hard to believe it took them so little time to change their mindset. I mean… it was just Lucas for now, but the change was already visible. “I’m happy to hear that; I can’t wait to meet them,” I added, turning my head to the side upon seeing Taeyong and his friend.

“Meet who?” Taeyong asked in confusion as he didn’t know the full context of our conversation.

“We were just talking about new recruits. I fill you in as soon as I have everything confirmed,” Lucas spoke. Taeyong nodded his head in comprehension, not even half as interested as I was. “Have a safe trip. I’ll get going,” he excused himself before walking away to a white Lamborghini Huracan.

“Missed me, doll?” Taeyong asked with a suggestive smirk decorating his face, as he bit on his bottom lip, glancing at me from head to toe. Yikes! It was unprofessional, and I wanted to scold him for being such a caveman. However, on a second thought, I decided to straighten my back to assert my confidence. Taeyong just wanted to express his appreciation for my fantastic outfit. Even though he chose the creepiest way of doing it, I chose to ignore it with a subtle eye roll.

“Is he always this nasty with you?” The mysterious man asked me as he walked past Taeyong, stretching his hand, greeting me like a regular person. “Pardon him, I’ve told him many times to work on his manners, but it’s like talking to a wall,” he added, and I chuckled, respecting the man already. He was talking shit about Taeyong in his presence – it was admirable.

“Who’s nasty? Speak for yourself!” Taeyong yelled, but his shorter friend just brushed it off.

“I kind of got used to it,” I replied casually, trying to give him a neutral answer.

“I’m Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, but since no one can pronounce it right, everybody calls me Ten,” he introduced himself, and I replied with my name, hoping he would use it instead of yet another infantile nickname.

“Nice to meet you, Ten,” I answered, smiling at the man politely.

“Should we get going?” Having cleared his throat, Taeyong asked, urging us inside of the vehicle. Following Taeyong’s order, I smirked, thinking of his ridiculous behavior. It was the first time when I didn’t give him my full attention, and it was evident it bothered him.

It was new and refreshing, and it was kind of cute of him.

“Yeah, sure, get in, losers, we don’t have all night,” I added, growing a little bit impatient with their slow movements.

“You really have to stop calling me that,” Taeyong whispered in a low voice as he put his hand on my thigh and gave it a firm squeeze.

“And you really have to fasten your seatbelts, or we’re not going anywhere,” I teased with a big, artificial smile, scraping his hand off my thigh. “Those rules apply to you, too,” I added, looking into the rearview mirror, catching Ten sitting comfortably, ignoring seatbelts.

“Is she always like this?” Ten asked, yet obediently following my instructions.

“No. Usually, she’s way cooler,” Taeyong answered, pouting slightly.

***

A little over an hour later, I parked the Hummer in front of a night club. Apparently, all types of shady dealings were meant to be discussed over strong liquor and with a half-naked lady sitting on their laps.

“Good luck, boys,” having turned off the engine, I spoke, sounding awfully like a mom, dropping her kids at another soccer practice.

Annoyed, Taeyong smirked. “Oh no, you’re going with us,” he added, and I cursed under my breath, displeased that Taeyong managed to ruin my plans of staying behind and not getting involved in whatever business they were about to discuss. The less I knew, the better, and Taeyong was really making it difficult for me.

Trailing slowly behind them, I entered the club.

“Get anything you want. We’ll be back in a few,” Taeyong whispered into my ear as he slid his platinum credit card into my palm. “Don’t cause any trouble,” he added before they both walked away to the booth at the back of the establishment.

I still could see them, though they were outside my earshot. It couldn’t get any better. I wouldn’t have to worry about hearing anything that wasn’t meant for my ears. However, at the same time, I could appreciate their natural beauty, fashion sense, and confidence in their original habitat.

I was a designated driver tonight (duh), and it was more than irresponsible to buy myself an alcoholic drink – especially with my ridiculously low alcohol tolerance. Leaning over the counter, much to the bartender’s dismay, I ordered a virgin Mojito.

Having checked whether or not the bartender spat into my drink, I picked up the glass, wrapped my lips around the straw, and took a sip. Though it was delicious, I’d much prefer it to have some alcohol in it. Maybe next time, perhaps tomorrow on my day off, I told myself as I spun on the barstool to have a look at Taeyong and Ten.

They both looked gorgeous, though they didn’t fit the typical mobster description.

Taeyong had his now baby blue hair styled down, a white suit jacket, a baby blue T-shirt, and light pants that made him look like some lawyer on a business trip. Ten, on the other hand, with his messy parted bangs hairstyle, an olive bomber jacket, black hoodie, and a pair of black cargo pants, resembled a lost college student.

The men, who they were meeting, were a completely different story, though. All of them seemed like lethal mobsters with their short hair and all leather outfits. I knew for sure I wouldn’t like to stumble upon them in a dark alley. Without any doubt, they had guns on them, and I was fearful enough to turn my head around and return to my drink.

Not knowing how much time it would take them to discuss all terms of whatever agreement they wanted to sign on, I decided to text Doyoung to pass the time. Unfortunately, before I managed to pull out my phone, my drink got knocked over by a very drunk girl sitting on the barstool next to mine.

“Hey, watch it!” I shouted as I jumped off my stool, not wanting to get all wet. In a matter of a few seconds, the bartender rushed over, helping me wipe off the counter.

“I’m really sawwy,” she said in a drunken haze, and I rolled my eyes, not really wanting to start an argument with an intoxicated person. When drunk, I also tend to be more clumsy than usual, so I simply decided not to hold her accountable for such a minor mistake.

Having apologized for spilling my drink, she excused herself, leaving her date at the bar alone. A good-looking man ordered another round of cocktails for him and his date. I cocked my eyebrows at his behavior. She was already drunk; another drink wouldn’t make her any good.

In a minute, the bartender placed two cranberry vodkas on the counter, putting it on the man’s tab. At first, I wanted to mind my own business and not attract any unnecessary attention. However, when I noticed the man slipping something into the woman’s drink, I knew I needed to intervene. He wanted to hurt her, and I just couldn’t let that happen.

Sighing, I jumped off the barstool and marched to the bathroom, wanting to warn her. Thankfully, she was standing in front of the mirrors, washing her hands when I found her.

Casually, I stopped next to her and pulled out my lipstick to reapply it.

“Are you alright?” I asked her, watching her wobble in her ridiculously high stilettos. She was barely standing on her feet – she was in no condition to have yet another drink, let alone a drink spiked with some type of drug.

“I feel funny. I had one drink, yet I feel like I had five,” the woman commented, placing her purse next to the basin, searching for cosmetics to touch up her make-up. “It must be because I barely ate today, I was so stressed about this date, so I only had breakfast,” she added, but it didn’t calm me. If anything, it made me even more alert.

“Is it your first date with him?” I inquired, trying not to sound intrusive. She seemed a bit naïve, and I wanted to look out for her. If I could prevent her from getting hurt, I had to try.

“Yeah, he asked me out yesterday in a coffee shop next to my building. He’s so romantic,” the woman explained dreamily, and I refrained from groaning in distaste. What kind of dudes did she date in the past to think this guy was romantic?

That was all I needed to know to figure out that he just wanted to get laid and toss her aside. He just wanted to use her body without even earning her consent. No matter how good looking he was – it was unjustifiable. I couldn’t let her go to him and become a victim. I had to try and prevent her from getting hurt.

“Are you sure you want to go back to him in this state? If I were you, I’d reschedule,” I commented, trying to talk her out of continuing this date.

“What is your problem?” asked she, her tone laced with anger and irritation. “I’m on a date, and you keep ruining it. What’s your deal?”

Wow, that was rude.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She couldn’t be for real, right?

“Listen–” I started, trying to defend my case, but she, once again, interjected me.

“No, you listen! I’m on a date with his hot man. You may try your luck somewhere else. I can bet you’ll find someone willing to fuck you but buzz off from me, and my man,” she hissed, and I just blinked a couple times, trying to comprehend what just happened. Though she was annoying the hell out of me, I still had to help her. Perhaps she didn’t fully deserve my saving, but I had to try. Friends or enemies, she didn’t merit to be taken advantage of.

Trying to flee the scene, she grabbed her purse and turned around to storm out of the bathroom. Fortunately, I managed to wrap my hand around her wrist before she made her way to the doors.

“Get a grip, woman!” I shouted at her, hoping she would listen to my loud voice – especially when she didn’t seem to particularly enjoy my calm and worried tone. “He roofied your drink and wants to take advantage of you. You better get yourself a ride home and leave.”

She looked at me, and I looked at her, having an intense stare contest. She must’ve been weighing her options before she tore her arm from my grasp.

“I can take care of myself,” she added before leaving the bathroom.

I tried, I told myself, but it still made me uneasy. She didn’t listen to my warnings, and she was about to get hurt, and it made me feel remorseful. I didn’t do my best. I still could prevent her from getting assaulted.

Heaving a deep sigh, I left the bathroom, determined to stop the man from drugging her even if I had to swallow the poison myself.

They were sitting by the bar as earlier. She was laughing at his joke, and he had his hand on her thigh. They seemed comfortable, but I knew enough to realize it was superficial.

Slowly, I approached them, stumbling over my legs, pretending to be shitfaced drunk. Once the drink was within my reach, I fake-tripped, spilling the alcohol on the man’s laps.

“You bitch,” he yelled in absolute anger. Apparently, he didn’t like it when his plan fell through. “Look what you’ve done!” He jumped to his feet, trying to wipe off his jeans.

Unfortunately, his furious outburst brought lots of attention to us. Instinctively, I turned to look at Taeyong. He was staring at me, mouthing, get out.

It was my much-awaited cue, so I gave this gross man some half-ass apology and left the club without any second thoughts. I had enough of this drama; I’d rather wait for them in the car.

Patiently, I waited for Taeyong and Ten to return. Time flew by quickly as I browsed my social media feed, forwarding the funniest memes to Doyoung.

Maybe thirty minutes later, Taeyong knocked on the window, wanting me to open the trunk. Two huge men with heavy leather jackets and gold chains around their necks threw four enormous black bags into the trunk, shutting it close with a loud thud.

I had no idea what the cargo was, but it didn’t sit right with me. Whatever it was, it must’ve been illegal, and it made me jumpy.

“What’s in the bags?” I asked carelessly, regretting my questing the second it left my mouth.

“Do you really want to know?” Taeyong challenged, and I vigorously shook my head in firm denial. Chuckling, he added, “Just samples.”

“Right,” I answered, dismissing the topic. Quickly, I turned on the engine and drove away, wanting to get back to the mansion as fast as it was lawfully possible.

Unfortunately, not talking about the cargo didn’t make me stop thinking about what’s inside the bags. Taeyong’s business has many branches, varying in dozens of illegal activities. Regardless of what was sitting in the trunk, we would all go to prison if caught.

“What kind of trouble did you cause when I specifically requested you didn’t?” Taeyong asked somewhat throughout the ride. His hands were squeezed in fists, resting on his thighs as he waited for my answer.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I genuinely apologized before I began pleading my case. Hopefully, with proper justification for my actions, Taeyong would understand. He was a human, after all. “I just couldn’t stay idle and watch this nightmare unfold in front of me. I had to help this girl out, even though she didn’t seem to appreciate it."

“Jaehyun was right about you,” Taeyong whispered mysteriously, making me raise an eyebrow in confusion. What kind of prejudice Jaehyun held against me? “You’re way too nice for this job,” he added, and I took a deep sigh, expecting a much worse response.

Though it pained me, it was understandable that being good was a bad thing in this line of business. Typically, I’d be glad to hear such a compliment, but under these circumstances, it made me upset. I wasn’t a saint, but I had some sort of a moral backbone.

“I wouldn’t necessarily put it that way,” I trailed off, thinking of the best way to present my abilities in the most fitting way.

“It was admirable if you want some second-hand opinion,” Ten interjected, pretty amazed with my attitude. “You should’ve punched him in the face, though. I’d love to see that,” he added, and I giggled, picturing my fist colliding against his jaw.

That would be a very nice picture.

“Can you drop me off at the Moonlight club? I’d like to meet with a friend of mine if that’s not a problem?” Ten asked, and I hummed in agreement, punching the club location into a navigation system. It was on our way, so it really wasn’t a nuisance.

“Sure thing,” I added, returning my focus on driving. Unfortunately, as soon as I shifted my attention to the front of our lane, I saw a car overtaking the Hummer. A second later, it flashed red and blue lights right, mentioning for me to stop the vehicle on the side of the road.

The police cruiser.

FUCK.

It was impossible. After doing so much illegal stuff, it was ironic to get caught when properly driving. It was a bad sign, and in a matter of seconds, I turned into an anxious ball of stress.

What a lame way to the end of my career!

OK, you gotta keep calm. Normal women can bullshit their way out of getting a ticket, so you can do it, too! I tried to psych myself up, though it didn’t help much. My mouth was still dry, and my hands were all sweaty. They’re about to discover I’m hiding some illegal stuff in the trunk. I couldn’t go to prison – orange is definitely NOT the new black.

“You can do it, doll. Don’t lose your cool,” Taeyong whispered, giving me an encouraging squeeze on the knee. Admittedly, it didn’t work.

“Yeah, don’t even think of all the drugs we have the trunk stocked up with,” Ten added, and I angrily turned back to yell at him for giving me info that I did not want nor need.

“Why would you say that?!” I shouted, trying to collect my thoughts. Cool, cool, cool, cool. You got this. You’ve survived worse. “If we make out of this alive, I’m gonna kill you,” I warned Ten before I straightened my backs, rolling down the window for the policeman who approached the vehicle.

“Good evening, Mr. Officer,” I beamed innocently, trying to read the policeman’s surname off the uniform, yet in vain. “I didn’t go too fast, did I?” I asked, batting my eyelashes in a poor attempt at flirtation.

Yikes, so much cringe!

“Driving license and vehicle registration certificate,” said the police officer coldly, completely ignoring my pathetic wooing. Unwillingly, I handed him the documents, praying to all the gods for him not to investigate the trunk. “Please, step out of the vehicle,” he added, and I followed his orders, ready to cooperate if he was willing to overlook the car inspection.

Obediently, I entered the backseat of the police cruiser, awaiting the interrogation.

“I’m an experienced driver. Did I make a mistake?” I inquired, waiting for them to give me the reason for pulling me over. My driving skills are mastered to perfection. I was really interested in what lame-ass excuse they were about to conjure to give me a ticket to fund the city’s budget.

“It’s just a routine checkup,” one police officer spoke dismissively, checking my data in their database. “All cops were asked to do routine checkups. Apparently, tonight some gang was doing drug drop-off, yet we stopped dozens of suspicious cars, and nothing came out of it. It must’ve been a false lead.”

What the fuck?

How, on Earth, did the police find out about this? Even I, who was a part of the drop-off, didn’t know what was inside the bags until two minutes ago. Was there a mole in the organization? Or maybe the police sent an undercover agent?

Thoughts were running through my head at a ridiculous speed, my gears were shifting swiftly as I tried to make any connection. Unfortunately, I didn’t connect shit. One thing was sure, though. If, by any chance, they let me go without investigating the car, Taeyong wouldn’t be thrilled to hear the news.

“Really? Drugs? And here I thought I live in the safe neighborhood,” I commented, feigning my cluelessness. Surprise, surprise, it actually sounded natural. Almost as if I was born to be a benighted dumb-dumb. “You better catch those smugglers.”

“We’re doing our best, miss,” the other policeman chimed in, and I tried my best not to roll my eyes at his for this evident negligence. They had culprits right under their nose, and it seemed they did not suspect me.

How could a dumb chick like me be involved in such a shady operation, am I right?

As much as I felt the urge to prove them wrong, I decided not to. As tempting as it was, it was extremely unbeneficial. I just wanted to get the hell out of the cruiser, drop the guys at Taeyong’s mansion, get my paycheck, and go home.

“Where were you going at such a late hour, miss?” The policeman asked, handing me back my documents after not finding anything worth further investigation.

“My friends were at the bachelor party in the club outside the capital, and they got really drunk, so I drove all the way there to pick them up,” I explained, though I got a feeling they weren’t listening to what I was saying.

“Uh-huh,” one of them muttered, quickly writing a messy note of the routine checkup, handing me back my documents. “That would be all, thank you for your cooperation,” the cop added, and I politely smiled, bolting out of the cruiser.

Phew!

Having fastened my seatbelts, I drove away. I just wanted to get the hell away from them, hoping they wouldn’t change their mind and order a thorough vehicle inspection. Taeyong and Ten must’ve had a dozen questions; however, I just turned up the volume of the radio, ignoring their concerned glances.

“Get out,” I barked when I abruptly stopped by the Midnight club. Perhaps it was rude, but I didn’t care. I’ve had a very stressful night, and politeness wasn’t on my mind.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow; good luck with miss grumpy,” Ten spoke before he jumped out of the vehicle, almost as if he was afraid I was going to talk back to him.

“What’s with the attitude?” Taeyong casually asked, and I sighed, trying to calm myself down. “I get you’re stressed, but you shouldn’t take your annoyance on us. Besides, if you’ve forgotten, let me remind you. I’m your boss, and Ten is my close associate.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized before I revealed what exactly happened in the police car. Truth to be told, Taeyong didn’t seem particularly surprised.

“That’s not the worst thing I’ve heard today,” Taeyong whispered, looking at my profile. “Jungwoo from Busan division called me today. Some of Yuta’s men crossed the border. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate our little prank,” he explained, and I grew speechless.

Karma was getting back at me.

Why do actions have consequences?

“That’s not good,” I answered, unable to form a coherent response. I was royally screwed, yet at the time, I was overwhelmed by the revelation.

Why couldn’t I just wait for Taeyong to put an ad on Craigslist, for fuck’s sake?

“Hey, look at me,” Taeyong ordered, and I obediently tore my eyes off the road to gaze into his eyes. “Don’t think too much about it; it’ll be fine,” Taeyong promised, yet his words didn’t make me feel assured. “You’re one of us; we’ll protect you.”

“You better,” I added, clutching my palms around the steering wheel in yet another stress-fuelled episode. There better be a professional health care program for Taeyong’s employees. Otherwise, I may need a therapist. Stress factors don’t stop coming, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry on much longer.

“Do you want to hang out?” Taeyong inquired, taking me by surprise. He, the mafia boss, wanted to spend some time with such a peasant like myself. That concept was wild, and it actually made me wonder. I couldn’t really say no. Some people would die to get a chance to wander around his big-ass mansion with Taeyong himself. “We can order some take out and just chill. What do you think?”

“I’d love that.”

***

Since the police knew the registration number, Taeyong ordered me to park the vehicle in a large garage under his majestic mansion. Having turned off the engine, we got out of the car, and I handed him the keys, lifting some heft off my shoulders. It was a nice car, but the memories it held were terrible. I’d rather forget that I even drove that thing.

“Give me a sec,” Taeyong said, taking a handful of samples, stuffing his pocket with them.

“What are these exactly?” Having creased my forehead in contemplation, I asked.

“These? Oh, it’s a new type of drug. It’s called the punch,” Taeyong explained, showing me a single dose of the drag. It was nicely wrapped like candy, and inside it looked like a mint. “It’s like LSD had a baby with shrooms,” he commented casually, winking at me. “And it tastes like bubblegum; you want to try some? The first batch is in the house.”

“Maybe later,” I answered dismissively, not really keen on having my first trip with Taeyong. But on the other hand, who was a better candidate to do drugs with? “I’d rather have some take out first if that’s not a problem,” I added, hoping he wouldn’t press me into doing anything out of my comfort zone. Not that I expected Taeyong to force me to do things against my will. I didn’t. After all, he was a really considerate man.

“Sure, what cuisine are you craving? I’m thinking… maybe something spicy. How about Mexican?” Taeyong proposed, and I vigorously nodded. Either he was my soulmate or really was able to read minds. “I’ll order something delicious.”

This time around, his mansion felt odd.

It was still majestic and glamorous, yet at the same, it was quiet. Back then, it was packed with Taeyong’s minions, but right now, they were in hiding, giving Taeyong his much-needed privacy. Following behind him, roaming around the spacious corridors felt like being guided through a museum during a private tour.

Once settled in the day room, Taeyong walked up to the bar, brought two glasses and a bottle of tequila, and set them on the coffee table.

“You want some? You look like you need a glass or two,” Taeyong offered upon seeing me all tensed up and anxious on the leather couch, nervously scanning the room.

“I’d rather hear some good news, but the alcohol will do,” I answered, reaching for the glass, downing it in one go, only to regret it a second later. “Pour me another one.”

“Take it easy,” Taeyong suggested, yet obediently filled my glass before turning on music, letting me know what type of songs he was into. Apparently, for late night’s chilling EDM hits were his to-go playlist.

With some liquid courage, it was easier to relax at Taeyong’s place. I took off my shoes and stretched on the sofa comfortably, all unpleasant and stressful occurrences slowly fading away. Unfortunately, these feelings were about to come back in the morning.

Twenty minutes later, the food was delivered, and it was absolutely mouthwatering. Fresh corn tortillas, spicy ground beef with a ridiculous amount of cheese made a perfect combination, tasting orgasmic. If I had less self-control, I’d moan at the foodporn laid out on the table for us to devour.

“So… how did the meeting go? Was it a success, or did I fuck it up with my shenanigans at the bar?” I inquired, narrowing my eyes, carefully watching his reaction.

If I could make out an emotion that his eyes were conveying, it was amusement.

“We will see,” Taeyong whispered, reaching into his pocket, playing with a single sample in his hands. “I only distribute the goodies. I gotta check first if this innovation is worth my time,” he added before popping the substance into his mouth like candy. “Is ‘no’ your definite answer?” Taeyong questioned, looking like a cute innocent hamster with the pill dissolving against the inside of his left cheek.

After a few tequila shots and delicious Mexican take out, I was much braver. However, at the same time, I became a way less assertive version of myself. Consenting to his kind proposition was too easy. Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen? His mansion’s probably the safest place in the country.

“Fine, gimme,” I gave up, reaching out for the pill.

At first, nothing happened. A few minutes later, still nothing, and I even began to think Taeyong gave me a sample from a faulty batch. It was until it hit me good.

The couch melted like milk chocolate swallowing me in its soft waves before I crashed through the floor of nonexistent colors splashes.

#taeyong smut #nct smut #neosmutcollective #nct angst #taeyong angst #taeyong #lee taeyong #nct #get in loser #taeyong fanfic #nct fanfic #taeyong fanfiction #nct fanfiction

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noctis-noctua · 3 years

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Iron Resolve and Refreshing Gales | Overworked Jean x Reader

Relationship: Jean/Reader

Genre: Fluff

Premise: Jean has been pushing herself to the max lately and refuses to acknowledge the detrimental consequences of it no matter who tells her… except for the one person who has her wholehearted devotion.

1754 words.

Here you go! Sorry if it’s a bit subpar - this is my first time writing for Jean, but no complaints here. She’s awesome and I am a total simp for her lmao.

Jean has a destructive tendency to attend to the needs of everyone but herself. It doesn’t matter if the issue is as trivial as finding a lost cat or filing papers - Jean carries out each and every request from the citizens of Mondstadt. These days have been busier than usual. Ludi Harpastum is a few days away and that means that preparations are being carried out religiously. In other words, Jean has people knocking on her door non-stop. Can you help decorate Town Square? Hilichurls are blocking the path that my goods are traded on, could you please clear them out? She hasn’t felt the doting embrace of sleep in two days, nor has she consumed more than a couple of light meals. ‘There’s no time for them,’ she often explains to the other Knights. ‘I’m satisfied with anything I can get.’

Lisa is an early riser. She enjoys taking time to brew a pot of Sumerian tea and read new material as the sun floods across Mondstadt, and to do so she must awaken ahead of schedule. It’s because of this that Lisa arrives at the office before anyone else; 5:00 am to be exact, leaving much time to prepare for the day’s labor. She strides to the library doors before coming to a sudden stop, observing the sounds of a frenzied pen in the room across from hers. Jean’s room. Lisa does not hesitate to open the door, exposing a fatigued blonde reading and marking up a stack of documents.

“Jean, have you been here all night?” Jean’s eyes are dull, leaden bags hanging from beneath them. On the right side of her desk is an almost-spent candle, the dwindling remains of its wax no more than 2 inches.

“Oh, good morning Lisa. Unfortunately, I have. That’s alright, though. The sooner I finish them the sooner I can move on to patrolling.” Her tone is desolate despite Jean’s attempts to liven it. The blaring headache ricocheting in her brain is practically begging her to rest, but Barbatos knows that’s not an option. She still has so much to do, and even after she completes this there are mor-

“[Y/N] hasn’t seen you in days. Not taking a break strains her, too.” Lisa remarks, eyes dancing over the bookshelf. She catches sight of the full series of The Fox in the Dandelion Sea. Mondstadt’s famous romance novels, and one of Jean’s favorites. It’s almost ironic, how such a neglectful Knight came to be a sappy romantic.

“...[Y/N] is strong and independent, Lisa. She has no need for me, and although I’d enjoy seeing her, I know that she is perfectly capable of looking after herself. If I have to push my relationship to the side momentarily to sate the people of Mondstadt, then it has to be done.” Jean responds as she pushes another paper to the side. By now there must be 40 finished pages. It pains Lisa to look at them, much less read them. Making peace with defeat, she suggests that Jean purchases a full meal and exits the stuffy quarters. The Dandelion Knight can do nothing but sigh for the 40th time, doing the best she can to ignore the subtle shaking of her limbs, the thrashing pain in her head, and the gradual blur of her sight.

She’s fortunate enough to finish up faster than expected and spends the spare time making a beeline for Good Hunter. Suddenly, the hunger in her stomach is 10x more noticeable, and nothing else is on her mind but eating some Fisherman Toast. That is until she bumps into a sobbing blob of red, blubbering much as a fish does.

“Klee! Did something happen? Did you blow something up?” Jean interrogates, crossing her arms. The small Knight makes a tentative nod and bursts into another fit of tears. I was really hungry… It’s fine, I can always eat later. Jean comforted herself as she held Klee’s tiny palm, preparing for the damage inflicted.

It’s 11:00 pm. Jean’s ponytail has been ruffled to a point of no return, convincing her to take it down and let the locks of hair flood down her shoulders. New civil letters sit on the mahogany table. Jean prepares another candlestick for the long night ahead, resisting the culling of sleep. It’s much harder to focus than it was last night and nothing but a handful of 10-minute naps and a mushroom skewer are stopping her from dropping dead. Finish fast and I can go home and get a 3-hour nap… Jean’s mind is so adrift and preoccupied that she ignores Kaeya’s presence entirely.

“Busy as always, Acting Grand Master. I heard it’s your 3rd day at the office. I thought I’d take the time to invite you to Angel’s Share.” The Cavalry Captain’s voice is sultry, filling the dusty silence. Jean takes one look at his flamboyant figure and turns back to the envelope in her hand, squinting at the printed symbols.

“Sorry, Sir Kaeya, but I have some stuff to do. I can’t possibly drink - it may impact my performance. Thank you, though.” Kaeya chuckles at that. Stalking over to the paned glass, he observes the joyous city below. Upon closer inspection, Jean looks like absolute shit. Her hair is mussed and her skin is a cumbersome shade, a slight green tone atop her normal paleness.

“Same old excuse. Take some time off. You need some fun, Acting Grand Master. It must be boring to be so serious all the time.” His words are not valuable enough to be met with more than a hum. “Fine, fine, be that way. But know that if you ever want to come down, everything is on me. It’s not every day that you come out. Plus… pushing yourself so much can’t be good for your health, Jean.” The drop of formalities is Kaeya’s last attempt to pull his superior away from the bureau, and then he takes his leave. Jean doesn’t fail to notice the painkillers he slipped onto the papers. That snarky Captain… as crass as he tries to be, Jean knows that his actions come from a genuine concern for her health. Thanking him in silence, she tosses the two pills into the back of her throat.

The evening descended into twilight, then to the darkest hours of the morning, and Jean has not moved from her chair. The herbal pills had dissipated an hour ago, and the pounding of her headache is almost enough to send Jean reeling. She doesn’t stop, obviously; she’s felt much harsher pains. 4:00 am tranquility serves to be helpful for such aches, but now that her entire body is in pain, it’s much harder to soothe. Her head jolts in intervals as she fights the intense drowsiness. Iron as her resolve may be, Jean is human. Her back hunches as her arms catch a drifting head that now lolls on her reports. The flutter of her eyelashes is peaceful in its own right. Slow exhales leave Jean’s body as she sleeps, her body relishing in such a rare moment.

Jean opens her eyes to the scene of a stubby candle that has burnt out. She opens her intricate timepiece in a hurry. 5:00 am. How could she have slept for an entire hour? Dread floods her system as she thinks of how much she has delayed her already bustling schedule. In the midst of her panic, the door opens. It must be Lisa. No one else is mindlessly occupying the building at this ti-

“Hi, Jean. I brought some tea and cookies for you. I’m sure you must be exhausted… it’s been three days since I’ve seen you, after all.” Jean’s stare softens at the sight of her beloved holding a steaming teacup and a tray of shortbread. She caresses the hand that passes the teacup. The comfort of skin is something she longs for, and something she has deprived herself of these past few days.

“[Y/N]... I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy lately, and…” Her lips become still as you tread your fingers through her hair and press a chaste kiss to her forehead. “...and I’ve missed you.” She revels in the smile that tugs from you. That beautiful smile… Archons, how much she’s missed it.

“Jean, come home. If not for your livelihood, for mine. The bed has been cold.” The desperation in your voice breaks Jean’s heart in two. If Jean is a Dandelion Knight, you are the passionate gales of Barbatos plucking her apart, seed by seed. There is no plausible way for her to stay composed around you. Jean leans into the hand against her cheek, a cat yearning for human contact.

“I suppose I can… do these in the morning.” That earns a swift glare from you. Jean huffs, taking a singular bite of the shortbread. She’s had to explain her Knightly duties to you in many instances, but it always went through one ear and out the other without fail.

“No, absolutely not Jean. Give it to your subordinates. Tomorrow, you are staying with me, no questions asked. I’m sure they’ll allow it - your face looks 5 seconds away from death. Now come.” Jean grimaces at the list of tasks she’s stuck on the table’s edge, biting her lip in a debate against herself. Surrendering herself to the feeble begging of her lover, she mutters a small agreement. The tug on her arm convinces Jean to stand, leaning into your shoulder. She finds solace in the warmth you radiate as both of you exit the Knight’s Quarters arm-in-arm, attached at the hip like lovesick puppies.

The sun has begun to ascend again, accompanied by a saccharine breeze. It smells of sweet flowers and calla lilies. It smells of the fresh fields of Windrise, tangling Jean’s hair.

“Look, even Barbatos is happy that you’re taking a break!” You tease, and Jean cannot help but giggle. She will always laugh at your jokes, and she will always give in to your demands for touch because Jean is a hopeless, pining fool. On the elevated platforms on the Cathedral stairs, Lisa’s plump lips curve as she sees the Dandelion Knight and her precious adventurer roaming the empty streets of Mondstadt. It’s days like this that Lisa is grateful for waking early, so she can experience the morning wind, the rising sun, a delectable dish of tea, and a picturesque scene of a dandelion being burst by the adamant winds.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #jean x reader #genshin jean x reader #genshin jean #genshin impact imagines #genshin #jean gunnhildr #noctis-noctua

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coffeestainsandcashmere · 3 years

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Let No Man Steal Your Thyme - (older Dramione) Part Five

I hope you enjoy this one! It features a surprise snooty owl (I wonder who could own such a creature???) and some well-meaning concern from a friend. And some banter. And an expensive lunch. Because Theo is extra and can’t help himself. And it’s 4.6k words long...

I also realised that, since I wrote the first chapter basically out of the blue and not really intending for it to blow up into a big multi-part story, I’ve messed up the timeline a little with Harry’s kids, so I’ll have to go back and fix that when it comes to a re-edit before it goes up on AO3, but for now, just handwave it, ok? :)

Finally, many thanks for your lovely owls, anonymous or otherwise, about this story and where it’s going! I was honestly floored by the feedback I’ve got, and thank you to those who’ve reblogged it and helped get it out there for folks to read. I have a very small following since this side-blog is fairly new, so all reblogs are very much appreciated. I did a quick doodle for the cover of the story which you can find here, if you’re interested in how I pictured Draco and Scorpius standing in the steam from the Hogwarts Express from chapter one.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

___

Far earlier on Monday morning than she was accustomed to these days, Hermione woke with a start and frowned, confused. Eyes dry and prickly, and hair absolutely everywhere, she sat up and looked around, straining her ears as she blearily tried to work out what had yanked her so unceremoniously from a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep. Her Muggle alarm clock silently showed 05:54 in harsh red numbers, and nothing had touched the wards or tried to get in, though there was something thrumming against them, like the lingering reverberations of a plucked harp string.

The temporary stillness was shattered when a wild scrabbling of claws and the beating of enormous wings started up against her bedroom window. With a flailing shriek of surprise, she nearly fell out of bed, but after taking a deep breath, she stumbled out from under the covers to wrench the curtains open.

“Bloody owls!” she began, but drew up short when she saw the unfamiliar bird waiting impatiently on the other side of the glass.

There, battering its truly monstrous talons against the glass, was a colossal eagle owl. When it saw her, it stopped its fussing to perch haughtily on the brick windowsill outside and fix her with a fiery red glare. If owls could have raised their eyebrows, she got the impression that this one would have done it at the sight of her.

“Yeah, well, it’s early. What did you expect?” she groused as she slid the window panel to one side and the bird looked around her bedroom with obvious disdain. Imperiously, it stuck out one leg, like a noble expecting a servant to remove a dirty boot, and she saw a rolled-up piece of parchment with a green wax seal and a green ribbon to bind it together.

“Who do you belong to then?” she asked, going automatically to stroke the bird’s flight-ruffled chest plumage. It instantly hissed and nipped at her fingers, and she barely drew them back in time. “Christ! No need for that,” she gasped. She’d never met a postal owl as cantankerous as this one. “I usually give visiting owls a treat, but I don't think I like your manners one bit.”

With the letter in hand, she slid the window closed again, leaving a gap just small enough that the bird wasn’t going to barge its way in. She wondered if it had been instructed to wait for an answer because it began almost immediately clicking its beak against the glass and hooting indignantly.

“Manners makyth bird,” she snapped without looking up, and broke the unfamiliar wax seal on the letter.

It had a cursive ‘M’ within a circle, but was otherwise unadorned. Unfurling it, she glanced at the name on the bottom and her eyebrows rose as her growing suspicions were confirmed. It was signed in a princely English roundhand by none other than Draco Malfoy.

She snorted, glancing back at the bird who was doing its best basilisk impression from the other side of the glass. “Who else would have such a snotty owl?”

It hooted childishly at her again and she laughed.

Dear Hermione,

I must beg of you to forgive the unspeakably rude hour of this correspondence, but I am leaving this morning for France by portkey for a couple of days and I had hoped to get your answer before I left. I should add now before you read any further — although with your kind heart I fear it may be too late already — that Cassiopeia here is not fond of physical affection, but is very partial to owl treats. She can be bribed into doing almost anything for food, but affection is sadly not in her nature, so please be careful with your fingers around her beak. The only reason I was able to get her to fly at all at this time of the day was to bribe her lavishly. She’s terribly spoilt, and for that, I’m sorry too.

Hermione shot another look at the bird, who narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Cassiopeia, eh?” she said and the enormous owl bobbed a few times. “Prideful about your good looks then, are you? You should know how your namesake’s story ended then. But, I suppose you could be forgiven since you are an inordinately pretty bird. You’ll still not get a crumb from me after trying to take my fingers off though. I’ll be having words with Malfoy about that.”

Cassiopeia ruffled her feathers and promptly turned her back on Hermione. The bird didn’t take off, so she returned her attention to the letter.

I spent all weekend thinking about our evening together on Friday, but it will come as little surprise to you to learn that it has taken me all that time to muster up my limited courage to ask you to dinner at your next convenience. Naturally, I left it to the last possible moment to ask you. I have a place in mind in London, but it’s a little more out of the way than the restaurants on Diagon Alley. I have it on authority from the owner that you have never been there, and I would very much like to surprise you, but if you would feel more comfortable knowing in advance, then you can ask Theo while I am out of the country.

Staggered, Hermione stared at the letter and found her vision swimming a little. Blinking, she was shocked to find tears blurring his formal — almost painfully formal — words.

But how long had it been since anyone had actually asked her on a date? ‘Too intimidating’, ‘too boring’, ‘too work-orientated’, ‘too bossy’, ‘too driven’ were all things she’d heard at one point or another, and admittedly many of them from Ron.

Thirty seven wasn’t even old - especially by magical standards - but she didn’t exactly have the same bright-eyed charms as someone like, say, Lavender did anymore. Hard work, and a draining marriage seemed to have sapped much of the youth and vigour from her. And, if she were honest, being replaced by someone supposedly ‘more attractive’ had damaged her more deeply than she cared to admit, even to herself. There were certainly days when she felt like a washed-up, burnt-out, dowdy old matron. She had crashed out of a sparkling career in the Ministry to run a scruffy old second-hand bookshop next to the newly-refurbished Florian Fortescue’s ice cream parlour.

“Why are you even bothering, Malfoy?” she murmured aloud as she stared blankly at the letter in her hands. With looks like his — and a groaning Gringotts’ account if the rumours were to be believed, not that that mattered a jot to Hermione — he could probably have had almost any witch he wanted, his past and reclusive behaviour be damned. And yet he was asking her to dinner after having only met twice since they turned eighteen? Three times, she supposed if she included that brief encounter at the Ministry on the night of the attack.

Perhaps he was lonely just wanted the company. Perhaps she was just… convenient; a chump with a soft spot for outcasts…

Before she let herself go too far down that unsavoury rabbit hole, she forced herself to read on, heart pounding. Outside on the windowsill, the owl had gone very still, watching her with curious, orange eyes.

Please feel free to send Cassiopeia back with your response either way. I hope I have not overstepped or misread how things are between us now, especially given our history, but I find my thoughts returning over and over to our evening, and to that surprise lunch on the 1st of September. I’m not sure what I had expected when you asked me to join you that day, but I certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy myself as much as I did. In the years since I became Scorpius’ sole guardian, I have not sought the company of others, nor have I particularly enjoyed it when it has been inflicted upon me, but those two occasions spent with you have drawn me out of myself. You truly are a remarkable witch, and I’m more moved and honoured than I can express that you have given me even this much of your precious time already.

Before I begin to ramble too freely, I think I must sign off here.

Yours,

D.M.

P.S. Scorpius did write to me in the end. He has a detention already, and Potter’s youngest is also involved somehow… I will get more details from him anon, and no doubt a letter from McGonagall in due course.

For a long time, Hermione stood in her bedroom, with her hair in a wild halo around her head and her scruffy old pyjamas hanging low on her hips, just staring at his signature.

When Draco’s owl began to fidget and fuss again, she sighed and looked up. “Sit tight,” she breathed. “I’m going to get a piece of paper and if you keep quiet, I might bring an owl treat with me when I come back, ok?”

Cassiopeia narrowed her eyes and ducked her head suspiciously, but remained put on the windowsill, so she took that as a ‘yes’ and disappeared into her tiny study.

Grabbing a biro from the chipped mug that served as a pen and quill pot, and tearing a sheaf of paper from a muggle notebook, she scrawled a note back to him.

With that done, and before she could talk herself out of what she had just accepted, she returned to his owl with a treat. The bird mobbed her for it instantly, but Hermione scowled at her, snatched her hand back, and barked, “Wait! My goodness, you are spoilt. Let me attach this first, and if I manage it without you drawing blood or otherwise maiming me, not only will it be a flipping miracle, but you’ll get your sodding treat, alright?”

The bird went still with a tiny shuffle of her wings, and stuck out her leg.

“Thank you,” Hermione said tartly.

Cassiopeia took off with her note attached by the same green ribbon and secured with a basic sticking charm. The downdraft from her departure sent bits of accumulated detritus from the window ledge spiralling up into Hermione’s face, but she coughed and blinked, and watched the bird soar way up into the sky. The receding dot of her silhouette banked west, out of sight and in the eventual direction of Wiltshire and Malfoy Manor.

Malfoy Manor.

She’d hardly given the place any thought since that fateful night ten or so years ago when Malfoy had been attacked, a whole wing had been burned to the ground, and Scorpius had nearly been killed. They’d never said in the papers who had done it, and the Auror Office had been distinctly tight-lipped about it. Not that she’d really bothered to find out more, if she were honest. Once Malfoy’s little yowling mandrake had left her office in his father’s arms, she had been almost instantly reabsorbed with her own caseload, and Harry had never mentioned the outcome of the investigation to her. A twinge of gilt shot through her but she pushed it down. It was hardly a topic for dinnertime conversation either, so she doubted she’d find out immediately.

She thought vaguely about clambering back into bed, but since she was up, she headed to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. It had been a while since she’d been up before dawn, and she had some paperwork to do anyway.

Cassiopeia’s appearance was not the only unusual thing to happen to her that day. She had no visitors to the shop at all for the entire morning, but when the brass bell above the door did finally chime, she looked up from the desk at the back of the shop to find Theo striding in.

“Hi, love,” he grinned, stepping deer-like over the stack of recent arrivals beside the counter and stooping to hug her where she sat. “Lunch. You and me. Now.”

“Theo, I have a shop to run,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t just… leave. Besides, I brought sandwiches.”

“I will literally pay you the price of an entire chest of first editions to spend the next few hours in my company if things are that tight. Or I could just… buy you an entire chest of first editions,” he said, adding with his most dangerous puppy-dog eyes, “Seriously, please come to lunch with me?”

She flicked her wrist and the ‘open’ sign hanging in the glass-panelled door flipped over to ‘closed’. “I’m not accepting your money, Theo. What’s the occasion?”

He twitched slightly and then flashed her a grin; a combination that made her instantly wary. “Does a gentleman need ‘an occasion’ to ask a beautiful lady to lunch?” he asked, his brown eyes wide with feigned innocence.

Hermione slowly raised one eyebrow. “You’re gay. And happily married. And that’s a terrible line. Try again.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t take my very best friend out,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

Something was definitely up.

“Draco Malfoy is, and always has been, your very best friend in all the world. Try again.”

“You,” he said, actually growling the word this time with comical frustration, “Are one very persistent witch.”

“Mmhmm. How do you think I made it to Minister by twenty-seven, darling,” she grinned, still without getting up from her chair. “Last chance or I turn that sign around and forcibly evict you from my shop.”

Theo whipped his wand out from his inner jacket pocket like he was in a duel, and apparently vanished the offending sign from the door altogether. “There. Your threats are empty. Come to lunch with me.”

“Theodore Nott, you return my sign this instant.”

“Say you’ll come to lunch with me, and the sign goes back up.”

“I will not be threatened in my own shop!” she laughed, arms folding across her chest like a petulant child. “Put it back. Now.”

“Say you’ll come with me,” he said with a wide, playful grin, planting his hands on the counter and leaning his long frame forwards.

She had to bite her lips to stop from giggling. The charming scoundrel knew she’d say yes anyway. “I’ll tell Dan you were bullying me,” she said.

“Tell him; he’ll never believe you. He thinks I’m lovely. Come on, Hermione,” he added, softening from playful to plaintive. “I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“You and my ‘very best friend in all the world’, that’s what,” he said, and levelled her with a flat stare.

Her stomach dropped and she remembered the letter from that morning. And its contents. ‘…if you would feel more comfortable knowing, then you can ask Theo while I am gone’ Draco had said. He’d spoken with Theo about asking her out. She didn't know whether to be honoured or embarrassed.

Seeing her expression slip, Theo came round the side of the counter to stand beside her and leaned his hips against the wooden desk. “So you like him?”

“I… Why would that be a surprise?”

Theo blinked, and then his gaze flickered down to her left forearm. Everyone knew about the word engraved into her skin with the point of a cursed knife — she’d never tried to conceal it — but not many knew the real truth of just how the slur had come to be carved indelibly into her flesh. Theo was one of the few who did. “You’re really asking me why I’m surprised you like him?” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You, of all people?”

She took a very deep breath, held it, and then sighed. “Let’s go. You’re paying though. And I’m drinking.”

He managed a shy smile, and as they approached the front door of her shop his shimmering illusion around the sign dissolved to reveal it once again.

“Cheeky bugger,” she smirked at him and he waggled his eyebrows disarmingly. An undercurrent of anxiety still lurked beneath his jovial expression though.

A number of new restaurants had opened up in Diagon Alley, but Theo’s and Dan’s favourite was a sleek, modern establishment, quite different from the fusty old decor of the Leaky Cauldron or the other more traditional restaurants in wizarding London. It also sat overlooking the crooked columns of Gringotts, and was eye-wateringly expensive. Naturally, Theo was greeted by name at the door, and the pair were shown without fuss or fanfare to one of the nicest — and most secluded — tables.

With food ordered, and enormous balloon-glasses of wine in front of them, Theo fixed her with a serious look and steered the conversation around to the real reason for his impromptu lunchtime kidnapping. “He finally grew a pair and asked you to dinner then?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “I take it this is… unusual for him?”

Theo tipped his head back and chuckled softly, sounding more tired than amused. “That’s putting it mildly, love. Until Friday, I had the devil’s own job trying to get dear Draco to leave his gloomy little manor house and come to anything. I had to blackmail him into coming to our anniversary, you know?”

Hermione just frowned, not entirely sure if he was being serious or not.

Theo let out a slow breath and stared into his wineglass, idly twirling the stem between long fingers. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said without looking at her, “I’m beyond grateful that he finally seems to be opening up to the idea of… being somewhat… vulnerable again, but…”

“You’re worried I’m going to hurt him,” she said quietly, and Theo bowed his head. “Theo, I’m… You know me. This isn’t just some one night stand with a rich, attractive bloke I met in a bar. I haven’t —” she leaned in close over the table and hissed, “I haven’t even had sex with anyone in years, Theo. Years!” She brushed an errant corkscrew of hair back out of her eyes, embarrassed.

His lips twitched at that, but his eyes remained stormy.

“I’m not going into this lightly. I was honestly as surprised as you are, but I wouldn’t even be considering going on a date with Draco Malfoy if I wasn’t completely convinced that he was no longer the bratty little owl-pellet he was back at Hogwarts.”

At that, Theo barked such a loud laugh that the patrons at the tables nearby turned to look at him like he’d sworn in a church. He covered his mouth with his hand and snickered himself into silent tears for a good thirty seconds before she rolled her eyes and sat back with her glass in her hand, waiting for him to control himself again.

“I’m telling Dan you called him that. And Pansy. They’ll love it.”

“Right,” she said, cheeks suddenly hot. “Well, as much as he might have been an owl pellet, let’s not have it become a ‘thing’, hmm?”

The mirth in his face simmered back down and he looked at her steadily over the rim of his wineglass. “Look, I care about both of you, and I can see this going two ways. One: you realise that the two of you actually have an awful lot in common, he takes you to increasingly fancy places for dates, you have lots of steamy sex, and finally settle down together. Two: the past gets in the way, you both say hurtful stuff you don’t really mean, and you both end up single and twice as miserable as you were before you went for lunch at the Leaky. Don't think I didn’t know about that, either,” he added.

“You’re such a gossip,” she snapped.

“I was being serious, Hermione,” he said, leaning to one side as their food arrived.

She paused until the waiter had left but didn’t make any move to pick up her cutlery. “Are you looking out for him or for me?” she asked.

Theo sighed. “Both of you. But…”

“Mostly Draco, huh?”

“He’s like a brother to me, Hermione. He was there for me when no one else was. You know the things my father did to me as a child, and Draco helped me through all of it. And ‘Cissa too. And I couldn’t believe it when he actually showed up at drinks the other night. Watching him, it… it was like the old Draco had come back to me. The nice ‘old Draco’, I mean.” His eyes glistened and he blinked rapidly, voice cracking as he continued. “After the attack, he shut himself away at the Manor with Scorpius, as if he could keep the whole world out just to keep little Scorp safe. I thought… I thought he’d never leave, Hermione.”

“You never talked about any of this,” she said gently, forcing herself to make a start on her linguine despite the fact that her appetite had vanished almost completely.

Theo shrugged. “I guess… I guess I wanted to give him the privacy he craved, and to be honest, I didn’t think you’d be all that sympathetic to him after your history.”

At that, she scowled, but she could see his point. “Theo, I held his screaming infant in my arms for hours while he was being questioned by the Aurors that night. I saw his face when he came to my office for Scorpius afterwards.” She shook her head. “No one who saw him then could believe he was even a shadow of the person he had been at Hogwarts.”

At her words, Theo had stopped eating, fork held loosely between perpetually-ink-stained fingers even as it rested on his plate. “You did? He never said.”

She tried not to examine that last comment too closely. “Mm. Harry didn't know what else to do with him, so he brought Scorpius to me to see if I could quieten him down. In the end all it took was a handful of my hair and a few poorly-sung folk songs. But you’re missing the point, Theo. You could have trusted me with things that were worrying you. I would have listened to you.”

“I —” he cut off and cleared his throat. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… Aside from Dan, I don’t think I love anyone as much as I love him.”

It was Hermione’s turn to choke up a little, but she swallowed and said, “Then I can think of no greater accolade for his character.” She looked up at him and added, “So where’s he taking me then?”

“You said yes?”

“I did. I like him. And not just because he looks like a flipping marble statue brought to life. He’s thoughtful, and he always was extremely intelligent and articulate. I’ve really enjoyed talking with him this time around. I think… I think…” she pursed her lips and took a too-big gulp of wine. Luckily it all went down the right way, and she forged on. “I think… we could work. Or at least… I want to see where it goes, Theo.”

With a slow nod, Theo finally relaxed his shoulders and let out a shaky breath. “He wants to take you to The Foundry.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” she mumbled. It wasn’t one of the ones in Diagon Alley, for sure.

Theo made a side-to-side movement of his head. “I’m not surprised. It’s…”

“Oh God, is it horrifically expensive?” she asked, eyes wide with a sudden abject terror. “Theo, if he’s going to take me somewhere hideously fancy for our first date, I’m going to back out right now…”

The corners of his lips lifted and he shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. You have to know the owners to get a table though, and there are no menus. They’ll ask if you have any allergies, but other than that, you eat what they serve you.”

“Holy fuck, Theo…”

“Trust me, you’ll love it. The place used to be a bell foundry in the seventeenth century — hence the name — and it’s this gorgeous brick building with arches and vaults, and cosy little corners,” he added, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll forget where you are and be as comfortable as if you were in your own pokey little Muggle living room. I promise.”

She narrowed her eyes and took another gulp of wine. “I’ll take your word for it, Nott,” she said. “What should I wear?”

Without hesitation, he said, “That burgundy number you haven’t worn since Pansy told you to buy it.”

She blanched at that. “Theo, it’s…”

“Gorgeous? Revealing in all the right ways, yet modest enough to suit you? Dead sexy? Exactly the kind of thing that will make Draco lose his goddamn mind when he sees you in it? The kind of thing that will make him spend all evening simultaneously admiring you in it and mentally tearing it off you —”

“Theo, stop!” she hissed, flushing darker. “For God’s sake shut up!”

He cackled into the remainder of his wine, but refused to give any more sartorial advice.

“Burgundy dress and heels it is, I guess,” she said, and the two of them focused on their food again.

“I hope,” Theo said as they left a very leisurely two hours later, “I hope you don’t think I was too…” he jiggled nervously on the balls of his feet as he held the door open for her, “Overbearing…”

“I mean, you did ambush me, blackmail and threaten me into having lunch with you at the fanciest restaurant in Diagon Alley where I couldn’t reasonably kick up a fuss, and then proceed to tell me all sorts of heartrending stories about Draco and yourself…”

When she saw the wounded look in Theo’s brown eyes, she stopped and turned to face him.

“Theo, no. You’re one of my best friends, and you clearly care about us both. Stop panicking,” she added when she saw the slightly wild light in his eyes. “You didn’t try to tell me what to do or who to see. You’re looking out for your friends, and making sure we’re both… serious about this. And I appreciate that.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and added, “But know that if you keep meddling beyond that, I will hex your bollocks off and make you explain it to Dan.”

“Understood,” he said with a watery smile. “I was worried I’d overstepped.”

“I’ll forgive you if you tell me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Did you have the same talk with Draco about breaking my heart?”

His handsome, freckled face split into a blinding white grin. “I did.”

“Forgiven,” she said. “Now, some of us actually have to work for a living.”

“I work!” he squealed. “I work bloody hard up in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, thank you very much!”

“I know you do,” she conceded. “Not that you actually need a job, you filthy rich prick.”

Theo laughed long and loud, scooping her hand up in his and walking arm in arm down the bustling, cobbled street towards her bookshop. “And to think,” he chimed with a sidelong look down at her, “You used to be Minister for Magic with that mouth.”

“I know,” she said. “It nearly got me into trouble on many an occasion.”

Kneazel and Quill’s little sign swung jauntily in the breeze and Theo gave a slight bow from the waist when they stopped at the door. With anyone else, it might have seemed foppish and insincere, but with Theo, she knew he meant it. He was only silly like this with his closest friends.

“Good day, fair maiden of the dusty bookshop,” he said. “And thank you for giving my idiot best friend a chance.”

Hermione nodded and smiled. She stood and soaked up the autumn sunshine for a while as she watched his retreating back, until he eventually disappeared into the Diagon Alley entrance to the Ministry and she slid back into the musty quiet of her little sanctuary.

Chapter Six

___

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter of friendship! Next time, Hermione and Draco go for that date...!! Things will start to gain momentum too, fear not. It’s not going to be an eternal slow-burn...

writing masterlist | Ao3

#dramione #dramione fic #draco malfoy x hermione granger #hermione granger x draco malfoy #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #theodore nott #hermione granger #let no man steal your thyme

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katnissmellarkkk · 3 years

Note

what about ~ general ~ #48?

Gravity

Heyyyyy, so uh, remember sending this? Well, sorry this took 100,000 years. And uh, sorry, this got so long imma break it up into three separate parts. Because, ya see, the prompt you sent sparked a three chapter growing back together story. And... your prompt, which was general #48 “I won’t hurt you”, actually doesn’t appear until the final chapter 🤦🏼‍♀️... we love an overwriter, right?

Okay so anyways, hopefully part two will be out soon. And forgive this for not being my greatest writing ever.

And thanks, love, for sending me a prompt to start with!

Peeta and I grow back together.

"How long are you going to waste those paints?" I tease wryly, announcing my presence as I lean against the doorframe.

Peeta doesn't even glance back at me, but I can see from my angle his expression turn sardonic. "Until this shade of green is exactly right."

I chuckle, coming further into the room—using extra caution to not startle him as he can be easily triggered when his mind is preoccupied elsewhere—and attempting to peer over his shoulder at the canvas.

It's covered with a cloth though and this time he turns to look at me before laughing softly. "Trying to sneak a peek?"

I glance at him, a little ruffled, before my eyes find my feet. "I didn't know it was supposed to be secret," I defend, for some reason feeling embarrassed by my curiosity.

Our dynamic is still tense some days. We haven't kissed since we were in the Capitol and that was only to fight off his hijacking. We haven't genuinely kissed, kissed because we wanted to, for nothing but our own simple pleasure, since the Quell, on the beach, the last night before we were separated.

Since before Peeta was taken by the Capitol. Since before he was hijacked.

But his memory is better now and the clouded, haunted look is long gone from his eyes. In it's place is the same brightness, the same instinctive kindness, the same gaze I used to see even in the worst of circumstances.

Still though, I don't always know what to say or not say. I don't know what our boundaries are now.

I know that his house and mine are always open to the other one. I don't have to knock or announce myself when I come over, and more times than not I return from hunting to find him situated at my kitchen table, waiting for me before cutting our breakfast bread.

I don't always know where our trauma ends and our friendship begins. I don't honestly know where we even stand anymore. From allies to friends to unconscious lovers to enemies and back, I get whiplash practically trying to decipher it, and I can't even imagine how much more confusing it must be for him, still after all this time.

He is more committed to that stupid over-the-phone therapy we've both had forced upon us though. He is committed like an old dog to a rotten bone to healing himself from the wounds Snow inflicted.

I'm about to find an excuse to leave the room, to more than likely leave his house altogether and go out to the woods, like I too often do when I'm at loss for words or things grow awkward, when his fingers touch under my chin. He gently lifts it up to meet his sky blue irises. "Come help me mix colors," he implores, his eyes enthusiastic and genuine.

I nod tentatively after a moment, following behind him, like a wide-eyed child. Like my sister used to follow behind me when we walked from the Seam to town and back.

He makes room for me at the table he's turned into his painting palette. On it resides papers upon papers, each covered with dozens of green variants.

"Peeta," I gap at him, my eyes getting wide. "How have you made all these shades?"

He scratches the back of his neck, blushing a little, and managing to get a moss color on his neck from the wet paint still situated on his fingertips.

I have the most insane urge to clean his neck off myself, to touch him there, as though a spot that's always displayed in plain sight could suddenly be so intimate.

I squash that desire so fast, I feel my temples pulse.

"I've been working on getting this color right for a few days now," he admits sheepishly.

I raise my eyebrow at him, a little more coy than I was only a minute ago. "A few days?"

"Okay, so it's been a couple of weeks."

I laugh then, really laugh, from the bottom of my stomach. It only last for a few seconds but it's such a rarity still that I ever feel that kind of unadulterated joy, and I choose to bask it for all it's worth.

It doesn't escape my notice though that I only ever have these rare moments in Peeta's vicinity. Not that I plan to openly share this—with anyone, really, but especially with him—but it's something I can't help but clock, even if just to myself.

Apparently I'm not the only one who finds my laugh significant, because when I look up at him again, Peeta is staring at me with a look of awe now shining in his gaze. A look I didn't realize until he was back in Twelve, until he was back mentally, until we had started on the memory book together, that he'd lost in his hijacking. It was a gaze I had seen in thousands of moments before, on the train, in the beds we shared at night, in the arenas, in my living room.

That shining look of awe in his eyes is just another thing I didn't realize how much I missed, how much it meant to me, until it returned. Another thing I didn't even realize Snow took away from me.

He breaks the silence between us again, his mouth turning up on one side, his eyes suddenly glazing over. For a moment I brace myself for a flashback, something that I have become accustomed to witnessing on a regular basis. He never loses his mind, he never snaps or thinks I'm a mutt or anything of the sort, but he'll grow quiet for a long moment and he'll clutch the underside of the table or the back of a close by chair, and shut his eyes until it's over.

But he isn't having a flashback now. Instead, his words are wistful and full of longing. "I miss hearing you laugh like that," he quietly says, unashamed. Like he's always said everything. Confidently, even when he wasn't.

I offer him a small smile in return before turning back to the paint covered table, segueing not as subtly as I wish. "Okay, so how am I supposed to help you make your ideal green color?" I turn to him and add in a teasing tone, "I'm not quite as experienced in frosting as you."

It has the desired effect and he comes to show me how to mix the paints properly, how to add in other colors to make a lighter or darker shade of green.

"So this is why the frosting on the cakes were always so intricate?" I ask after a couple of hours of us just blending paints together.

"Because I'm a perfectionist? No. Because I needed to get the cakes to sell quick enough that I wasn't forced to have the stale, crunchy ones for dinner. Over-the-top frosted cakes sells faster."

I shoot him a sad look at that. I always forget that while I had to work hard from a young age to bring food home to my family, Peeta got stuck with the leftovers no one from the entire district claimed.

Hours pass and I get so lost in mixing colors—okay, actually, I'm playing after a while, as Peeta continues to mix paints—that I don't realize until the sky outside turns dark that we skipped lunch and dinner.

"Peeta," I say, tugging at his arm with my now paint covered palm. "We have to eat."

He shakes his head though. "I've almost got the exact right shade."

I huff. "You need to feed yourself. Or else you'll pass out and I'll have to drag you to your bedroom and it'll be rough on us both."

"So it won't be any different than Sunday at Haymitch's?"

I laugh at that again, really laugh, and my stomach aches and cramps from the unused muscles waking back up after their long hibernation. "Come on," I urge.

"Katniss, I swear, I'm almost finished," he insists again, very solemnly. "Go get food from the bakery for both of us and I'll be done by the time you get back."

I let go of his arm, feeling myself deflate as I realize he's truly not budging. "I can't be the only one who goes to town with paint covered hands," I throw out there, as a last resort.

Without even looking away from the table, he adds, "and a paint covered face."

My brow furrows, confused, when he taps my nose with his wet finger. "Peeta!" I try to exclaim but it gets eaten up by my giggle, which is quickly overpowered by his.

"You told me once green was your favorite color!" He defends, holding up his hands.

I swipe my still wet sheets of paper off the table and fling them at him, effectively covering his cheek and the shoulder of his shirt in a soup of green.

"Oh, you aren't getting away with that," he promises and grabs me around the waist when I bolt for the door. "You couldn't even beat a man with one leg," he teases as he hoists me up and propels us both towards the wet paints again.

"Don't you dare," I threaten but my smile, one I can't repress, isn't letting me give the correct authenticity to my tone and in the end, he only smirks at my words.

A half hour later, I exit Peeta's house, having scrubbed my face the best I could in his bathroom sink. I only made the green fade from my cheeks and nose, not completely evaporate, and my neck is still strewed with flicks of the forresty shade.

My stained shirt is covered though as I pull on Peeta's jacket, having for once left mine in my own doorway, three houses down. Instead of going to fetch it, I choose take him up on the offer to borrow his, pretending it's about convenience and not because I like the way his smell of vanilla and cinnamon and something entirely his own lingers on all his clothing.

I use the key he gave me to the freshly rebuilt bakery and let myself in the backdoor, more so because that's where I'm most comfortable entering. Peeta's new bakery is almost identical in structure to the old one, and his mother would have never let me come in through the front, let alone trade my game over the counter instead of in the chilly back alleyway.

So many times I peaked inside the back, peered over the old baker's shoulder while he examined my squirrels. Majority of the times it was only to see the blazing hot oven, to fantasize about how it must feel to work with that kind of heat in the winter, to have heat so easily accessible at your fingertips that you can take it for granted. But sometimes it was also to catch a glimpse of what the inside must look like, my curiosity getting the best of me.

Being from the Seam, you so rarely had reason to enter a Merchant business. Being from the Seam, there was always a part of you that wondered what the other side of the community must live like.

Well, now I know. I have, really, since I became a victor and Peeta took me with him here on a seldom occasion to chat with his dad while he mother was gone.

I can't help but admire the handiwork of Thom and of many others in the community. They rebuilt the bakery—with assistance, both creatively and manually, from Peeta himself—in only a few months time and it looks like it was never decimated. The woodwork of the wall panels, the marble tile of the floor, the cream color of the walls.

It was like the old bakery, but made newer and fresher.

However, as I grab a loaf of bread and pastries—Peeta did say to get whatever I craved—I spot something out of the ordinary.

The walls visible to the customers in the front are reserved for Peeta to paint murals on, whenever he finds himself in the right mood to create whatever idea he has sitting inside his head. But the walls in the back are typically full of notes and lists and customer orders and—Peeta's own idea—thank you notes and cards from members of the community, who adore him even more now than they did before the war.

But all those things have been cleared away from a section of the wall space. There is a noticeably large blank space, right above the oven and counter, where no one else but Peeta will be able to view it.

It's maybe a little thing to be hung up on, but it strikes me as so strange I cannot stop thinking about it.

I choose to stop at the rebuilt Hob after I finish at the butcher's, offering Greasy Sae an extra pastry for her and her granddaughter.

She takes the offer with a sly look, handing me a container of soup to go with the bread.

"What?" I ask, unsettled a little by her glance, like she knows something I don't.

"I see someone's been painting," she just simply notes, gesturing with her chin to my green stained hand and wrist.

"Oh!" I catch on now. "Yeah, I was just helping Peeta."

The excuse doesn't seem to diminish the glint in her eyes. "Helping. Yeah, I'm sure."

I roll my eyes in her direction as I walk towards the door, calling out, "goodnight," evenly over my shoulder.

When I get back to Peeta's though, he isn't in his art studio. Instead he's in the kitchen, grabbing silverware and plates for us to eat. "Grab bowls too," I call as I plop our food down on his countertop. "Traded a pastry for some."

He shoots me a sardonic look now. "You know you don't have to trade for everything, right?"

"I like it more than spending money," I retort easily, slipping off his jacket. "I'm going to go scrub my hands in the bathroom again before we eat," I say, glancing at my still green digits.

"Well, hurry," he urges teasingly. "You have gotten me so used to eating things when they're fresh, I almost can't stand waiting anymore."

His hand playfully pushes on my back, propelling me towards to the stairs, and I have a hard time denying even to myself the thrill that runs through my body when him unexpectedly touches me.

I quickly wash and scrub as much paint off my palms and wrists as I can, drying hastily on the towel Effie definitely sent from the Capitol.

But I find myself with a sudden irrepressible urge, one not even the food downstairs or Peeta waiting can quench. As I pass by the art room, I see the painting he was so meticulously working on now sitting on his drying table, leaving the canvas empty.

I know I shouldn't invade his privacy but, after everything else we've been through, there isn't much he would keep from me.

At least, that's what I tell myself to rationalize my prying away as justifiable.

I walk to the table, as quietly as I do in the woods when hunting prey, as not to tip him off in case he is listening from the kitchen. I'm unprepared to offer my excuses for snooping to his face, despite the fact I can't picture him being too put out with me.

I am also utterly unprepared for the vision that awaits me in the now finished painting.

Laying flat on it's back, the painting stares directly up at me as I approach. The canvas displays a beautiful girl, with black hair and large grey eyes and a very endearing, bashful smile. There's a variety of flowers in her hair and in her hands she's holding a small bouquet of dandelions. There's a warm, glowing sunset behind her and a willow tree in the distance. It takes me a moment to realize, but her sweater is a dark shade of green, more pleasing to the eye than any leaf or shrub I've ever come across, even on the Victory Tour, in the most lovely botanical gardens the country had to offer.

The girl in the portrait is beautiful and shy and happy and you can see, even in a painting, that she doesn't enjoy having her image captured.

I have to blink six separate times before it finally registers that the girl is me. Her skin is a multitude of colors, varying shades from where something ate a part of her flesh away. But instead of that making her less attractive, it only serves in making her all the more stunning. Her skin is a gorgeous vision and I don't know how Peeta managed the impossible. I don't know how he managed to make me beautiful, but he did.

"Katniss?" I hear him call, and I jump at the sound of his voice ripping me out of the moment. His tone is light and playful, and I have to swipe my hand across my eyes to rid myself of the moisture that's leaked out before he sees. "You coming to dinner?" He asks from the bottom of the stairs and I give the lovely work of art one last look before I follow his voice, a rare, uncontrollable smile forming on my mouth as I shut the door behind me.

After everything else that's happened, only Peeta could make me feel like this.

A few weeks later.

I admire the bright yellow primroses, now in full bloom, the lightly blowing wind only complimenting their beauty and elegance instead of disturbing it.

I stare blankly at the flowers planted in my sister's honor. My sister who should be here now, should be stitching bleeding wounds and helping with the reconstruction of the town. My sister who should be admiring Peeta's frosted cakes and convincing me to dance with her in the living room by the fire. My sister who should have never been in the Capitol that day, should have been tucked away in Thirteen with our mother, should have never grown up as quickly as she was forced to or had her life stolen in a split second.

Peeta's fingers sift through my hair, unconsciously sensing the tension building in my body as I feel a rise of anger at all Coin and Snow took from me in the name of power.

I turn my head up to glance at him, craning my neck a little. I'm about to say something, I'm not sure what yet, but something to convey that I'm fine. Something to brush off what I assume are his concerns. But I'm surprised by what I see when I peer up. His face isn't what I expected.

Instead of concerned or curious, he's having his own sort of contemplation. Instead of even looking at me, he's staring up at the clear blue sky, watching the white puffs of clouds floating microscopically slow across the the way.

But his brow is furrowed and his mouth is turned down and he seems uncharacteristically miserable.

"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting up now. We'd been laying beside each other—maybe a little too close but neither of us seemed to mind—on the grass in my backyard, just trying to rest. We'd planned on working on new entries for the memory book today, but I hadn't slept at all last night and when he came over this morning to find me, still home and not in the woods, with my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, it was him who'd suggested a day off, relaxing in the grass under the sun.

He barely glances at me now, not really acknowledging my inquiry. "Nothing," he states simply and his hand touches mine for the briefest of seconds before pulling away.

"No, tell me what's bothering you," I insist defiantly. I don't know if it's the crankiness from lack of sleep or if I'm just fed up with having words left unsaid between us, but I'm not backing down.

"Katniss, come on," he says exasperatedly and his tone irks me further.

Instead of snapping and saying something I may regret later, I just shake my head at him, pushing myself upwards and beginning the walk back to the house, with every intention of abandoning our afternoon plans of relaxation. "Okay, wait!" He calls in retaliation and I feel him stretch to grip my hand in his again, only this time not dropping it after only a moment.

I relent and move backwards, sitting down to face him cautiously. I'm not worried that he's going to snap or harm me, not even in the slightest, but I am worried that both of us in foul moods-with our minds that are already teetering just on the edge of sanity-will lead to a painful, heated argument.

The last thing I want is to fight with Peeta. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I've come to rely far too heavily on his presence in my daily life. Driving him away is too agonizing to consider right now.

Peeta doesn't let go of my hand for a long beat and when he does, he does so in a slip so awkward it leaves me believing he didn't even realize he was still grasping it. "I was just thinking about Gale," he blurts out, his eyes wide and a little nervous.

I just stare at him though, waiting for him to elaborate. "You were thinking of Gale?" The name burns the inside of my mouth, the face of the person I once called my friend now only bringing the gut-wrenching image of my sister's last moments of life, as the bombs he potentially built floated from the sky down towards her and hundreds of other unexpecting children. "Wh-why were you thinking of Gale?" I press, my voice caught between shocked and angry.

But Peeta seems prepared for my strangled query. "I guess, I was thinking of every which way... I guess, I was really thinking of the possibility of Gale returning," he explains, and my blood turns to ice. My vision swirls at the very thought and I have to force myself to swallow as my throat suddenly feels very dry.

"Did you hear something I haven't? Do you know if he is coming back to Twelve?" I press as evenly as I can. It's fruitless though, as he shoots me a sympathetic—but still somewhat distracted—look.

"No," he promises, shaking his head. "No, I haven't heard anything about him. I'm just assuming that he will at some point-"

"Why?" I can't help but implore, my voice more aggravated than I intend.

Peeta gives me a look like the answer to my words is blatant. "Because this is is his home, Katniss. You're his home," he emphasizes.

"No," I instantly repel. "No, I'm not his home. Don't even say that. I-I'm not..." I can't seem to make the words come out intelligibility. Instead, I find myself choking on the sounds and syllables. "What even brought this on, Peeta? Why would you be thinking about this?"

At that, he shrugs and breaks his conflicted gaze away, leaving me boring deep into the side of his skull as if the answers I craved would be visible there. "I was happy," he offers quietly, after a long stretch of silence. "I was happy here with you and it got me thinking of all the ways this could be taken away from me."

Oh, I realize as his words hit me. Of course. Of course that's where his mind went. Because not so long ago, every single good thing in his life, from his family, to his home, to his freedom, to his sanity itself, were all viciously and mercilessly stolen. Of course Peeta has such little faith that anything good will last for him anymore.

Still though. To think of Gale as the thing to ruin our days together, our growing friendship, would almost be laughable if it wasn't so insane.

"Why him though?" I press, unable to comprehend his line of thinking. "Why did you think about him coming back?"

He shoots me the same look again, like he can't understand why I even have to ask. "Because that is one sure way you'd be done with me."

"What?" I exclaim, like he was speaking in a language I'd never heard before. "Why would that mean I'd be done with you?"

Now his expression turns downright exasperated and I feel like mine must match. "Because, Katniss. He's-he's..." He struggles with finding the proper wording again. Something that is so incredibly rare for Peeta Mellark that I don't even register it. "He's the one for you," he continues softly after a moment, no malice in his voice, just what he believes to be facts. "I knew that—I've always known that. Long before I knew much else about you, I knew that Gale and you were practically-"

"Peeta, stop," I cut off, maybe not soon enough. "Gale and me... no," I insist venomously. "No, he..." And if Peeta is struggling to speak, I'm know I'm obviously doomed right now. I take a breath and just stare into the blue pools in his eyes and force myself to speak, even if it's difficult, even if I'd rather be choking on a rusty nail right now. "I will never have anything to do with Gale again," I declare gently, doing my best to remain calm and steady.

Peeta shoots me a wary look and I suddenly have to question if he knows about Gale and the bombs. The question that can never be answered, the connection I'll never be able to prove or disprove, but know in my gut what the answer likely is.

He can't know, if he thinks there's a chance that I'd ever have any sort of relationship with Gale again.

"Peeta," I struggle to get out, feeling breathless before I've even began to utter any of it. "Gale is the one—or he might be the one, I don't know, I'll probably never know—who built or created or wha-"

But he's shaking his head rapidly, comprehension flickering across his face. "Katniss, I know," he says, and reaches out to squeeze my palm again. The unexpected touch sends a shock wave through my body but I'm too overwhelmed to really notice. "Haymitch told me about Gale's part in Prim's death."

I rip my hand away so fast, acting before thinking, betrayal spreading through my entire being before I have the chance to even process his words. "If you know that, why do you think I'd ever have anything to do with him again?"

Peeta is starting to really grind on my nerves with that incredulous look he keeps giving me. It's as if he cannot follow what I'm saying or thinks that I'm not seeing his side of the argument or something else that is quite obviously wrong.

How on earth could Peeta ever think that I would be able to look Gale in the eye after what he did? After what he might have done? Does the might of even make a difference? If there's any discrepancies between if he did or didn't murder Prim, how could I ever hold a conversation with him while that hangs between us? How could I meet his eyes and always be reminded I can never meet her's again? How could I ever trust someone like that, that made callous decisions in the heat of righteous anger? Someone who had no idea what it was like to be forced to murder and have it labeled a game. Someone who actively ignored the warnings of those who had? Who actively allowed himself to be used as a puppet for a radicalist who was no better than Snow himself?

Peeta's voice yanks me from my thoughts. "Because, Katniss," he starts gently, looking rather mournful, effectively softening my anger against him just a bit. "You forgave me. How am I any better?"

I just stare at him. "You couldn't help what you did, Peeta."

"Wasn't Gale used too? Just by Coin instead of Snow?"

"It's not the same thing."

"Why not?"

"You didn't possibly kill my sister. And God knows how many other kids," I finally say, the fight in my voice still hanging on.

"I almost killed you," he reminds me, as if I have forgotten.

"It's not the same thing, Peeta," I whisper again, my eyes more compelling, more insistent, than my voice now. He sees that, as he's gazing deeply into my steel colored irises.

He takes a deep breath, mulling over his words before speaking them aloud. I realize then he must have been thinking about this for a while. The concept disturbs me for some reason. Like he's been having this debate in his head without me and I'm late to the event. Like he was actively having this argument already and didn't think to even get my side of the story first. "What if Snow had programmed me to kill Prim instead of you? Then would you have forgiven me?"

I have to look away at that moment because I outright don't know what to say. Would I have been able to ever forgive him for it, for trying to murder my little sister while not in his right mind? Would I have been able to look past it, to see that he was used and abused and destroyed to get to me? Or would I have been so stuck on the idea of anything hurting Prim that all his trauma would have become background noise? Would Gale be the one here now, having this conversation with me, while I was denouncing Peeta's name?

I can't give him an answer and we swore not to lie to each other, in light of everything we've been through, so instead I turn my eyes up to look into the forlorn blue skies I've become so accustomed to and say the only thing I know is true. "I honestly don't know, Peeta."

He nods at that, almost immediately accepting my honestly. Almost like he anticipated those words from me. And he offers me a small smile before standing himself up off the grass and walking towards the backdoor to my house. "I'm going to head home for the day," he says quietly, with no resentment in his voice.

My heart sinks at his words, as some long stifled string inside of me wishes to attach onto him and hold him here with me. To refuse to let him leave until that forlorn edge evaporates from his gaze. But something more prevalent, more powerful, is also churning inside of me, something that cannot stand being withheld even for a day, and I find myself calling out his name against my better judgment.

"Peeta!" I exclaim urgently, my voice rocky and scratched.

He turns and looks at me, his eyes curious to what I could have to say. And I don't know what else to utter, but the truth. The misunderstanding I'm irrationally unsettled by, the misconception that I can't continue to let fester inside his head.

"Gale was never the one for me."

Peeta blinks in surprise at the blatant assertion. He opens up his mouth to speak several times, confusion marring his features, but nothing comes out.

And in case he somehow wants to rationalize my statement away, in case somewhere in his head the demon Snow planted is trying to squash any assurance my statement may inspire, I repeat myself again.

"Gale was never the one."

A month later.

"Haymitch, come on," I mutter, pushing my old mentor towards the front door. "Go home. Sleep off the alcohol."

The older man murmurs something equally unintelligible and also somehow still undoubtedly rude at me, shoving my hands away from his back, where I'm trying to aim him in the direction of the exit.

"The boy is much gentler," he snaps, swaying heavily with his vigorous words.

"We have always agreed that Peeta is superior to me. You can go to his house if you want him to tuck you in tonight."

Haymitch guffaws at that, out of his skull. "Now wouldn't that make you jealous?"

"Get out!"

"Night night, Sweetheart."

After he's gone, I lock the door in case he tries to come back, tries to raid my kitchen again or use my couch as a free bed.

Nothing is more freighting than thinking I'm alone in my house and then seeing a man sleeping in my living room, first thing in the morning.

As I head upstairs though, I realize what I just did. Giving Haymitch the idea to go to Peeta's house, to torture him with his inebriation like he does me, and I wonder if Peeta's angry with me now.

Not real, long lasting anger, of course. Just simple irritation. But still, as I change into my pajamas and brush out my braid, I wonder if I've now destroyed Peeta's night.

At first the idea of our mentor giving Peeta a hard time tonight still doesn't seem like a too terrible situation to me. Peeta's definitively the one that will put up with the tiresome antics of the old drunk until he can't any longer. He's the one who will be more likely to have mercy on a sloshed Haymitch and let himself lose sleep, too kind for his own good.

But then it hits me that when Peeta loses too much sleep, when his insomnia kicks in, or when commotion keeps him awake, he surely has a flashback the following day. Resting later into the day doesn't help either, as any disruption to his sleep schedule can really mess with him good.

I feel myself rush to the window across from my bed, peering out to look three houses down, to see if I can spot the paunchy old man heading in that direction.

I see nothing and no one. It's the black of night, in the middle of winter. No one else lives in what used to be Victor's Village, aside from us three. The road between our houses is cold and wet and entirely void.

Still, I try to squint, to see if I can make anything out over at Peeta's.

His light is off. That much I can tell. The light in his bedroom is turned off, the room is too dark to see into, porchlight is turned off, and all this indicates he's fast asleep, Haymitch went home to his own house and I have nothing to worry about.

However, something else catches me attention then. Peeta's window. It's open. Just like it used to be. Just like before the Quarter Quell. Even in the middle of winter, in the darkest part of the night, he's always kept his bedroom window open.

I tell myself it's paranoia, or it's neighborly kindness. But I decide to open my window as well, in case I hear Haymitch pounding on Peeta's door and disturbing him at an ungodly hour. In case I hear Haymitch causing a ruckus outside Peeta's house and I have to go get him before he causes any massive disturbance.

I tell myself it's because I feel guilt and not because I miss Peeta, even in my sleep.

Especially in my sleep.

I doze off, desperately forcing myself to believe that lie.

When I wake up three hours later, it's not because Haymitch is making noise. No, he hasn't made a peep that I could hear since I kicked him out.

No, I wake up because of a wholly unexpected cacophonous sound.

I wake up because Peeta is screaming.

Peeta is screaming loud, on top of his lungs, like someone is holding a knife or a gun to his throat at this very moment.

It's a sound I recognize instinctively. And not because it resembles the version of him that was rescued and brought to Thirteen.

No, I recognize the sound because it sounds eerily similar to the noises I make from nightmares of the same events, because of flashbacks of the same memories.

Most victors understand each other to varying degrees. We've all lived through literal hells, we've all had our trauma projected across the country, we've all been through horrible ordeals that almost no one else could ever empathize with.

However, most victors didn't win their games together. Most victors don't know what anyone else's personal nightmares are about. Most victors can't even imagine what any of the others are seeing, in any shadow of a dark room. In a the cobwebs of our minds that not even the most proficient doctor can clear. Most victors can't see the haunting reflection in the dark smeared glass that remains unique to each individual victor.

Except me and Peeta. Except us, the once Star-Crossed Lovers, the girl on fire and the baker's boy, the two mouthpieces of opposing sides of war.

The two of us understand each other on a level deeper than anyone else on the planet can even begin to imagine, and it's this fact that draws me thoughtlessly out of my bed at the sound of his cries, and over the threshold and down the street before I even realize what I'm doing. Before I can contemplate it and think my way out of doing it.

I pound on his door, turning my palm pink with the applied force. "Peeta?" I exclaim but all I hear in response is a gut-wrenching howl in pain. I worry for a moment that he's managed to injury himself somehow. That he's lost his prosthetic in his own frenzy and now is lying helpless on the ground.

I take a chance, pleading silently for the door to be unlocked as I turn the knob.

I'm not sure if I should be grateful that Peeta doesn't lock his doors before going to sleep—he doesn't even close his windows though, so how can I be surprised?—but for the moment I bask in the one lucky instance and make a mental note to yell at him tomorrow for it.

My tired, cold legs shoot up the stairs, racing towards his bedroom blindly through the darkness. "Peeta?" I call out again, quieter now than before, not wanting to give him a heart attack.

After all, an intruder, just about any intruder-even my own mother-appearing in my house in the dead of night, would probably knock me unconscious from the adrenaline overload that would surely overtake me.

Because unlike Peeta, I do lock my door—every single door in my house—at night, the image of anyone coming to hurt me while I'm asleep and at my most vulnerable too powerful for me to rationalize away.

But Peeta doesn't hear my voice now and even without any light, I easily locate his bedroom. Despite the fact I've never been in it before. That revelation occurs to me as I'm about to open the door.

Even in our closest and most sacred moments together, I never once set foot inside his bedroom. I'd barely even walked into his house prior to coming back to Twelve after the war. And when I did come here now, we typically stayed in the kitchen or art room for some reason.

All this races through the back of my mind as I push the door open and reveal Peeta, tangled up in his bed sheets, bare-chested and sleeping in only his pajama pants. His fingers clawing at the wall ferociously, his eyes wild as the deer I hunt, when they realize I'm there at the very last second before the arrow pierces their hearts.

"Peeta," I whisper now, my concern for what must have set him off overtaking any qualms I may still have. I try to tell myself to be careful and keep a safe distance, as I don't know if he's himself right now or if he's once again the loaded weapon Snow broke him down and turned him into.

But when he looks at me, his blue eyes wide and wet and terrified and awed, like he thinks I'm nothing but a dream, I can't make myself believe he's anyone but the boy who saved my life years ago. So many years ago now, it seems.

And when he whispers my name and blindly, instinctively, desperately, reaches for me, I just can't make myself stay away. Without hesitating, I lunge forward and for the first time since the Quarter Quell, I throw myself straight into his arms, like I belong there.

My arms wrap around his neck and I feel him pull my body to his, pulling me down against him, molding our two shaky forms together as one. He pulls my legs around his waist and wraps me in a hug so tight my ribs physically hurt and I can't even breathe.

I burrow my face into the skin of his throat, inhaling his scent in an unabashed, reckless act, and turn my cold cheek to lay against his rapid beating heart.

"I thought you were dead," is the first thing he whispers, as the tears still running down his face hit my forehead.

"I'm not," I promise, trying to make my voice convincing, even as I'm reeling by this sudden turn of events.

I never, in a million years, thought I'd ever end up in his arms like this again. This embrace, this comfort, is something else I truly believed Snow had stolen away from me.

"I dreamed you died," he whimpers again, like he didn't hear me.

"I'm here, Peeta. I heard you having a nightmare and I came. As fast as I could." I don't know why I feel the need to tell him this information, but when his trembling starts to lessen I feel slightly validated.

"I lost you," he whispers, his voice hoarse and broken.

"You couldn't lose me if you tried." The words come out without warning, and I'm glad somehow. I'm so tired of words being held back or dropped between us, of neither of us knowing what to say to the other. Of shoving down what we're both really feeling.

Even if right now may be the worst time for declarations, with Peeta exhausted and upset and visibly traumatized, I still feel relief spread all over my body, for having the guts to say what I'm thinking for once.

I see the wheels beginning to turn now, in his bloodshot, puffy eyes as he slowly begins to process the last couple of minutes that's brought us back into the position we held nightly only one year ago.

Has it really only been a year?

I expect then for him to recoil away from me, or apologize even, citing that he doesn't know what possibly came over him. But, to my surprise, he does none of that. Instead Peeta hugs me tighter to him, pulling up the covers he'd kicked away, effectively sheltering us beneath their protective warmth.

"Stay," he whispers into my hair, his arms shaking as they become a soothing balm around me, leaving me feeling safe in a way I refuse to ask for. Giving me back a refuge I considered all but gone. "Please, Katniss, stay with me?"

Without thinking twice, without giving myself a chance to second-guess the words, I whisper into his chest, exactly where I can feel his beating heart, "Always."

#everlark #thg #everlark fic #the hunger games #prompt #play with me 🥰#ask #fanfic #my writing #fanfiction #gravity ♥️ 🌅 🥖#cate 🦋🧸💗💐

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jubilantwriter · 3 years

Text

Of Blood and Static

?̩̲ͯ̚ͅC̉̏̿̒̓͐ͮ͝͏̢̫̭̫͚̜h̦̩̼̝̳͎̹̎̊̿́͐ͮͬ͑̚4̩̞̮̝̊̂͊̈͗ͨ̚͡p̲̻̯̏̃̀t̰̦̙̥̟̺̥̤̓̔͆͛͢͜-̦̠̹͎͎͖̾̂͊?̙̼̱̩̬̏̅ͫ̐̂P̜͉̦͉̲ͨ̃̇ͥ͠r̫̲̰͚̙̫̔̂̒̅͋̐̎̄͟͟0̮̱̅̑͟l̡̘̭̤̹̝̪̱̹̑̈-͉̙̣̘̬̮̗̱̌̆͛ͪ̾ͯ̇̀̕͠?̸̜̩ͭͪͮͭͧ͟͝E̙̤͈̲͋̋́p̨̭͕ͬͪ̕1̺̰̳̣̌̀͝͠!͕͔̘̯͎͍̈́g̼̳̙̯̱̟͉̀̄ͫ̈̋͌̏͝-̜̖͉̰ͫ͡?̩͚̍̀͝: All my love, your Dearest Friend.

(AO3) (First) (Previous)

...Summary?: (He rolls the sheet of paper back up and smiles, stowing the message away in his pocket. Perhaps it was meant for him. Perhaps not. But there's only one way of knowing for sure.

The screen reveals to him the distant figure of a rowing man approaching the beach much sooner than usual. So the march of time continues. A new beginning? Or the end of the line?

Perhaps, he thinks as the screen shuts off, perhaps those questions are best left unanswered.)

Word Count: 2712

////

The Lady is used to the loops. The pieces fall together in her hand, the puzzle complete as she sets it aside to focus on another one. The mirror in front of her, pieced together by all the broken shards from all her past lives, reflects back a her that looks nothing like the monster she often sees reflected back in her quarters. Instead, the her she sees is of a young girl in yellow, defiant, desperate, but hopeful. The Shadow stares at her in the mirror and nods. She nods back, and the mirror is put aside, whole and complete.

They are so close. So close to completion. The Caretaker joins her side as they both gaze over the crowd of Guests. Her hand hovers over the crowd of gluttonous monsters as he takes her other hand and squeezes. The Ferryman had whisked away all the children from the Maw, taking them to a new haven where no one can harm them. The nomes had already gotten a head start in building the start of a settlement.

She never got to see a blur of a blue boy in this loop.

A smile hides behind her mask as the monsters below her scream and screech in terror as she culls them for all their worth. The Maw groans as it creaks, but she pays it no mind.

As they fall over one by one, she looks up towards the entrance of the Maw.

Soon, she thinks. Soon. They'll see him again.

(-)

The Thin Man is tired of the loops. So tired, in fact, that when he finally breaks from his spell the Tower had over him (for so long, so long he had been hurt, pulled apart, ripped apart, smothered, made a monster, a horrible, real monster), the first thing he does is reach out to his beloved friends. The Lady had sobbed - it truly had been that long, hadn't it? - showing a weakness he hadn't seen since the very first loops when they were still completely new to this. Then the Caretaker followed, his appearance a welcomed one as he recalled the mumbled conversations between them when the Caretaker called for him without the presence of the Lady.

There was no real expectation that the Caretaker would remember him, given the lack of contact they've had. But alas, the man in blue cried as well, placing his hand on the glass and whispering out so very tenderly:

"It's about time I got to meet you again. How lucky I must be to be the one who lives to see you once more?"

The reunion had been sweet, words spoken through tears even if his were silent. A charm lays in his suit pocket next to a sailor's cap and a short message. The energy it exudes steals from the Tower and feeds him just enough that he can keep his mind all his own. It had been a struggle. A fight. An endless scream that resonated in the Tower that only he could hear.

He recalls all the memories he had of receiving that charm from the man behind the door after he delivered that package on a whim.

"I'll give this to Six once I save her. If I can't always protect her, at least this thing might do it when I fail her again." Over and over again, he'd repeat that to himself as he wore it on his back like a shield. Funny how it protected him instead of his intentioned Six. But that's what friends are for, huh?

...Friends. There was a time when, as an adult, he thought that the concept of them was nothing more than a lie. How wrong he was back then. How happy he is that he was proven wrong. Loops and loops of fighting, of enacting useless revenge upon useless revenge, of never-ending self-inflicted suffering and anger and regret-

They were always both at fault. It wasn’t always her fault, as much as he so arrogantly used to believe. It’d taken him so long to realize how wrong he was. How the pointless arguing and accusations did nothing to free them. It was, after all, his fault that the loops began in the first place, wasn’t it?

All he wanted was to save her. The Tower twisted his desire and created a never-ending cycle of blame and anger and victimization. Took his desire and twisted it into a desperate vision of wanting to be her hero, her savior - so he became the villain to his hero counterpart. A fantasy created by his own hands in order to forget the origin of why the loops were created in the first place.

(How he failed her over and over and over again and he’ll never forget how she died in his arms because he was too stupid, too idiotic as a child, dragged in by the Signal’s tune and taking the place of the original Thin Man, and it was his fault his fault his fault-)

But now he’s the one being rescued. His fantasy is broken like an axe against a music box, and the one who wields is not one, but two people. Perhaps the real key to their freedom had always been to save him from himself. From his delusions of being the hero, of being the protector of everyone. Because in the end, even a protector must have someone else to protect him.

The door in front of him opens. He knows his part by heart, but this time.

This time it will change.

He smiles as he breaks out of his prison and into the open air. Two children cower just beneath where he stands.

One final chase before the finale.

He slows time and begins his slow walk towards the doorway.

His final chase, and he gets to pick where the finish line is.

(-------)

The Caretaker is aware of the loops. Not quite at the level of the Lady or the Thin Man, but aware enough that he can feel the weight of them on his shoulders. He knows that he was never meant to live. That much he can be sure, the phantom pains of something tearing his neck apart spiking up every once in a while, the nightmares of a child in yellow tearing him apart still plaguing him through his years. He used to question why he's suddenly a part of the loops in this way, but he figures that the knowledge is long since gone, or at the very least, very buried in the recesses of the Lady's mind. A part of him wants to know, to understand why he's suddenly here when he wasn't before. But the other part of him wants to leave it be, knowing that unburying that truth may lead to unsavory discoveries.

At least, for now.

Whatever curiosity he holds has to be put aside for another time, for when they're all away from this horrible hull of a boat. His dream of fully running away from this accursed place is finally coming to fruition as they walk past the deceased Guests and down to the drop-off area. The Ferryman has one last delivery to the Maw. One last visitor before they can finally leave this wretched place.

Dying in the Maw is the last thing he wants, after all.

The Lady fidgets besides him, all elegance tossed to the wind as she waits for a boat to dock. He nudges her gently and smirks when she sends a glare back at him. The mask on her face always felt disingenuous to him, but he never remarked on it despite all the times she wore it. Perhaps it was to make her feel safe, or to hide whatever ugliness she saw in herself. But after all they've been through, it's only a matter of time before she takes it off.

Quietly, he takes her hand and gives it a squeeze.

Just like when they were children. Like when she would look up at him from under her hood, eyes barely shadowed as they shimmered with something unspoken. She was undoubtedly annoying when they were younger, always causing some sort of trouble that he had to drag her out of, but there was something about how she held herself as a child that always had him wanting to protect her from things she couldn't fight back against. Maybe it was how she clung to him after waking up from a nightmare, silent as she stared at a wall wide-eyed, seeing something that he could never. Or maybe it was how she screamed the first time she saw him jump into the water when he first showed her the depths of the Maw. Terrible things happen to children all the time, but having her sob and pound at his chest after he swam out of the water made him wonder just what happened to her that she became this way?

Maybe that's why he stuck around so long. He could have left long ago, but...

She squeezes back, tight and desperate with a smidgen of fear.

If he'd left, she would have been left with no one once again. Thin Man or no, she'd be the same little girl who was hunched over the body of the previous Lady, so full of hurt and desperation and hunger, so ready to make all the wrong choices that he couldn't help but reach out and take her hand.

Everyone needs a little guidance every once in a while.

The sounds of chains hefting a boat up grabs their attention.

Steadily. Without pause. The Ferryman with his sagging face appears, and a man in a sharp suit and fedora is seated just behind him. Long limbs carefully remove themselves from the boat, and he bows slightly to keep his head from brushing the ceiling. The Ferryman nods and makes his descent silently as RK looks up at the man with stolen breath.

Oh.

So this is how he looks from beyond the screen. All the entries in his notebook failed to prepare him for actually meeting the Thin Man in person. He’s impossibly tall and thin and absolutely towers over the two of them, but he holds himself in the most docile way possible. The way he holds himself is completely different from Six - all soft around the edges and nervous to be judged. RK nearly reaches out to take his hand and comfort him. Absolutely amazing how a tower of a man manages to give off the least threatening aura between the three of them.

Almost shyly, the man removes his hat to reveal a full head of hair and an awkward expression. He looks to Six and then to RK with a small smile.

(Ridiculous! To think he’d been locked away in the Tower for so long, twisted and broken into something that didn’t resemble him for loops - it makes RK’s blood boil. But also- he gets it now. Oh, does he get the numerous entries about the Thin Man now. Oh, how he gets it now.)

Never has RK been so happy to be alive to see this day. It was all worth it. A small smile graces his features as his vision blurs happily.

Finally.

(------)

Six doesn't care for the loops as she removes her mask, finally, tears streaming freely as she returns the little smile that Mono had given her.

He looks younger than she expects - true, there are a few wrinkles here and there, but with how he spoke and how he presented himself in the past, she imagined a weary, beleaguered old man to appear before her. He must be as old as them, but he looks just as young as Six parades herself and RK to be. An inkling for the cause is at the back of her mind, but she truly does not care for it. Instead, she reaches out a hand and takes his.

So warm and familiar. A comfort she once took for granted, but will no longer. Fingers longer than her hand squeeze hers in a grip she'd nearly forgotten.

"...Hey," he whispers, voice crackled by the static as a sob breaks her voice. It's deeper than she expected, but the smoothness of it comforts her like a soothing lullaby. She smiles through her tears as she looks back up at him.

"Hi," she whispers back, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up with how bright his smile is. "You must be hungry. Why don't we get a meal ready for you?"

Mono nods back, his other hand already taken up by the warmth of RK's as they lead him through the Maw.

It will be the final meal this Lady of the Maw will ever serve, but it will be warm, and filling, and everything unlike the previous meals she's served before. And they will laugh, and converse, and enjoy each other’s company. Maybe she will take some meat off of RK’s plate, and he’ll act like he’s upset, but he’ll be secretly glad as he focuses on the fish instead. Mono will undoubtedly be confused but entertained by the bickering as RK will try to convince her to eat vegetables, to which she will aggressively decline. And then RK and her will press him to eat more, enjoy more, as they scoop more onto his plate than he can possibly eat, and he’ll try to decline, and maybe he’ll cry a little bit, but he’s happy, he’s happy and not alone and surrounded by warmth as they care for him.

Perhaps the Chefs will be happy to cook a real feast for once, even if it may be the last they will ever cook. Perhaps Roger will be able to bask in the sounds of happiness on the Maw, never to have to clean up after sobbing children or disgusting Guests ever again. Perhaps perhaps perhaps.

And when they finally finish their meal, they'll be able to step out into the warm sunlight together as nothing more than friends with names rather than titles. And it will be the last of the loops they'll have to face.

Their ends mark the beginning of a new start. With hands warm and never empty, they look to the sky together and bask in the sunlight of their newly gained freedom. For however long their existence may last, at least they’ll be able to share their final moments together with a smile and a laugh.

(000000)

Six wakes up on a beach, a body curled up beside her.�� Nothing of consequence plagues her mind as Mono gets up and stretches beside her, paper bag stowed away in his pocket. A different hat sits atop his head, its tattered ribbon flowing down between them.

"Oi ," says a voice, one that was introduced to them last night when they first arrived, "you guys okay?"

"Yeah," Mono says with a smile, still bashfully hiding his face away from RK. The boy in blue hugs a nome to his chest and nods in response.

"Okay, well, there's food if you guys want any." He jabs a thumb in the direction of the other children. Six nods in response, and watches as he trots off to meet with the others, stopping only once to look back at them curiously.

"So, Six," Mono begins, already standing up and dusting himself off, "what do you wanna do today?"

She grins, because there's nothing to worry about for now. Her mind is free of those haunting feelings, those weird senses of deja vu, of familiarity when familiarity is not warranted. The boy in blue is the last of the familiar feelings, but it is a warm one, one she doesn’t want to let go of. Hopefully, they’ll cross paths soon enough for her to explore this feeling.

Her stomach growls, but nothing of consequence follows.

"Eat."

"Sounds good to me!"

Mono offers her his hand and she takes it. Not once does she have to fear letting him go. She squeezes his hand, a familiar reassurance as he squeezes back.

Nothing of consequence plagues her mind.

She smiles, blissfully unaware of what the future has in store.

And for once, she feels as though she's allowed to be happy.

#little nightmares #little nightmares 2 #ln lady #ln thin man #ln runaway kid #ln six #ln mono #AAAAAAAAAA IT'S FINALLY DONE #ALL THESE WEEKS AND THE TITLES FINALLY CULMINATE INTO THIS #WHO IS THE SENDER??? WHO IS THE RECEIVER??#THE HINT MAY BE BURIED IN THE CHAPTER TITLES THEMSELVES!!#PERHAPS EVEN IN THE... FINAL CHAPTER CHAPTER??#oh and lmao the story is done too #SERIOUSLY THO #thanks all who stuck with this long tale!!#can you beLIEVE this was originally supposed to be a compilation of silly moments only between the lady and thinny?#can you BELIEVE i almost posted this as one whole oneshot???#i would have been skinned alive LOL #but seriously thanks everyone for sticking by me!#i have a couple other fics up my sleeves for this au #duno when they'll be finished but #i hope i do finish them! the adventures of the adults and kids are not over yet!#not completely at least #thanks for everything once again everyone!

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19red · 3 years

Text

hello, this is me trying to strong-arm my brain into stopping the constant tweaking and re-tweaking of the same stinking 3k so I can write on and get to the good parts of this project namely p and j having all the sex thank you very much

The day after Patrick and Jonny bang a chick together, Patrick wakes to the weight of an alien limb squashing his bladder. The alien limb belongs to a furnace-hot, tentacular mass plastered all along his back. The mass smells oddly familiar, kind of citrusy—as if it stole Jonny’s body wash.

Patrick squints his eyes open. A blade of sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains and stabs him in the face. Right under the window, Jonny’s suitcase dribbles clothes onto the floor.

It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together, but Patrick’s really dumb first thing in the morning. Plus, he needs to pee. Bad. Which is pretty distracting.

He paws at the tentacle swung over his waist, fingers catching on—a beaded string. Did the alien mass steal Jonny’s bracelet too? Patrick struggles to lift his head. He wants to see.

The alien mass stole Jonny’s whole arm. What--?

A growl spills in a damp, ticklish huff into the crook of Patrick’s neck as the mass coils itself closer. Something hard pokes Patrick’s ass. His nostrils fill with a waft of scent his hindbrain understands as so viscerally Jonny that recognition smacks him dizzy.

The mass is Jonny. Last night, he and Patrick banged a chick together. That thing wedged between them, growing firmer by the second? That thing is Jonny’s—

Patrick’s heart plummets straight to his dick.

It’s okay. It’s whatever. Patrick isn’t gonna freak over a physiological response. Bodies are also really dumb first thing in the morning.

“Jonny,” he says, wriggling to catch Jonny’s attention. Jonny has always been his go-to guy in a crisis. Except, in this instance, he is also the crisis itself. Jonny’s hips buck forward once, twice—Patrick stops breathing for the handful of seconds it takes Jonny’s sleep-drenched, horny-ass body to lose interest and stutter back into relative stillness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks. Visions of impending awkwardness swarm his brain. If Jonny were to wake up right now, full-mast boner pressed to Patrick’s ass, and discover the tent pitched in the front of Patrick’s sweats, he might rush to conclusions. Their ability to make direct eye contact would definitely endure permanent damage. They’d have to restructure their life with the aim of reciprocal avoidance. Patrick would have to request a trade. Jonny would probably drop out of the NHL. He’d forsake hockey and society at large and end up trampled to death by a giant moose while he hides from Patrick in the Canadian wilderness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks again. When a whole minute drips away and Jonny doesn’t stir, he thanks the hockey gods. With very little, very slow movements, he dislodges the arm pinning him to the mattress. By the times he’s free, the light slanting in from the window changed the angle of its assault to his pupils. Still careful, he slides the covers off himself, sits up, swings his legs off the bed. His feet land on the floor just as a variation in the pattern of Jonny’s breathing alerts him it’s all been for nothing. Jonny is awake. Or, like, as close to awake as Jonny manages to be coffee-free and before noon. Which is not much, thank fuck.

“It’s early,” Patrick reassures him. Jonny gets real pissy when he doesn’t get his full eight hours. Patrick doesn’t want to get stuck with Captain seriously cranky and his legitimately lethal death glare on the flight back to Chicago.

Jonny hums, lids fluttering open and back closed immediately, dark lashes kissing the top of his cheekbones. Patrick expects him to just roll over and sink back deep into snoring, the man is easy like that, instead he plumps an arm over the empty space next to him and mumbles, “Come back,” so low Patrick feels the vibration of it in his belly more than with his ears. Jonny must think Patrick’s some chick, maybe his ex or the one from last night.

“Dude,” Patrick chuckles to clear his throat. This is prime chirp material. Jonny’s such a clingy loser. “It’s just me.”

The side of Jonny’s mouth that isn’t squashed into the pillow tugs up in a smile, then his eyes tremble open, searching the space in front of them for Patrick’s, as if he knew where to find him, as if he weren’t surprised. It’s a bit like being punched but with weird, devastating gentleness. Patrick’s left breathless and dazed, a slow ache spreading below his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, legs moving on their own accord. “Sorry, gotta piss.”

Jonny flops onto his belly and sprawls across Patrick’s side of the bed. With a sigh, he hugs Patrick’s pillow to his face. “Be quick,” he whines—or maybe not. It’s muffled and Patrick is already halfway out the door so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

***

“Where’s Tazer?” Duncs asks in lieu of good morning when Patrick shows up at breakfast almost two hours later, no captain in tow.

Patrick chomps on a hunk of strawberry toast and shrugs. Contrary to popular belief, no clause in his contract bids him constant awareness of Jonny’s whereabouts.

Duncs squints, clearly feeling entitled to a degree of eloquence involving efforts of the verbal variety and resenting their lack.

“Don’t tell me he’s sick,” Shawzy says.

The legs of Stromer’s chair screech against the floor as he scoots away from Patrick. He ends up almost in Brinsky’s lap. “It better not be catching.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick puffs the words fat with annoyance. “He’s sleeping. I mean, I guess he...” He is for sure. No chance Jonny is still waiting. If Patrick barged back into his room right now, Jonny would laugh, would tell him to stop trying to make things weird. Patrick knows this rationally. Yet some spiked grip squeezes his insides with the same vicious strength of an anaconda trying to crush itself a snack.

People can’t die from upset conscience, can they? Especially not if the upset is unquestionably misplaced, right?

“I mean,” Patrick snaps after a second, “the fuck do I know.”

Duncs eyebrows shoot halfway across his forehead.

“Whoa,” Stromer gasps.

“Wait,” Shawzy says. “Are mum and dad fighting?”

Patrick grinds his molars. Everyone’s so fucking pressed. It’s not like Jonny is a regular at team breakfasts. In fact, unless attendance is mandatory, Jonny prefers to limit the number of people upon which he inflicts the ghastly spectacle of his slow de-zombification to a minimum.

Patrick casts his mind back to the last time the two of them didn’t resort to room-service during game trips. He dredges up both no recollection of that happening in years and the stomach-sinking hunch that maybe this is weird. Maybe he should have gone back. Maybe that would have been the normal thing to do.

“Shut up,” he says, to the voice in his head and everyone else. He grabs a pitcher of coffee and fills his cup until it brims. “Don’t talk to me. I’m waking up.”

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Shawzy appraises.

He’s more right than he’d probably care to know—nope. Patrick yanks his thoughts away before they can trip over that precipice and splat into the phantom embrace of Jonny’s body and its heft, its warmth, its neediness.

“Shut up,” he repeats, and with big emphatic motions designed to put a period on the conversation, he whips out his phone. He trusts the mindless scrolling will work its time-warping, mind-numbing magic and when he’ll look up next, all the weird will have been purged from this day.

Between sips of coffee, he pores through the stats for the last game, skims the emails in his inbox and rage-reads a review trashing the new Twilight book. He considers sending the link to Erica so he can vent about the snobby assholes who think they’re smarter than everyone else just because all the books they read are boring as fuck, but she’s probably at work already. He scrolls through his contacts. The one of the chick from last night jumps out. Her name’s Chelsea, which is pretty lucky. She was hot, Patrick recons, and thinking that feels normal. Feels safe. Feels like something Patrick would love to feel more of, thank you very much.

Hi, he types, riding the spur of the moment. This is Patrick from last night.

Stupid and risky, his inner Jonny warns. Never give your number to one night stands. Patrick ignores him and for the sake of clarity and glory, adds, The one who made you see god with his tongue.

“Look who’s joining us,” Shawzy’s voice announces just then.

Patrick’s gaze springs up, landing squarely across Jonny’s chest. Patrick knows it’s Jonny’s chest even though he doesn’t let his gaze climb up to the face attached to it for confirmation. The chest is sailing across the breakfast hall toward Patrick. Well, not toward Patrick specifically. Toward Patrick and the rest of the guys.

“Morning,” Jonny mumbles, dropping his scrambled eggs on the table and his ass between Seabs and Crow.

Patrick’s phone chimes.

well hello patrick 😜

“Slept well?” Shawzy probes, feigning innocence. Patrick’s hackles rise.

“I guess,” Jonny says.

Patrick allows himself another quick glance. Jonny looks good, which means like his usual self, which means nothing like a dude who went through the transformative experience of witnessing his best friend o-face. It’s kind of annoying, actually. Patrick’s nerves are all fried. He’s half-convinced in the right light anybody could look at him and simply—tell. Patrick Kane got off with another dude in the room and enjoyed it. For a blink he’s fourteen and trying to fight a guy almost double his size who called him a cocksucker, that slammed him against the boards and told him not to bother standing up since everyone knows he does his best work from his knees.

His phone chimes again.

“Tell me the truth.”

totally hit me up again next time ur back here

“What?”

Patrick’s heart rate spikes. Would Jonny even be up for it?

Won’t be for the rest of the season :(, he types.

Maybe things feel weird because threeways are a novelty, maybe they just have to work up an immunity. People have threeways all the time and afterward their lives go on undisrupted. But if you’re ever in Chicago… his fingers are so clammy they smudge the screen when he hits send. He reaches for his cup.

“Did you keep our Kaner up all night?”

Patrick’s head jerks up.

“What?” Jonny says, flat.

For the first time since Patrick sneaked out on him, they make direct eye contact.

Shawzy drones on in the background, “Saw you trying to score that hot--”

It last precisely long enough for a sip of coffee to get its lanes mixed as it plunges down Patrick’s throat and somehow u-turn its way out of his body through the nostrils.

Patrick’s lungs try their best to turn inside out.

“Dude,” Shawzy says.

Stromer slaps Patrick’s back a couple of times, hard.

Duncs throws a handful of paper napkins in his general direction and winces in open disgust as Patrick snatches one mid-air and uses it to dab at the liquid leaking out of him. “Gross.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Patrick informs them tartly between fits of coughing. Some treacherous asshole on his right is fucking cackling. He sweeps the table with an encompassing glare and catches Jonny’s eyes again, all dark with concern. The back of Patrick’s neck prickles with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he repeats, steadier, and Jonny looks away so Patrick does too, hurriedly withdrawing like from the touch of something scalding.

He zeros in on Chelsea’s new message.

might fly in for a couple of weeks around christmas actually

Patrick latches on to the conversation, blocking out his surroundings, trying his hardest to look busy. Fuck everyone and Jonny too.

We could catch up then if you have time ;)

totally 👅🔥🍆🔥, she texts. And after a moment, say hi to porn dick from me btw

Who?

🙄

Patrick bristles. For some reason, the thought of this random stranger sitting around with her head full of pictures of Jonny’s dick makes him hitch. His chest riots with some misguided protective instinct. Jonny would be insufferably smug if he knew, no doubt about it. It’s not that big.

it is! 100% porn worthy

You don’t know what you’re talking about

???

I’m just saying, are chicks even into that? he writes, just to be an asshole but also because he’s pretty sure chicks hate porn. It’s supposed to be a feminism thing. Erica once made him a whole speech about it or whatever.

big dicks? They are

Haha

their also into porn btw this aint the middle ages AND they have way better taste in it then men

Can you prove it? he asks, hoping it sounds flirty and not confrontational. He wants this chick to bang him again but not over the head with a blunt instrument.

maybe if u stop trying to outdick ur bf with ur personality ill send you some recs

“Who are you texting?”

Patrick elbows his cup off the table and scrambles to catch it before it crashes against the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his coffee-soaked hand.

Jonny laughs and at the sound, Patrick’s heart stumbles, then sprints up his throat. “You’re a mess,” Jonny says. He stole Stromer chair.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.”

Stromer is nowhere to be found. He and the rest of the guys must have migrated to the lobby. Patrick picks up the phone from where he abandoned it to make the save and shoves it deep into his pocket just as it pings.

Jonny quirks an eyebrow. He’s smiling.

It feels like Patrick trudged around all morning with a lead rib-cage before the universe caught the glitch. The sudden slack from gravity makes him giddy. “Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m not!” Jonny protests, all put upon outrage. He flicks Patrick on the hand. “Just saying, team’s gonna suffer if you sprain a thumb.”

A laugh bubbles up Patrick’s chest, loud and easy, and just a little embarrassing.

For a moment, Jonny looks impossibly pleased but then he catches himself. “Everything alright, yeah?” he asks, turning bashful. His eyes drift to the small heap of crumbs he’s sweeping together with his pinkie.

Patrick nudges his thumb against the back of Jonny’s hand. “Yeah. You?”

Jonny’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course,” he says, looking up, gaze dark and soft.

Of course, of course, of course. Jonny would never let anything happen to them. Patrick stomach flutters. “Okay,” he smiles, dimples out, and Jonny beams back. Time goes fuzzy as they stare at each other in silence—until the ping of an incoming text makes them both startle.

“Again?” Jonny bitches. A moment later, his forehead creases and he puts his serious face on, “Everything okay with your sisters?”

“Yeah, no. It’s not--” Jonny’s eyes flicks to Patrick’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on his bottom lip. He stops and it tingles, his own breath turning chilly enough to sting as it laps over the bite. “Just-- the chick from last night,” Patrick’s tongue says forgoing any input from his brain. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

“Oh,” Jonny says.

The world keeps rolling. Unfortunately, so does Patrick’s tongue, “Yeah. She’s cool. She was fun.”

“She was okay.”

Patrick can’t believe the understatement. “Okay? Just that? You’ve got some tough standards, man. She was--” as he searches for the right adjective, it suddenly hits him that Jonny has more experience, at least when it comes to threeways. It’s fucking unfair, but entirely possible, the mind-blowingest sex of Patrick’s life would barely chart as okay for Jonny. While he was dating Lindsay, the two of them got up to some kinky shit, Patrick’s pretty sure. Not that he spent any time thinking about it. He licks his lips. “It was hot, right?”

Jonny scoffs. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.”

“It was hot,” he grants. His cheeks are turning pink. He means it.

It feels like scoring the game-winner in the Stanley Cup final. The rush of triumph makes him cocky. “Hotter than the one you had with Lindsay?”

Jonny scoffs again, to Patrick infinite delight. “It was!” Patrick surmises.

“Lindsay’s hotter than her.”

“No way,” he is so offended on Chelsea’s behalf, he barely registers the deflection. Lindsay dumped Jonny. No matter how she looks, her insides must be rotten. Patrick hates that Jonnys is still hung up on her. He kicks Jonny’s foot to make sure he has his attention. “Maybe we should try again. Chelsea’s coming to Chicago around Christmas.”

“Is she?” Jonny kicks him back. “You two move fast.”

“She’s got family there, I think.”

“Sure,” he sounds skeptical. He admitted it was hot, why wouldn't he want a rematch? He and Patrick and some hot chick, she doesn’t even have to be Chelsea, she can be whoever. Small and blonde, like Jonny likes.

“Or we could find someone else,” Patrick says, growing more committed to the idea each second it lives in his brain. “Just go out and see what happens.”

“You think that’s smart?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I think you’re boring.” He goes in for the kill, “Captain serious.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d even let you pick, I don’t care.”

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Kaner,” Jonny flashes his most punchable smirk, the one that’s a little lopsided and always makes Patrick squirm.

Patrick starts a mental list of ways to wipe it off his face. Maybe if he shoved two fingers up Jonny’s nose… “What?” he asks, kind of distracted.

“I’m just saying, If you want to see me naked that bad, you only have to--”

“Fuck you,” Patrick sputters. “I was being generous. Bros before hoes or whatever.”

“I’m telling Erica you said that.”

The thought is terrifying. “Don’t,” Patrick shrieks, so loud people in their proximity stop mid-munching to give them the stink eye.

It’s their cue to clear off, a pretty timely one, considering they barely make it on the bus. They’d probably be yelled at, if they weren’t Kane and Toews.

Jonny saunters past Colliton’s glare and flops down next to Seabs. Patrick takes the two seats right behind, stretching out until he’s almost horizontal.

He checks his phone. Chelsea sent him a text and a link. The texts says, one of them looks a bit like your boy. you’re welcome. The link-- Patrick slaps the phone face down on his thigh.

“You okay there, Kaner?” Jonny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Patrick feels his ears burn redder than the Hawks home jersey. “Yeah, no. Real peachy.”

#belle #i KNOW i have a tag for my writing #but rn i'm blanking #??????#stuff i wrote

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