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thebluester2022 · 2 years

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Farmhouse [Part 1 out of ???]

Note: So, I know that I made an Itto fanfic literally not too long ago [Don't worry I still plan on updating it every now and again seeing as it's a short story!] But I also had another idea in mind at the time based off my current obsession with Stardew Valley! The game is hella fun and seeing as I've created a whole mini-story over my farmer, I wanted to bring it to life!

Not to mention- the game is so packed with lore and small little details that really bring the story of Stardew to life that I just couldn't help it~

So...even though my account is mostly based around anime and Genshin Impact, this account at it's core is still revolved around stories in general so that's what I intend to do with this account!

So without further ado? Thanks for checking out my story 'Farmhouse'!

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Synopsis: Life in Zuzu City was...stifling, to say the least. Quite frankly, you've lost track long ago as to how it exactly got this way, it seemed that it was just yesterday that you started waking up and working a boring 9 to 5 desk job. Intense wars and uncertainty raged outside of those stifling mega-corporation office walls, hopelessness within' that place bred as quickly as a disease. At least, until you remembered you had a one-way ticket to a new start.

Warning(s): Angst, Mentions of Depression and Suicide [Mostly when Shane comes into the picture], Slow-burn Romance, Gender-neutral reader(?) [It's not really a self-insert though? The reader has their own personality and wishes that are similar to the original personality I gave my farmer], Suggestive Themes [In late parts], Smut(?) [Subject to change if I suddenly feel like the story doesn't need it or I'm too nervous of my ability to write smut to even attempt it xD], (More warnings to possibly come as this story goes on?)

And per usual, critique and comments? Likes and reblogs? All is appreciated!

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[9:00pm :: Zuzu City, Location :: Grandpa's House]

It was a sad day that day you remember...your immediate family, friends, and even people you haven't even begun to hear of have come to witness your grandfather in his final moments. Sometimes he had the energy to joke around and laugh, playfully saying that he was happy to leave this world and stop having to pay the bills. Other times, particularly the ones where people would walk up crying, he'd remain silent and simply offer them a smile and the strongest grip of their hand he could muster at the time.

You watched it all and tried to remain strong, your mother was already trying to comfort your father for he was losing his only father.

You remained strong...up until it was your turn to go up to your grandpa's bedside and look at him.

Oh...he used to be such a jovial man. Full of life, hearty laughter, and many stories that you couldn't even begin to believe!

Stories of magic, witches, and wizards, fighting against dark monsters and hustling goblins out of their duties. As a child growing up, you would listen with your eyes filled with wonder and question about whether or not those stories were really true! Especially the monster part, while witches and wizards and strange races were a common thing in your world.

Monsters? You've yet to see such a thing!

Those memories...they served to help you keep your smile up until you finally arrived at your bedside where you found it particularly hard to keep your tears at bay.

"Grandpa..." Your voice whispered, having to remove your round glasses to quickly wipe away the tears that threatened to fall.

Your grandfather remained silent through the minute-long ordeal, allowing you to grieve and process your emotions before he finally chuckled quietly once he assumed you were done.

"Don't cry now...be happy! Or, well, attempt to...you have a stressful job don't ya?"

You nodded your head with a scoff. The job was indeed stifling, stressful, and back-breaking. Hell, you could've sworn that one time, you saw a skeleton in one of the cubicles at your job. No one bothered to clean it up nor mention it so...you thought it best at the time to not mention it either. After all, in this life, that was the motto. Mega corporations called the shots, you were just a piece in the game they wanted to play.

"Grandpa, let's...let's not talk about my job...kay?"

He nodded his head weakly. "Yes, yes...I wouldn't want to make you feel jealous of the fact I'll never have to hear of those big corporation bastards ever again."

You gasped. "Grandpa!"

"Bah, calm down, I'll be dead soon. Let me curse."

You rolled your eyes as you held his hand.

Cold.

Death's door was near.

"Now-" He coughed a few times. "-Listen to me Y/N...there- there will come a time where you will no longer be able to stand your workplace. Truly stand your workplace." You slowly nodded your head, wondering where he was going with this.

"You'll long for something different, to be someone different. A fresh start almost...so..." You allowed him some space to reach over to a nightstand right beside himself, opening up a drawer before he pulled out a single letter.

When you took it, you were about to open it until he quickly stopped you. "No, no...keep it closed...only open up until that time comes..."

You tilted your head, you were curious of the reason of why he would tell you this. To be honest, you were tired of your job now! You longed for something different but...you'd honor your grandpa's wishes. To wait for that moment when you truly couldn't stand your job anymore. To the point where you felt like your head would explode if you stayed at your job a second longer.

You'd honor his wish.

You'd wait.

[3:00pm :: Zuzu City, Location :: Joja Mart Corporation, Your Office Cubicle]

That night had been nearly three years ago. You were twenty-six now. For all those three years, you had been waiting for that exact moment that your grandpa had told you to wait for to open that letter. That feeling that only a dead-end job with no hope in sight nor the distant future could provide. The feeling where you'd feel like you'd either explode or maybe even cause a ruckus, anything to get you out of this job.

You waited for that feeling.

And...just as you moved your mouse to hover over the 'Send' button to send yet another email to your boss, you felt it.

That feeling where you thought you were going to explode at any moment if you continued to remain and suffer at this job.

Three years, they still haven't removed that skeleton.

It was getting cobwebs now and you swore the ghost of whoever died there was haunting this place, resulting in the depressing atmosphere whilst an annoying beep played in the background. The beep that reminded you of an annoying alarm clock was the one that told you to keep working, the green light with a sound that reminded you of caged birds was the one that told you to take a break.

Well...'break'. It was barely long enough for you to get a drink of water, a measly three minutes tops. Maybe five if it was a holiday.

You slowly looked behind you to see if the Head of this floor was watching.

No, he was busy talking to some secretary. Entranced by the young man's flashy smile and eagerness to please.

You scoffed, you wouldn't fault the secretary for doing anything to get a raise in this place. But that man? Based on what you've heard, he was a demon who gave no mercy and exploited people ten times worse when they attempted to exploit him.

Nevertheless, it was the opportunity you were waiting for as you turned back around and opened one of your desk drawers, your grandpa's letter hidden away safely amongst the paperwork and manilla folders as you blew some dust off the letter and tore it open.

You cleared your throat as you quietly read the note aloud.

My dearest granddaughter, Y/N,

If you are reading this then I have passed on. This letter is to state that I am passing on my pride and joy, the Kami Farm. It is located in Stardew Valley, on the southern coast of this region. It's the perfect place to start your new life.

My girl, I know you will do the family name well. You'll do well with this farm, it was my most precious gift after all and now? It is yours, good luck Y/N.

Love, Grandpa.

Your eyes threatened to bulge right out of your skull.

A farm?

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#stardew valley #stardew farmer #stardew harvey #stardew emily #stardew fanfic #stardew elliott #stardew shane #sam stardew valley #stardew fanart #creative writing #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #video games #gaming #farmcore

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buckleydiazmp4 · 3 years

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Here's a cas day drabble! Dedicated to Irena @you-cant-spell-subtext-without . Happy birthday! I hope your day has been great :)

When Cas wakes up, there's a white tray sitting on his bedside table. He immediately recognizes the fresh scent of coffee traveling to his nose, and sighs with contentment. Just as he'd thought, there's a steaming mug full of it, half cream, as he likes it. There's a pile of golden pancakes on a plate right next to it, with chocolate chips, and a jar of honey he buys every Sunday from the farmer's market.

But what actually catches his eye is a folded piece of cardboard standing behind his breakfast.

The card is big and full of golden glitter. In the middle, it has a little purple handprint marked right next to a bigger green one. He feels his heart expand, almost too big to fit inside his chest. He feels like that one character from the movie Dean and him watched three christmases ago, the grinch. He smiles to himself and remembers to tell this to Dean later.

He takes the card carefully, avoiding to spill any glitter, and he reads the message on the left side first, written in big, crooked letters.

Hapy birtday Papa! I love you!

Cas' brain catches up quickly, remembering the date: September 18. He is older than time, so he technically doesn't have a birthday. But to think Dean chose the day they met to commemorate Cas' life makes him so overwhelmed with adoration, he feels like he's nearly floating. Seeing Jack's scrawled little message, complete with misspellings, makes it even better.

He reads the message on the right side next, more extensive and in a neater handwriting.

Hey, sunshine. I know you're an eldritch being and you don't have a birthday and all that, but it felt wrong not to celebrate today. The day you burst into my life like a bunch of fireworks (almost literally), and ever since then you've been a part of the family. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Where would I even be without your dorky little ass? I don't even want to imagine. Sorry this letter isn't too poetic, but I'm still working on the sappy stuff. But seriously Cas, thank you for being here, always. Love ya!

Cas reads the message, again and again. And every time, he's sure he's never loved anyone the way he loves Dean Winchester. Then he traces his fingers over the two handprints, still in awe that he gets to have his own family. He closes his eyes, memorizing every word and detail from the card. He's grateful he's still able to have that kind of memory, like he did back when we was an angel.

Just as he's about to grab his coffee mug, he hears what he thinks are little giggles coming from behind the door, followed by some shushing. He chuckles lightly and patiently waits for the door to open.

It takes just two seconds for Jack to come bursting in, his blonde hair messy, and a hot cocoa moustache marked on the top of his lip. When he sees Cas is awake, he leaps right into his arms, clinging to his neck and peppering his face with kisses.

"Happy birthday Papa! Did you like your card?"

Cas tightens the hug. "I loved it, sweetheart." he looks up at Dean, who's leaning against the doorframe with a fond expression. "Thank you", he says, aiming it at both of them. Dean smiles then, soft, and Cas feels full of love for the thousandth time that morning.

Dean enters the room fully and sits down on the bed, beside Cas' legs that are still tangled in blankets. Then he picks up Jack, kisses his forehead, and tells him to go finish his breakfast. They wait for his little footsteps to fade toward their kitchen.

"Dean..." Cas has no words to thank him, but he knows Dean doesn't need any, so instead he takes his hand in between his own and squeezes in a silent 'thank you'. They stare at each other for a while, in comfortable silence. He's sure they've done this before, but then again, old habits die hard.

"Happy birthday, angel", Dean whispers after some time has passed, and he presses his lips to Cas', slowly, like he knows they have all the time in the world now, that they're finally getting the rest they deserve.

Cas has never been more glad to be where he is right that second. The first birthday he's ever celebrated, and the most human he's ever felt. He wouldn't have it any other way either.

#very short but i enjoyed writing it :)#castiel #cas day #destiel #fic

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eggtoasties · 3 years

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Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

Rating: G

Word Count: 1.2k of tooth rotting dad!kuroo

Summary: Love is in the little things: Brita filters, sesame seeds, and frozen waffles.

Music plays softly in the background as Kuroo works diligently in the kitchen. Against the backsplash of white tile, glass containers dotting the wooden shelves, and stainless steel appliances in the modern kitchen, Kuroo Tetsurou wears a bright red apron with the words “Kiss the Chef” written garishly across the front.

On a tray he’s already balanced a stack of incredibly fluffy pancakes covered in a light dusting of powdered sugar, topped with the ripest berries. He’s taken out the nice porcelain that’s stored on the top most shelves—only to be used on special occasions, she said—and filled the matching bowls with an assortment of fruits and granola from the farmer’s market.

He hums to himself as he places the sunny side up eggs just so on the plate and delicately shakes the spice bottles to ensure an even layer. Putting the final touches on the food, he starts the espresso machine while he peels several oranges to hand squeeze. In the middle of his fourth orange, Kuroo hears the patter of foot steps down the stairs.

“Wow,” a small voice drawls out at his hip, “looks so good.”

A small, chubby hand reaches for a bowl and Kuroo lightly swats it away.

“Daddy did a good job, didn’t he?” Kuroo says mostly to himself, satisfied with the assortment of sweet and savory treats, so aesthetically placed he figures Martha Stewart would weep. Finishing with the last orange, he wipes his hands on his apron and moves to make the coffee, scooting the tray further away from the edge.

He feels a small tug at his pajama pant leg and looks down to see his pouting child.

“I’m hungry,” his son complains, tiny hand fisting cotton and the other resting at his hip, a mirror image of his mother.

Gently ruffling his son’s hair, still unruly from sleep, a set of heavier footsteps makes its way to the kitchen. Yawning the sleep from her eyes and sighing at the pops in her neck, Kuroo’s eldest daughter zeroes in on the breakfast spread and makes a beeline for the tray.

Swiftly blocking her warpath he grabs a dish towel and waves it in front of her like a matador to a bull. “Who are you and get out my kitchen,” Kuroo says.

She scowls up at him which makes him scowl too.

“You know what your mom says about frowning,” he lightly scolds.

“I’m young and have a great retinol,” she bites back, “what’s your excuse?” she taunts.

“Oi! What’s with the attitude so early in the morning, can’t you see I’m busy,” he says incredulously, gesturing to the breakfast tray as he catches his youngest drag a short footstool towards the counter.

With one step, Kuroo scoops him up—away from the food—and distracts him with the promise of Eggo waffles while squishing chubby cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, kissing the soft skin.

“You’re making pancakes from scratch and you’re feeding us the frozen waffles?” his daughter deadpans.

“Who said anything about feeding you guys—you have two hands,” he points out, wincing when small fists beat his chest.

At her stink eye, Kuroo curses teenage hormones and nearly runs to the beep of the espresso machine, any excuse to avoid further scrutiny from his daughter. He puts his son down and whispers for him to sit and wait for his sister to get him breakfast. His daughter—light of his life, apple of his eye, his precious darling baby girl—but an absolute menace at sixteen and unfortunately absolutely took after him in this regard.

He pours the perfect amount of hot water to the espresso and Kuroo nods approvingly at the spread: pancakes, eggs, fruit, yogurt, granola, freshly squeezed orange juice, water at room temperature because apparently cold water is bad for the stomach, and finally, hot coffee.

Rummaging in the freezer his daughter grumbles, “Can you at least get me water?”

He grabs a glass and fills it halfway and meets his daughters open mouth of disbelief. Placing his hand on his hips he mocks her expression.

“Yes?”

“You’re giving me tap water,” she says accusingly.

“The Brita is for the dog and your mom,” he retorts.

Turning away at her screech of indignation, he smiles to himself when she can’t see it. Yes, she thoroughly irritates him with her refusal to drink orange juice with pulp and completely baffles him when she doesn’t heed his advice to wear a little less eyeliner. He also definitely thinks her boyfriend is a little bit of a loser, but, he is utterly and entirely certain that she is one of the best things he has ever done with his life equal to having her brother and marrying their mother.

His wife. Even as his ring clinks against his second cup of coffee, as it has every morning for the past several, several years they’ve been together, it still feels unreal. He thinks of her and remembers when they first met in college, first vacations, their wedding, their children’s births and even random memories from inconsequential days all at once. Like the day they got ice cream and she nearly puked in his lap on the subway because she insisted her lactose intolerance wasn’t that bad. Or when they were driving going to who knows where and there was a black sesame seed wedged in her tooth as she smiled at him and the car behind him honked for him to move because he was so dumbstruck by the way she smiled at him. When he thinks of her, a million memories and thoughts come rushing in at once to meld together to overwhelm him with one unmistakable emotion.

He figures he’ll never be able to articulate exactly how much she means to him with words. Hell, even for their wedding vows they had agreed to save the sappy stuff for afterwards—in private. He shyly presented a well-worn, heavily creased, ten page manifesto of his love in their hotel room, heart beating faster than it had during the wedding, feeling more exposed in that moment than when he was at the altar in front of all of their friends and family. His hands shook as she read each page, mouthing his words so tenderly back at him and he’s never told her that that moment was more nerve wracking than when he proposed.

So, he hopes that breakfast in bed makes up for it. Or, breakfast at their side table because she has a thing about crumbs in her bed. But nothing screams ‘domestic bliss’ to Kuroo quite like the idea of pancakes in bed and that’s why he’s bought so many bed trays even though she rolls her eyes every time.

And maybe, that’s what love is. Delivering breakfast in bed to your no-food-in-the-bed rule making partner on the trays she banned from the house. But, because you were so focused on making the perfect heart shaped pancakes and the fact that you bought a very expensive ring a long time ago, she’ll forgive you and ignore your citrus stained hands as you tenderly stroke her hair until she wakes.

Kuroo grins to himself as he makes his way to their bedroom, tapping his wedding ring against the handle and feeling the small weight of the gift box in his left pocket.

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bokutoslittlebird · 3 years

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Cowboy Matsukawa 🤠

Matsukawa Issei x gn!reader

Alright this is a belated present for @cutie-satori happy birthday again bestie which ended up being super duper belated thanks to a stupid cold so..

Warnings: this is set in country area America and is an AU where everything’s in America, outdoor sex in a barn, tanned Matsukawa, pet names like “darling” and “sweetheart”, also I don’t work on a farm and never have don’t think too much

The sunshine was beating down his back harshly, sweat beading underneath the warm touch and dripping down. Working so early in the morning meant more work done, but they wouldn’t be done before noon, meaning Issei had to work through the harsh temperatures of noon before going back home. A simple farmer’s work is all he did, taking care of the animals and land that the old man owned and he was paid a hefty wage just for a few hours of work.

All of his friends found work in the cities or different countries, but he found it much easier to do hard work near home. He met a few good souls and got paid a decent amount, always having a glass of water or sweet iced tea whenever he needs it. Takahiro was doing his best by working as a barista, always making sure to pick up his best friend for a ride into the city, but Issei would always have to come back to the old dirt roads so he could wake for his job.

But don’t it wrong, he enjoys this work. Even as his skin darkens from the constant work under sunshine, his hat protecting his eyes from the harsh light, sweat clinging to his red flannel that forces him to discard it for comfort, he wouldn’t trade it. Why would he, when he always has something to look forward to?

As his chores lessen, he gets closer and closer to his final chore. He’ll feed the animals and then take an afternoon nap in the barn, waking up when the sun gets a little less harsh to get some lunch and a glass of sweet iced tea. Entering the barn, he walks past the other person in there. Tending to the animals, he manages to ignore their constant gaze, trailing after his back every time he opens and shuts a gate.

Finally, he shuts and locks the final gate, rolling his shoulders as he sighs, moving a hand under his hat to brush back the sweat soaked curls, sticking to his forehead. Turning around, his gaze finally lands on you, waiting patiently in a cleaner part of the barn. With a smirk that sends heat to your cheeks, not from the sun, you crook a finger to encourage him closer. He won’t deny you, especially with how you’re so welcoming to him.

“Now, what’cha doin’ in here, sweetheart? I don’t remember seeing you on the farm,” he murmurs, leaning over you as your hands, colder than his skin, brush curls away from his face.

“I’ve missed you,” is all you say back, pressing a kiss to his nose. “You’re all sweaty,” you giggle, wiping his forehead off. His smirk doesn’t leave him, a kiss pressed to your forehead.

“Now, ain’t that normal? Working all day in the hot sun and now it’s time for my break. Why don’t you join me, darling?”

He doesn’t have to ask twice, your head nodding as his lips find yours, meshing together as they have before. It’s a sweet love affair in the peak of the day, hidden in the shade of the barn.

It’s always like this, him giving you the ride of your life while you let him rest and put in the work. He even lets you wear his hat, it much too big for your head and constantly moving with the rhythm of your hips, but he wouldn’t want you any other way. Strong hands dig into the flesh of your thighs, helping you out with his strength as you continue to move on him. But his eyes never stray from your face. It’s the most stunning sight he’s seen all day, the way your lips part as soft moans spill over them, eyes lidded as they trace over his skin, shimmering with the sweat still lingering. Your hands found themselves on his shoulders, stabilizing yourself as you continued to bounce on him, rhythm getting slower and more erratic the closer you got to the end. Yet the closer you got, the further away it got, your legs aching from the work until your back was against the fabric of the blanket, eyes looking up to Issei’s.

“Let me take care of it, sweetheart,” he whispers, earning a cry of pleasure from you as your fingers fist the blanket beneath you, eyes screwed shut as his hips slam into yours. Small grunts come from deep in his throat, but he keeps himself quiet so the sounds are mostly yours, your wanton moans and cries for more seemingly endless as your vision begins to blur and your toes curl. With the force of your orgasm, your body arches and your legs tense, teeth grit together as eyes roll back. Issei has you riding out your orgasm, continuing to plow into you until he’s coming to his own end. With his lips pressing against you firmly, your fingers dig into the curls on the base of his neck, tugging as he growls into your mouth. A final pump pushes him over the edge, filling you up with sticky cum as your second orgasm rolls over your body, legs shaking with the intensity.

Once you’re both done, he leans down to press a tender kiss on your temple, telling you to get going now. “Don’t want old man Jenson to see an unfamiliar face, now do we?” He’s right, so he helps to clean you up.

You come and go every day he works, giving him a break from the harsh sunlight and into the comfortable warmth of your arms and everything else you can offer. And he’ll always remember to leave the barn chore for last so he can indulge in every second with you before he’s done for the day. With the memory of you with him, your back fading into the distance, though wobbly, he tips his hat and heads out of the barn, finally done for the day.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #BB.Requests #Mr. Issei #matsukawa x reader #matsukawa smut #Matsukawa.Spice #BB.Kinky #tw.semi public sex #?#this is vv tame ngl

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

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the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Two: running water Words: 4.3k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Nonsexual Intimacy

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

"How are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Or read below:

(cw for nonsexual nudity, mild blood, mentions of death)

Jon knows three things, in that moment.

One: that Martin’s jumper is sure to be stained with tea for the foreseeable future, given that their laundry situation is abysmal and that he can feel the liquid seeping into the cuff and creeping up the sleeve towards his elbow.

Two: that either he is experiencing an incredibly vivid hallucination (unlikely) or still asleep (even more unlikely), or a woman he saw die what feels like a lifetime ago is standing in front of him, looking as if she’s been dragged through mud and brambles and dressed in a shirt and trousers that look about two sizes too big.

Three: there is no longer the gentle rumble of water coming from the bathroom.

“Jon,” Daisy says again, voice rough as if from disuse and eyes still blown wide—human eyes, Jon notes, not the slitted yellow things that he’d seen as sharp teeth had dug their way into the meat of his calf. A particularly hard gust of wind sends the hem of her shirt fluttering, and Daisy pulls it tightly around her, stepping fully inside the cottage and shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here? Jon wants to say. His stomach is still twisted into knots, and he’s processing, processing, processing. There are yellow daisies on the kitchen table, and there are white daisies out amongst the grass and the weeds, and there’s Daisy, standing in front of him, but he had mourned her, he’d thought she was—

“Hey. Jon,” Daisy says, and then she’s standing in front of him, hand reached out halfway towards him like she can’t quite decide whether she’s allowed to touch. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She’s so close he could touch her, and before he really thinks about it, he’s reaching out and taking the hand that’s hanging in the air between them in his. He finds himself surprised when it doesn’t dissolve underneath his fingers, like he’d still been expecting all of this to be a dream, a falsehood, a sign that his mind is beginning a slow path towards disintegration without the Eye to hold it in place. He makes a choked-off sound, the kind that comes from the breath being punched out of one’s lungs by force rather than by any vibration of one’s vocal cords, as he adjusts his hand so he can thread their fingers together. It’s a familiar motion, bringing back memories of being buried underneath the weight of the earth and sat side-by-side in his office and curled up in the dustiness of document storage. He looks up at Daisy, eyes tracing the confused furrow of her brow and the strong slant of her nose and the thin scar that traces from the edge of her jaw to just below her ear, and squeezes her hand tightly, trying to convey every ounce of emotion he’s feeling in the weight of his eyes on hers.

“Jesus,” Daisy says after a moment, in that familiar way that’s both fond and exasperated, and Jon could cry. “Don’t look at me like that.” Then, after a moment: “I missed you too.”

That same choked sound comes out of Jon’s throat again, mangled by a laugh, and that’s all the encouragement he needs apparently before he’s standing and wrapping his arms around Daisy’s shoulders, giving her just enough time before he makes contact to step away if she wants to. She doesn’t, and when he presses his forehead against her shoulder and closes his eyes, she rests her hands gently against the small of his back, palms flat and grip loose enough that he could wriggle away if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop hugging her for the foreseeable future.

The foreseeable future turns out to be exactly 38 seconds, at which point the bathroom door creaks open and Martin’s voice floats into the kitchen. “Ugh, it’s cold in here. Jon, did you open the…”

Martin’s head appears from around the corner, wet curls sticking to his forehead. He’s wearing a cheery yellow jumper that matches the daisies on the table. Somewhere around the did you, Daisy had pulled back, and now she stands a few paces away from Jon, her face still carefully neutral but with a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there moments before. Jon holds one of his wrists with the opposite hand and watches Martin’s face crumple from an easy smile into shock, lips parted slightly and eyes wide as they fixate on Daisy.

“...door,” Martin finishes, his voice very small. “Um. D- daisy?”

Daisy raises a hand in a half-wave. “Hey.”

“What—?” Martin cuts off, opens and closes his mouth a few times. Finally, he says faintly, “What is happening right now.”

“I’m standing in your kitchen,” Daisy says simply. Then, with a frown: “My kitchen, actually.”

“Right, I guess it is…” Martin shakes his head, letting the sentence trail off into nothing. “Okay, then: how are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

“What? Why?”

Daisy shrugs. “I remember things. Bits and pieces, not a lot other than the blood, but I remember that the sky was… different. A lot more eyes. And the fear was… more. I remember the hunt, and I remember you.” She looks uncomfortable, and her eyes find Jon before glancing off. “Familiar blood. Basira. Pain. And then I woke up.”

Martin blinks. “You… woke up?”

Daisy nods. “Didn’t know where I was, just that it was cold and that the sky was normal again. I think I was in a field somewhere, just… covered in dirt and blood.” Her lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile. “Gave the farmer who found me quite a fright, I think. But the look on his face when he saw me… I knew it had all been real.” She exhales, a breathy laugh that’s not really a laugh at all. “The word really ended, huh.”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. Next to Daisy, Jon shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, so many words building at the back of his throat that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He looks over at Daisy—at the dirt smudged along the side of her face, the bits of moss and leaves tangled in her hair, blood dried and rusty-red on her hands and wrists and crusted underneath her nails—and decides that if he can’t talk, at least that, he can help with.

He reaches over and takes Daisy’s hand in his, tugging it gently yet meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom. She looks over at him, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. “What?”

Jon blows out a frustrated huff of air through his nose and sets his jaw, gripping Daisy’s hand tighter and beginning to cross the room to where Martin is standing, to the hallway that leads to the bathroom and the shower. There’s a moment of resistance, where Daisy digs her heels in and doesn’t move, but after a moment the resistance vanishes and she lets him guide her across the room and into the bathroom. As they pass Martin, he reaches for Jon’s free hand and holds it in his, just for a moment, squeezing lightly. “We’ll talk when you get done, okay?” he says, quietly yet firmly, which means saying no probably isn’t in the cards. That’s fine, Jon thinks; it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. (Except maybe that he doesn’t, not about any of this, but he elects to ignore that.) He just needs a bit of time between then and now, to fully adjust to the fact that Daisy’s hand is in his and she’s standing next to him and somehow, she’s alive.

So Jon nods once, tries (a bit unsuccessfully) to give Martin a reassuring smile, and finishes guiding Daisy to the bathroom.

Once the door is shut behind them, Jon lets go of Daisy’s hand and turns to face her, suddenly unsure. He’s been assuming that everything’s as it was before—that they’re still friends, that she still trusts him with her vulnerabilities, that she would still be willing to accept help from him—but what if it’s not? What if, despite what she said and despite the way she looked at him and despite the way her hands felt when they rested lightly upon his back as he’d hugged her, she doesn’t remember him like that? The Hunt is gone—they’re all gone, Jon thinks, though he can’t Know for certain and that scares him more than he’d care to admit—but he knows that the Eye has left its own scars on him, changed him in so many ways, so what if… what if she’s gone?

Maybe the Daisy Jon knew is still dead after all.

“Hey,” Daisy says, and then her hand is sitting heavy on his shoulder and she’s looking at him intensely. “Stop that. I can tell you’re overthinking things, so just… don’t. I’m here, I’m still me, and I could really use a shower, which I assume is why we’re in here.” She pauses, and then amends, “Well. It’s why I’m in here.”

Jon flushes, feeling a bit embarrassed, and steps away from her touch. He’s halfway through turning to go back out into the hallway when Daisy reaches out again, captures his wrist with the tips of her fingers, and says, “I didn’t say you had to leave.”

Jon pauses with his hand outstretched towards the door handle. I didn’t know if you’d want to be alone, he wants to say. He knows it had been hard, back in the Archives, for Daisy to be alone at all at first. Even though the air was clean and the walls weren’t close together, she’d said that sometimes, it still felt like she was choking down dirt, buried beneath the earth where nobody would ever find her again. She’d hated the sensation of running water too, and it had taken a few weeks for her to finally tell him why. That when it rained, the water would run in rivulets down her hands and the back of her neck, dripping sediment into her eyes and making her clothes stick to her in a way that became repulsive.

The Institute had one shower, situated between the Archives and Artefact Storage, meant for decontamination according to the signage on the wall. At some point during Jon’s coma, someone had stuck a shower basket to the tile wall, filling it with shampoo and conditioner and body wash, and had erected a haphazard system of rings, curtain, and rod around the showerhead to allow for a modicum of privacy. After they’d crawled out of the coffin, covered head-to-toe in dirt that seemed to permeate every inch of them, they’d walked together wordlessly to the room that contained the shower. Jon had offered to let Daisy use it first and had made to leave, but he’d been stopped by the tightening of Daisy’s hand in his, an unspoken desire to not be alone, not again.

So Jon had stood beside her and tangled his fingers loosely with hers through a gap in the curtain and had kept her company as she’d slowly, painstakingly washed six months of grime out of her hair and off her skin and out from underneath her nails, shuddering as the dirt turned to mud and slid in clumps off her skin. And when Jon had taken his own turn, scrubbing at his skin with a harsh, crisp efficiency, he’d pulled back the curtain with a towel wrapped around him to see Daisy leaning against the wall across from him, eyes fixed on the floor just in front of the shower as if she’d been reminding herself of Jon’s presence by the way his shadow fell across the floor beneath them.

It had become easy after that, to fall into a routine. Jon thinks he should have felt more vulnerable, more exposed. But he hadn’t. He’d just felt safe.

Now, he hesitates only a moment more before nodding and turning back from the door, and Daisy lets her hand drop from his wrist. She exhales heavily before stepping out of her clothing, letting it fall to the floor in a pile by her feet. Jon looks away, but not before he sees the blood on her skin—dried and cracked brown, mixed with smudges of dirt. He takes a breath, then looks back, taking a step forward and lifting a hand towards her stomach, hesitating halfway there and giving her a questioning look.

“It’s not mine,” Daisy says, reaching for Jon’s hand and settling it flat against her stomach. The skin there is smooth, unbroken, and when Jon drops his hand after a moment, it comes away clean. Her voice is strangely even, like she’s trying not to let any emotion slip through, when she says, “I think some of it might be yours, actually.”

That… makes sense, Jon thinks, even as the thought makes his stomach twist. He wants to ask what happened—why she’s still covered in blood and dirt, why she came in wearing clothing that wasn’t hers but otherwise unchanged, how she made it here, why she even decided to come here in the first place—but he can’t think of a way to do so without his notebook, which is still sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it. So instead, he sighs, steps around her, and turns on the shower, letting the water painstakingly warm up to a bearable temperature and periodically sticking his hand in the spray to check. As he does so, he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him, level and without much weight, yet curious and analytical in their own way. Finally, as the water reaches lukewarm and begins to climb to hot, she says, “Did something happen to you?”

Jon looks over at her, at the discerning slant to her mouth, and wants to laugh. Did something happen. It feels like the understatement of the century. He rolls his eyes and nods, hoping that it’ll give off the proper amount of yes, but you’ll have to be more specific, and sticks his hand back in the spray, satisfied to find it finally at the proper temperature.

“You know what I mean,” Daisy says, her tone no-nonsense but soft around the edges, like she’s taking care with how she proceeds. “I can see it on your face, Jon—you’re dying to ask questions, but for some reason, you’re not. From you, that means that you’re physically unable to ask them. So something must have happened.” She taps her fingers on her arms where they’re crossed over her chest and gives him a searching look. “Suppose it’s got something to do with the fact that the Eye’s gone, along with the rest of them?”

Jon’s not surprised that she knows. He’d felt the severance of the Eye from him almost as acutely as the knife slicing through the skin and muscle of his chest, like the snap of a thousand threads in his mind, and it had been agony. Even if she hadn’t felt it herself, being… dead, or something, the Eye’s absence for him is like a constant ache, and he keeps reaching for it instinctively only to find that part of him missing, like the ghost of an amputated limb. He doesn’t have to Know to know that she can feel the absence of the Hunt, gone in a way that’s equally as relieving as it is painful. But he still hesitates because it’s not… it’s not as simple as the Eye just being gone.

He doesn’t know why his voice is gone. Not for certain. But he can’t help but remember Annabelle’s words, see her running her fingers along the tape-strung webs that had taken his voice, and wonder that if when the Fears and the tapes that bound them were whisked away into other worlds, they weren’t so keen to return what had been given to them.

He nods, then hesitates and, after a moment, shrugs. He pulls his hand out of the water and gestures towards it, a clear go on, but Daisy doesn’t move—just keeps staring at him. “Hm,” she says after a moment, then shrugs and uncrosses her arms. “Would’ve thought it would have been the eyes, but the voicebox makes sense too, I guess.”

She steps past him and into the shower, making a face as the water hits her back and begins to run down it, bringing with it trails of brown and red that drip dark onto the tile floor. She doesn’t see him raise his hand and ghost his fingers lightly against his throat, just beneath his chin, feeling the thin scar that sits there raised and smooth beneath his fingers. He’d been surprised too, he supposes, once the shock of everything else had worn off, that he’d been left mute and not blind. But the more he’d poked and prodded at the aching bruise the Eye had left behind, the more he’d decided that it wasn’t quite the same kind of severance. Melanie’s had been a clean break, like snipping a thread—intentional and without much resistance. Jon’s had been… messier. And neither side had wanted to let go.

“I don’t remember the water pressure being so awful,” Daisy says a bit sullenly, and Jon drops his hand like he’s been burned. She’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and he knows she’d seen it, but she doesn’t mention it. He gives her a small smile and shrugs again, then frowns and, without really thinking about it, steps closer so he can tug out a small leaf that had been stuck in a tangle of Daisy’s hair. It hangs between his fingers for a moment before he drops it, letting it flutter to the tile and get swept away towards the drain.

Daisy looks at him, something unreadable in her eyes, and for a moment, he thinks he’s done something wrong—that it’s not like that between the two of them any longer. Then, Daisy turns and grabs the shampoo bottle off the shelf beside her, extending it towards him with one eyebrow raised. “If you’re going to stand there, you may as well make yourself useful,” she says, and Jon almost melts with relief, because the slight edge of softness in her voice—the way her words sound like a command but are instead an offer—is just as familiar to him as it had been so many months ago.

He takes the bottle, squeezes a small puddle of pale white that smells of vanilla into the center of his hand, and steps close enough that he can reach her hair. She tilts her head back slightly, accommodating for the few inches of height difference between them, and allows him to work the shampoo into her hair, scratching his nails against her scalp and working out bits of dirt and small twigs and sand that gets underneath his nails. He has so many things he wants to say to her since they’ve last been able to see each other like this, the first of which had come to him the moment he’d turned his back on her and Basira and fled into the damp, musty darkness of the tunnels. I need you to be safe, he’d thought, and he’d almost turned back so he could say it, sure that it could help somehow. Instead, he’d grit his teeth and kept running, because he’d known what she would say in return after she’d finished yelling at him for coming back just to say that. (If she was still able to yell, his mind had supplied unhelpfully. If she still had a jaw and tongue with which to form words.)

You don’t need me for anything, she would have said, and she would have been right. But that didn’t stop the want that crept into his bones as he ran through twisting corridors and dense fog, into his skin as he stepped into a dimly-lit cottage in the Scottish Highlands, into his stuttering heart as he stared up at a sky that stared back, unblinking and loving, and Knew that she was gone, running through this new and changed world with nothing but the smell of blood and the taste of fear driving her forward. He wanted her to be safe.

He’d wanted a great many things, back when the world was twisted and wrong.

He’d wanted her beside him, someone who would understand what it was like to be utterly consumed by that which you served and who knew what it was like to feel like a monster. He’d wanted to help her breathe around the sharp teeth in her mouth and to unclench her fingers where her claws dug into her palms and to talk her down from rumbling growls to heavy, labored breaths. He’d wanted to Look and see her happy, but to see her, rather than something that had once been Daisy but that now barely resembled the woman he had pulled out of the coffin. More than anything, he’d just wanted to see her. To talk to her. To be with his friend.

I’ve missed you, he thinks as he runs his fingers through Daisy’s hair, coarser than he remembers but still the same pale copper color, and watches the suds rinse slowly off as she shifts so she’s standing directly under the showerhead. His sleeves are growing a bit damp, even pushed up to the elbows as they are, and he pulls his hands back, letting them hang uncertainly in the air for a moment before he rubs them dry against one of the towels. And I wish I could tell you.

Once the water has run clear, Daisy shuts the shower off with a sigh and gathers a towel in her arms, rubbing it over her head and back with brisk efficiency. Her hair lies damp and heavy down her back as she wraps the towel around her. Jon’s fingers itch to separate her hair into thirds and pleat it into a loose braid like she’d always allowed him to do when he’d been feeling the loss of his own hair—shaved to the scalp during the coma, just barely grown to the tips of his ears—particularly deeply, but he keeps his hands by his side. Daisy looks at him, and after a moment, she says, “It’s weird not hearing your voice.” Then, softer: “I’m sorry it’s gone.”

Jon might cry. He nods instead, just once, and reaches for the door handle, pausing to give Daisy the chance to stop him before turning it and opening the door.

Martin isn’t there anymore. Jon can hear movement in the kitchen, glass clanking together, the sizzle of something in a pan. It smells of cumin and coriander. He nods at Daisy and leads her to the bedroom, kneeling and digging through the suitcase they’d never quite gotten around to unpacking before he unearths a pair of trousers he’s nearly certain will fit and a dark blue hoodie that only makes him flush a little bit at as he thrusts it towards Daisy.

She takes them without comment, and by the time he’s rearranged the remaining items inside the suitcase and stood, she’s swapped out the towel for the clothing. The trousers are a bit short, but they’ll do, Jon thinks, until they can run into town and get something else.

Then, Daisy plucks the hem of the hoodie between two fingers and says, amused, “Is this mine?”

Jon’s flush grows in intensity, and he covers it with a frown and a little huff of air through his nose. This only seems to amuse Daisy more; she lets out a small breathy laugh to match, drops the hem of the hoodie, and says, “Don’t look so grumpy. It’s sweet.” As Jon sputters soundlessly, she continues, “Have you had this the whole time? I was wondering where it went. Did you wear any of your own clothes in the Archives?”

Jon’s frown deepens into a scowl without any heat, and he looks away.

“Going to take that as a no.” Then, at Jon’s glower: “Relax, Jon. I’m just teasing.” Long fingers reach out and tug at the hem of his own jumper, and Daisy says with an audible smile, “Nice to see you’re still wearing Martin’s jumpers.” Then, a touch softer: “And that he’s here to give them to you.”

Jon flushes again for an entirely different reason, less of a shock of heat and more like a warmth that spreads over him like a blanket. He looks over at Daisy to see her watching him with a faint smile on her lips, and beneath it, a touch of satisfaction. It’s warranted, he supposes, given how much time he’d spent bemoaning Martin’s absence and sending wistful looks towards the ceiling and, enough times to be embarrassing, burying his face in the sleeves of Martin’s jumpers after a few too many drinks and trying to pick out the lingering smell of Martin amongst the must of the Archives that had begun to permeate them.

He looks down at where Daisy’s fingers are still gripping the hem of the jumper, a smile that’s happier than anything he’s worn in what feels like years rising to his lips. He’s wearing Martin’s jumper, in a safehouse in the Scottish Highlands, and Daisy is standing in front of him, and there is sunlight filtering in through the curtains, and there are no eyes heavy on the back of his neck or rust-red blood sitting in the back of Daisy’s nostrils, and they’re safe. Daisy’s here, with him, and Martin is in the other room cooking, and this is real. And he knows things will grow complicated again, likely as soon as they exit the bedroom and have to face the reality of how she’s here, but for now, there’s only this. And Jon intends to enjoy every moment of it that he can get.

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #martin blackwood #my fic #my writing #before tag

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theficplug · 3 years

Text

l Sunflower Vol. 6 l Harry Styles l

Harry Styles x Black Reader

Warnings: none , pure fluff

[harry and reader feels like it’s just time to let the world know.]

As Harry was coming to an end of an era with the Fine Line album. Sunflower Vol. 6 was the last of the bunch to receive a visual to the groovy almost psychedelic track.

You remember when the idea of the song came up. You had explained where your nickname Sunflower came from.

-flashback-

He was sitting on the couch in your shared home with his guitar resting gently across his chest playing the same melody and humming sunflower to himself while watching the rain fall down heavily through the cracked window.

The slight breeze coming through blew his disheveled hair around. Harry had been up all night saying that he didn’t wanna forget the cords and the rhythm of the song that was still coming to him.

You quietly walked down the stairs to find him still up humming and tapping along to the beat as he tried to get into the groove.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks quietly as he sits the guitar aside and opens his arms for you.

“No, but the cold giant you shaped empty spot in the bed did. Tea?” you ask chuckling softly before handing him the mug in your other hand and kissing the top of his head.

You had also brought blankets with you and draped it over the both of you while settling onto his lap and resting your head on his shoulder. You watched as he instantly relaxed and settled back against it at the sound of your voice. Placing a gentle kiss to your forehead he accepts the pink mug.

“Thank you love.” he says quietly to you before trailing his hands up and down your leg gently as he takes small sips of the earl grey.

“I love nights like this. It reminds me of growing up back home. My mama would yell at my dad and me for dancing around in the rain.”Don’t come in here asking me for vapor rub and soup when y’all are coughing up a storm”. She would say with her face all scrunched up. But we knew it was from a place of love because every time she’d end up running out to joining even if only for a few minutes and she had an umbrella. But the deal was that I couldn’t complain about being woken up at 5am to get the hot comb before school. She knew she couldn’t resist dancing to My Girl with us. To our neighbours who were always in our business we probably looked like a bunch of maniacs just laughing and being happy to love and be loved. ” you explained to him and he would chuckle softly and tell you about how he wished he knew you when you were kids.

He swears that he would’ve known then that you were it for him.

“I was 6 years old when I got the name Sunflower. As usual it was my mother, father , and I sitting on the porch. I was just sitting eating sunflower seeds and staring out at the rain. Waiting for my father to set up the radio and put our favourite songs on. We ran out onto the grass and as he twirled me around. My father said to me “you’re my sunflower because you always grow towards the sun and bring such a light to our lives. Becoming your parents was the best day of our lives. Getting to see you grow is the small moments of magic in this life. That’s how I knew you were the one for me. Because he didn’t think anyone was good enough for me, but when he met you and you actually got him to laugh with you and say yes to proposing to me. I knew this was it.” you explain and laugh at his expression.

“Bae, are you tearing up?” you ask as he leaned over to kiss all over his face then peck his lips.

“I’ve just got something in my eye. That’s all. I just can’t wait to share how much I love you with the world. I want them to feel that when they listen to this album.”

“And they will” you reassure him

-present-

After over a year and a half of dating and being engaged you knew that it was time to share it with the world. There was only so much can take after 10 years of speculations. He was more than ready to tell everyone that there was only one woman he wanted to spend his life with.

He’d like to have a meal with a childhood friend without him being painted as a cheater on someone he wasn’t even dating in the first place.

A sigh of relief washed over you both when the video finally wrapped. You remember telling Harry that if you were going to be a part of this video you wanted the entire crew to be black or at least of colour.

“Those are my rules , Harold. I wanna put my people on, and no offense baby but can’t nobody white touch this fro. I haven’t let anyone besides my mother do my hair since I was a little girl. You got me? ” you expressed to him and he nodded because he had already had the idea in mind knowing he wanted to put his money where his mouth is with supporting black creatives.

He began searching social media for black hair stylists, videographers, directors , and everyone else that would be needed to get the project done.

Now it’s less than 24 hours before the world would know about what has been sweetly yours for a little over a year.

From what you could tell a lot of people assumed that his album was about exes or previous relationships but on the contrary he had actually written one song for closure about a past situation. The rest of the entire album was essentially about you,and how he fell in love with your kindness and how much he adored you. Some of the fans who listened closely picked up on the line in Adore You. ‘Your wonder under summer skies. Brown skin and lemon over ice’ . It was about the vacation you two took a few months before the pandemic right after he wrapped on his newest film. He swore that your mahogany skin glowed under the warm July sun and against the cerulean coverup. That man looked at you like someone told him that you were made out of pure gold. Thus sparking his first track on the album, Golden. You two were even papped together while on the beach with your families but of course most just assumed that you were a family friend. It seemed to be a trend when he’s photographed with a woman of colour before but he reassured you that he was single when he asked you on a date the day he met you at the farmers market.

-flashback-

He tumbled over his words while trying to ask you about what kind of jam you would recommend for him to bring home to his mother.

“I’m gonna be at her home for the weekend and just thought that I’d bring a few things for breakfast while I’m there. Yours caught my eye. Are these little sunflowers all over the jars?” he asks as he bends down to inspect them.

“Yeah , you like it? It’s kind of my brand. It’s been a bit of a slow day. I think it’s because it’s gonna rain. Never one to be scared of a little rain. I can tell that this is gonna taste far better than bringing home a jar of Nutella.” you say to him with a small smile on your face.

After grabbing a plastic spoon for him to try out peach, strawberry, and cherry. He ended up purchasing several jars of all 3, but the cherry jam was his favourite and blushed the entire time you scooped the spoon in his mouth.

“What’s it like to be so lonely like this? I feel like it would be difficult to not be able to be out with others because you don’t want them to have to go through all of this.I feel like even though someone’s “famous” you’ve got to at least treat people with kindness and some level of respect. ” you say to him as the people pushed their way over to your boutique once they realized who was standing there.

You didn’t even really know who he was because you hadn’t been into One Direction in their prime. So, you knew he was a big deal from the whispers and people walking up to him and asking him for pictures and practically offering him their entire supply. But you just knew him as the dorky slightly awkward and weird cutie standing in front of you in the giant sunhat and pearls that stuttered while trying to tell you about his time working in a bakery before they came over.

“It’s alright. You kind of just learn to adapt to all of it after 10 years. . I worked there for like a year but we never had anything that tasted this good!” he admitted and you would giggle softly at the complement and give him your number on the receipt. You could see him doing a little shimmy while waving the number in the air.

-present-

You think back to the conversation fondly before Harry’s low and soothing voice snapped you out of your thoughts as he peeks his head into the room to ask if you want to see the finished video.

You followed him to his little makeshift studio in your home and take a seat on his lap so that you both could see it.

Harry had come up with the concept of you being a sunflower and him being like a bee because he swore he was drawn to you from the first conversation you two had ever said.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on your side. He was already trying to hide his smile as the video started with you in a canary yellow dress that flowed over your body making you look like a sun goddess as you twirled with the sunflowers in your afro.

You soaked in the sun and swayed to the music before Harry came into focus.

You remember that day his mother and your parents were on set because they were going to make a cameo at the end and both of your mothers had been behind the camera giving you both thumbs up and standing with their hands over their hearts the entire time.

Harry dances across the screen dressed in bumblebee-esque colours with the black and yellow as he danced around you and you looked over at him wide eyed before moving away from him. You followed the script and continued to dance around to the music doing your own thing as he danced around you to get your attention.

“You look so beautiful babe. Look at you! God damn I am a lucky bastard, aren’t I?” he says giddily laughing and smiling like a boy on the schoolyard with a crush.

“Oh stop, but keep going.” you say jokingly as you pat his thigh softly.

“I mean it. You could’ve gone on set just like this with no makeup and wearing this old shirt and looked like perfection itself.” he complements and it was your turn to break into a smile cause this man really was the sweetest little thing.

“Right back at you, sweet thing. I love how they cut your hair for the video. That was probably the best line up you’ve ever had. It was a game changer wasn’t it? You didn’t know black barbers are magicians.” you say giggling as you watch him prance around in the video in the yellow and black suit.

It comes to the part of the video where your parents and his mother both walk into the shot and your father takes your hand and dance with you as the mothers dance together.

Harry glides over to you and asks for your hand and your father puts yours in his.

He twirls you around as the parents look on and you both show your engagement rings to the camera and smile up at each other.

By the end of the video you and Harry blow a kiss at the camera before sharing a moment of pressing your forehead against his and the video ends.

You sniffle and dab at your eyes with a napkin from his desk and he turns to you before leaning into press kisses to your cheeks and lips.

“I love you and you know that there isn’t anyone else I would wanna tell the world about. It’s going to be just fine because I plan on making you happy for the rest of your life.” he reassures you and you nod before kissing his nose.

“What else can I say Harold? You went from being the awkward sweetheart that wrote me love letters and sung me to sleep when we couldn’t be together to someone I could not imagine life without. If people can’t see that there’s nothing but love and happiness here that’s their business. But this is ours.” you say to him knowing that it’s out of your element to feel so sappy but with him you just can’t help it.

The next day the video dropped along with the caption ‘it’s also our anniversary. So be kind or leave. All the love, H.’

The outpour of love and support from his fans and other celebrities was ridiculously overwhelming but well received as you made sure to make a small short follow up video thanking them for all of the love, well wishes, and compliments.

[ a little different for me but i hope you still enjoyed it to the lovely person who requested it !]

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #fanfic for black girls #fine line album

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tobesolonely · 4 years

Text

braided

a/n: hello everyone, this is my first ever piece of work im posting on here!! i’m a lil nervous to post it, but the idea came to me while i was taking a shower and i really wanted to write it so here it is <333 the concept is kinda personal to me as a Black woman but i really wanted to share my feelings and also make it a lil fluffy (kinda?? hopefully?) anyway please enjoy and leave feedback i would really appreciate it!

word count: ~1k

warnings: none! a lil fluffy <33

my ko-fi! thank you :)

“Still up for the farmer’s market tomorrow, darling? We should get there early before the crowds form.” Harry suggests, walking back into his bathroom to finish up his extensive, nightly skincare routine.

You look up from your phone, about to voice your confirmation when you suddenly remember what you have planned for tomorrow. You made an appointment with your hair braider nearly two weeks ago but she was so booked with summer starting that tomorrow was the soonest appointment you could get. “I can’t,” you sigh, locking your phone and setting it down next to you on Harry’s bed. “I’m getting my hair done tomorrow at eleven.”

Harry pokes his head out of his bathroom, face gleaming from the serum he just rubbed all over it. “S’no problem darling, farmer’s market doesn’t close ‘til one. We’ll make it.”

At this statement, you can’t help but to throw your head back and laugh. Harry’s certainty that your hair would be done within two hours, given your hairstylist was actually ready for you by 11, was laughable. Yours and Harry’s relationship was still fairly new and since he had never been in a relationship with a Black woman, he was still learning all about your hair-- what hair products work best, why you can’t just use his shampoo when you run out of the bottle you keep in his shower, why you don’t just wake up, run your fingers through your hair, and waltz out the door, why you don’t wash your hair every day, and so much more. However, he did not know how long it took for protective styles to be installed in your hair, and he certainly wouldn’t guess it’s an all-day affair.

“Heyyyyy,” he drawls, walking over to his bed and flopping next to you. “Yeh laughin’ at me? What’s so funny?” Harry has a genuine look of confusion on his face, poking you in your side.

You pull your body up from your lounging position and turn to face him, crossing your legs. “It’s just,” you start. “I think we’d do best to go to the farmer’s market next weekend. It’s just that my hair will take more than a couple hours, s’all.”

At this information, Harry's eyes widen. He looks at your hair, still obviously very confused. “More than a couple of hours? How? What are yeh gettin’ done to it?” The fact that your hair could take so long to do is just beyond him. He doesn’t understand at all and you giggle at his genuine curiosity.

“I’m getting box braids done. They’re a protective style, so that means you won’t have to wait 45 minutes for me to do my hair every time we go somewhere now!” He laughs at this, causing you to poke his dimple.

“I’ve seen those before! They look like they hurt. Do they hurt?” Harry is still extremely curious seeing as you haven’t explained anything to him. “Where are yeh goin’ to get them done? Can I come?”

You laugh again, amazed at how invested in your hair Harry is. “It kinda hurts a little if she installs them too tight but if she doesn’t, it’s fine,” you pause for a little bit, wondering if you should allow Harry to come with you. You didn’t want to just invite him to sit there tomorrow and take up space, especially because it might be a busy day. Also, your boyfriend, as you were slowly learning from the five months you’ve been together, could get extremely restless when he got bored. “I’m afraid you’ll be bored if you tag along.”

Harry shakes his head, getting up from the bed to turn off the overhead light. “None o’ that, lovie. You know I’m never bored when I’m with yeh. Would love to go and see what the process is like if ya don’t mind me being there.”

Your heart swells at the fact that Harry wants to put in the effort to understand more about your hair. As a Black woman, your hair was one part of you that you’ve struggled to love your entire life and are still learning to love. The way you care for your hair and all the work that goes into it is not something you talk about with everyone, not even all of your girlfriends. “I’ll text my stylist tomorrow morning and make sure it won’t be a problem to have an extra body there.”

Harry climbs back into bed and pulls back the covers, snuggling up to you. “Can’t wait.”

⋆⋆⋆

“Harry please c’mon, you know I don’t like being late for things!” You call up the steps of his flat, looking at the time on your phone that read 10:47 a.m.

“‘M comin’, lovie,” he yells down at you. “Lookin’ for my book. Yeh seen it?”

You think for a moment before remembering you saw it on the floor of the bathroom last, assuming he left it there after his bath last night. “Bathroom. I’m gonna wait in your car, okay?” Harry tells you again that he’s coming and you grab his keys from the counter, make sure you have your braiding hair, and go outside. He comes out shortly after, sunglasses on and hood up.

“Sorry, love. I’ll get us there, don’t worry,” he grabs your hand and places a kiss to it. “How do I get there?”

You direct Harry to your hair shop and get there quicker than you anticipated, not realizing that Harry’s place was a little closer to it than yours. He parks the car and scrambles out, quickly walking around to your side to open the door for you. “C’mon babe, didn’t mean to make you late. It’s a few past 11.” His urgency is so cute that you don’t tell him that your hairstylist most likely isn’t even ready for you yet.

Upon walking in, your hairstylist greets you and Harry excitedly. “Hey, girl! Have a seat, I’m almost done with her.” You and Harry look at the client she has in her chair, seeing she’s also getting box braids and isn’t even halfway done.

“See,” you lean over and whisper. “I told you it would be best to go to the farmer’s market next weekend.”

#harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles one shot #harry styles concept #boyfriend harry #fine line #solo harry #please let me know what you think #<3 #braided

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ao3theskyisblue · 3 years

Text

How to Woo a Texan

For @bellakitse who prompted this nearly a year ago and I had the audacity to put it off for this long 😅 Thank you for the title prompt, I hope you enjoy!

Summary:

He was suddenly brought back to the time when he was 5 years old, gazing at the white lilies in that antique vase every morning. How he hadn’t understood why his mother carried an aura so bright and yet so soft at the same time every time she looked at them.

Oh. There you are. I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.

***

Or, snapshots through time of their relationship with a splash of feelings

Read on AO3

Ever since he could remember, there was always a fresh vase of white lilies that sat comfortably on the side of the kitchen counter. A 5-year-old Carlos, who was finally old enough to climb down the stairs himself (though his parents seemed to disagree) had always tried to wake up early to try and catch whoever it was that was responsible for them. They always magically appeared like clockwork every Monday morning at 7am.

Neatly trimmed, placed, and lasted a week before a brand-new batch would appear the next Monday.

He hadn’t wanted to think too much about them, but there were times that he caught his mother looking at the flowers with a soft look in her eyes. Sometimes she would brush her fingers along the petals, and other times she would lean down to delicately smell them, an ever-present smile gracing her lips.

He asked her about it once, the words coming out faster than his brain could tell him to stop.

“Mama, where those come from?” He asks one morning, lips puckered in a light pout when he realized he didn’t catch whoever it was that put them there again. His mother turned around from where she was washing some grapes to look in his direction, only to widen her eyes in horror.

“Carlitos! What have I told you about climbing onto places taller than you?” His mother scolded, rushing over to stop him from climbing onto the kitchen counter so he could reach the vase easier. She wrapped her arms gently around his waist, and he didn’t fight it when she sat him on a dining room chair.

“But I wanted to see flowers!” Carlos pointed towards the vase, and his mother turned her head to where he was looking, a slow smile spreading across her lips. She reached over to take out one of the flowers slowly, before displaying it in front of him.

“You mean the white lilies?” His mother asked, nodding at him when he looked at her questioningly. He took the flowers gently in his hands, running his fingers along the petals. They felt like any other flower he’s touched in the schoolyard, and they didn’t have a particularly distinct scent. At least, not that he could tell.

So, what was so special about these flowers?

He was about to ask, but his mother beat him to it. “Your dad is a little bit of a romantic. He wakes up early to get these from the farmer’s market every Monday morning.” And there it is again. That smile he always sees on his mother whenever his dad is mentioned, a smile that made her look so bright and happy.

There was something he didn’t understand though.

“What’s a ro…romand-romantic? Is it like…like Roman empire?” Carlos frowned, not quite remembering that book his teacher had been reading a few weeks ago but he was sure he heard ‘Roman’ somewhere. His mother shook her head, laughing fondly. He watched her get up from her kneeling position to sit on the dining chair beside him, her hands resting on his knees.

“You’re probably a little too young to understand this fully,” Carlos wrinkled his nose at that, because no, he wasn’t too “young,” he could recite the alphabet just fine forwards and backward and knew all his times tables.

His mother gave him a knowing look as if she knew what he was thinking. “Those were the flowers your father gave me when he first told me he loved me, and ever since then, he gets them every week- rain or shine. Just to see a smile on my face when I open the door for him.” His mother’s smile is radiant, and he sees her peeking at the flowers again affectionately, as if just looking at them rings in a new bout of happiness all over again.

“So…” Carlos trails off, a million thoughts circling his mind. “Love means flowers?” His mother chuckles at that, patting his leg fondly.

“It could be, but everyone expresses love differently.” His mother says, before reaching up a hand to place over his heart. He looks at her, at the warmth in her eyes as her next words resonate within his mind.

“Love can be big things, and it can be little things. It can be complicated, and it can be easy. You’ll find your own definition of it one day, and your dad and I will be with you every step of the way.”

***

“I can’t wait to sleep for a decade.” Carlos groaned, toeing off his shoes before stumbling across the entranceway towards the stairs, regretting not building an escalator instead when he had the chance. A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and a bright laugh that never failed to make his heart skip a beat echoed in his ear.

“That’s a coma, sweetheart, not quite something I support. Experience, and all that.” TK mused, squeezing the skin just above his hip in admonishment and making him jolt. He turned a glare to his boyfriend, who was just looking at him innocently.

“You’re not funny,” Carlos grumbled as they slowly made their way up the stairs. Technically, TK was practically dragging him up the steps since he could hardly register where each step began and ended but minor details.

He didn’t need to look up to know that TK’s eyes were shining with amusement, lips curled in a wide smile with its edges softened by affection. “I’m actually very funny, you’re just grumpy when you’re tired. And on the verge of a fever.”

“Am not.” Carlos huffed petulantly, which probably just further proved TK’s point, but the latter wisely chose not to comment on it. They reached the last step and Carlos made a beeline for his bed, flopping down face-first into the soft sheets, legs dangling off the edge, humming appreciatively.

Soft and warm, perfect after a horrendously long shift with a persisting headache.

He didn’t bother moving when hands gently lifted the rest of his body to lie on the bed, the very same hands then reaching underneath him to try and undo his belt.

“You’re going to have to do all the work,” Carlos mumbled; eyes still shut tight. TK snorted, the hand stopping their administrations to swat his thigh lightly.

“I’m trying to make sure you sleep more comfortably. I’ve done my fair share of passing out in uniform and the morning after is never pretty.” TK has successfully removed his belt now, and Carlos half-heartedly lifted his hips to help him tug the pants down. “In fact, there was one particularly memorable moment where I almost stabbed myself in the leg with a belt buckle.”

Carlos was suddenly a little more awake than before, mustering the last bit of his strength to look at TK incredulously, turning over on his back. He ignored his head protesting loudly at the movement.

“I’m going to need a full version of that story when my brain can process more than 5 words a minute.”

TK shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’ll never hear it because you’ll forget this ever happened when you wake up.” He finished yanking his pants off and moved to fold them neatly in half over a hanger and placing it on the door hook. Carlos watched him through hooded eyes, absently going along with the motion of changing his shirt before shifting up to lay his head on the pillow.

“So, sleep-related injuries from passing out in work clothes. Another thing to cross off your bucket list.” Carlos gladly accepted the swat on his leg at that.

“One more word about this and I will go sleep on the couch,” TK warned jokingly, walking to the closet and pushing aside some of their clothing. They haven’t made it official yet, but Carlos already had a key – a permanent one, not a spare one that TK currently donned – prepared hidden in his gun safe waiting to be given, and the closet once only filled with his clothes began filling up with their clothes.

“Wha’re you doin’?” He asked blearily, already feeling himself pouting at the lack of warm boyfriend next to him.

“Looking for-ah, here it is.”

TK pulled out another blanket, the one that his mother had knitted for him when he was younger, and the only thing he could tolerate to be wrapped around whenever he was feeling under the weather.

Well, one of the only things.

He watched as TK gently tucked the blanket around him, seeing the familiar smile that lights up his face whenever he sees the design stitched on – a Gemini sign that stood out proudly among a sea of stars. He remembers mapping out imaginary constellations with his fingertips when he was younger, dreaming of what the stars would feel like underneath his touch – if the galaxy could be grasped within the palms of his hands.

“You mentioned the last time that your body temperature tends to go haywire when you aren’t feeling well, and that this was the only blanket you could tolerate,” TK says softly, and Carlos closes his eyes as the back of a cool hand felt his forehead.

“When did I say that?” Carlos mumbled, the haze of sleep threatening to take over, but he pushed himself to stay awake to hear the answer. TK shuffled some things around in the bed before sitting down, back against the headboard. Carlos didn’t hesitate to roll over towards him, wrapping an arm around his waist and tucking his face into his stomach, nuzzling into the soft warmth. He heard a fond chuckle, and smiled when featherlight fingers gently stroked his hair.

“I’ll tell you later. You should get some rest.” TK leaned down to kiss his forehead, the awkward angle not deterring him the slightest as he pressed another kiss to his cheek.

“You don’t have to stay.” The words came out a little garbled, and Carlos wasn’t sure if TK had heard him at all. He didn’t want to make TK stay with him when he could literally be doing anything else other than sitting with him while he slept off the fever. His arm seemed to protest at that thought, though it could also be his exhaustion at play when he didn’t pull it away from its spot around TK’s mid-section.

There was a pause, before the blanket was tucked around him even tighter, an arm wrapping around him to pull him in further.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

A million butterflies danced to that, fluttering about inside him as he tried to tamper down his quickening heartbeat. He couldn’t stop the lovesick smile even if he wanted to, tilting his head down to try and hide it.

“Plus, who’s going to wring cold towels and change them for you when you wake up? And make sure you actually eat something? Gotta put my paramedic privileges to work somehow.” Carlos grumbled incoherent words at that. Just because he was a living zombie when he was sick, and his whole body ached so badly he could sometimes hardly make it out of bed, let alone make anything to eat…

He’s been taking care of himself alone for years. And realistically, he knew he would be fine if left to his own devices.

“I’ll wait on you, hand and foot.” The words were light, teasing, reminding him of the heated debate they had the other night. There had been some history program playing in the background, and both of them had made varying sounds of contemplation when that particular phrase was said, sparking their usual bickering over the true meaning behind those seemingly innocent words.

This time, the words also carried a pleasantly heavy weight that settled in Carlos’ chest.

He could feel a stinging building up behind his closed eyes, his feelings always a tad bit of a mess when he was sick. They’ve already said the words, and the fact that they loved each other was ingrained in his mind and heart.

But there were also times like this, when Carlos wanted to grab the nearest jar and store the overwhelming love that was spilling out ardently. He wondered if the jar would feel as warm as he felt, what colour it would be, or if there would be enough space to fit it all.

It was times like these, that he would think,

Oh. There you are.

I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.

***

One of the things they’ve agreed upon in the early stages of their relationship, was that TK was not to be allowed anywhere near the kitchen or sharp cooking utensils unless there was appropriate adult supervision and two (working) fire extinguishers within five feet. There were one too many incidences where Carlos could practically feel his heart ripping out of his chest and plopping onto the floor, stripping decades off his life.

So, when he comes home to wondrous spices assaulting his senses, he briefly wonders if he accidentally opened the wrong door.

He had been pulling a double when one of his co-worker’s wife went into labour, and he had messaged TK earlier about not knowing when exactly he’d make it home. He had expected to come home to dim lights and silence, thinking his boyfriend would have already gone to bed but he was taken off guard at the lights shining brightly in the kitchen and the soft background music playing from his speakers.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind him alerted TK of his presence, and he was greeted with a smile that had his eyes crinkle happily at the sides.

“Hey, you.” His arms automatically spread apart to wrap around his boyfriend, laughing breathlessly at the way TK practically launched himself at him, trailing kisses up his neck.

“Missed me?” Carlos teased, leaning in for a few quick kisses before tucking his face in the crook of TK’s neck, his favourite spot to just breathe and take his boyfriend in after a long day. There was a heavy sigh in response, before he was met with a pair of eyes he never tired of losing himself in.

“It’s nothing new. I start missing you the second you leave our bed in the morning.” TK admits quietly, biting his lower lip nervously as if he hadn’t exactly meant to say that out loud. Carlos feels the familiar warmth spreading through him, and reaches up to gently pry his bottom lip free. He leans in to gently kiss the tip of his nose.

“Something smells amazing.” A welcome subject change, one that Carlos knows TK is grateful for, and he watches as his lips spread into a slow smile. Tugging on his hand, TK leads him towards the kitchen counter where various bowls of food were laid out.

“Everyone at the station has been giving me lessons. I thought Nancy was scary during training, it’s nothing compared to how she commands the kitchen. Even Paul was terrified but impressed.” TK was laughing as he continued on with a particularly hilarious incident that he repeatedly insisted was not his fault, but Carlos couldn’t help but be distracted by something scraping against his palm.

He looked down to see bandages covering the majority of TK’s fingers, looking like he had just left a particularly bad boxing match. All of his fingers had some sort of wrapping on it, most of them at the tips reaching just above the second knuckle, and a bulkier one on his right ring finger.

He looked back up to see TK smiling brightly without a care in the world, as if his hands weren’t completely covered with the scars of his labour. Not a single finger had been spared, and Carlos swallowed back the lump growing in his throat at how happy his boyfriend looked.

“Grace even swung by to indulge me in her family’s secret chilli recipe. We kind of went all out today in the kitchen, and everyone had enough to feed their entire family and their neighbours,” TK chuckled at the memory, picking up said bowl of chilli and holding it out to Carlos, a carefree grin painted across his lips. “I told them you were pulling a double, and how I wanted to take care of the cooking for tonight. They were more than happy to give me tips.”

Carlos stared at the bowl in front of him, then at TK’s radiant smile, blinking against the mist clouding up his vision. The whiteness of the bandages contrasted sharply against the brown wooden bowl, and he had an overwhelming urge to kiss each and every single one.

Some days, the love he feels for the man before him is overpowering, sparking life in every single motion and touch. Other days, it’s warm and light, just like the perfect summer breeze flowing by in passing, or the sight of the sunrise ascending over the horizon. The gentle waves splashing by his ankles in a soothing beat.

Today, he’s filled with an ache he can’t quite describe. It’s an ache that he wants engraved into his very bones – an ache that he wants to re-live for a long, long time.

He wondered if it was possible to be numbed by pure happiness, not knowing where the tingling feeling in his body started or ended.

Blinking a couple of times to anchor himself to the present, Carlos looked up to see TK’s worried gaze trained on him, the bowl of chilli sitting back on the kitchen counter.

Had he zoned off for too long?

“Judd, Mateo and Marjan sampled everything to make sure they were edible.” TK bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. His hands were twitching imperceptibly, as if he was itching to wring them together but remembered the bandages at the last second. The almost frantic look in his eyes made Carlos shake out of his stupor, and he reaches forward the cup the back of TK’s neck with one hand, running his thumb soothingly along his nape.

“Baby, this is…” Carlos trails off, the ache in him pulsating the more he looked at the culinary production around them.

He feels truly lucky to have TK in his life, and the rest of his found family with the 126. It startles him sometimes, how he’s been living fine on his own for twenty-six years before TK came into his life, but now that he’s gotten a taste of what it was like to have an extra splash of colour, he wants to continue painting the world with all the newfound hues.

“Extra? Over the top? Too much?” TK rambled, and Carlos shook his head, meeting his gaze straight-on.

“Amazing.”

He knows he sounds a little breathless, but TK seems to lighten at that, his nervous smiling relaxing. He silently obeys as TK gently guides him to one of the dining room chairs, arranging him around a little so that he was sitting, facing the gleamingly empty (for now) tableware.

“What would you like to indulge in first, my liege?” TK says playfully, hands kneading into Carlos’ shoulders to relieve the tension from a long day at work. He could feel himself grinning, reaching up a hand to cover one of TK’s, his thumb brushing against the bandages.

“You have been watching way too many historical dramas.” He mused, humming in approval as nimble fingers dug deeper into muscle, alleviating the residual tautness.

“There are only so many episodes of Grey’s I can handle watching without yelling at the medical inaccuracies. House is alright, but the way he treats patients would give him a lifetime of lawsuits he would never be able to climb out of. That in itself could be a whole series.” TK snorts, leaning back to plate some of the food. Carlos tipped his head back to watch him, already feeling his stomach yearning for everything his boyfriend was currently stashing onto his plate.

“I thought the point of watching those shows as a first responder is to enjoy the imperfections.” Carlos smiles fondly as TK lets out a quiet curse when a small piece of potato rolls off the plate, reaching out to grab a napkin to quickly wipe the spot on the counter.

“Pot meet kettle. You forget I watch Chicago PD with you, babe. I’m pretty sure I could recite the entirety of the Austin PD manual and 10-codes off the top of my head just from your heartfelt soliloquies every time they do anything.” TK shot him an unimpressed look, though the wide grin gave away his amusement.

He could feel himself pouting, not liking how true that was. “Yeah? Then what’s a 10-39 then?” Carlos raised an eyebrow, knowing he asked the wrong question when a predatory grin split across his boyfriend’s face.

“Something we both have abused in our professional duties,” TK smirked, walking over to place his plate in front of him before settling down at the seat across from him with his own plate, unconsciously linking their ankles together underneath the table.

“Uh, no. I haven’t. I think I would have noticed.” Carlos furrowed his eyebrows, growing more confused at TK’s quiet laughter.

“When I complained about traffic in Austin? And you very sweetly asked for a second round and offered to drive me to work with the light bars and sirens? Ring a bell?” TK wiggled his eyebrows, and Carlos makes a sound of protest.

“That doesn’t count!”

“You still offered. Which definitely counts.” TK chooses that moment to pick up a piece of lettuce to stuff in his mouth, effectively ending the conversation. Carlos rolls his eyes.

“That’s just cutting corners.” He huffs, stabbing into one of the potatoes purposefully, ignoring TK’s foot knocking against him. Conversation lulls for a while, and the more Carlos digs into the hearty meal before him, the more his skin tingles, kindled with warmth.

He reaches forward to squeeze TK’s hand, who in turn looks up at him curiously.

“Thank you. For all of this. It’s… I really appreciate it.” Carlos stutters, the overwhelming wave of emotion sweeping over him again as TK simply gives him that smile. The one smile that always seemed to be reserved for him – a smile he felt privileged to witness, and the smile he wanted to see every day for the rest of their lives.

“I can’t take all the credit,” TK’s smile is fond, no doubt remembering all the antics the entirety of the 126 were subject to earlier that day. “It was a team effort – I’m just glad it turned out alright with minor mishaps.” There was a sheepish look on his face, and Carlos notices how he’s picking at the heavier bandage on his right ring finger. He reaches across the table to take the hand gently in his, lifting it up to tenderly press his lips against it while their gazes were still locked on each other. There was a hint of pink that coloured TK’s cheeks at the gesture, making him smile against the hand still pressed to his lips.

“Minor mishaps, huh?” He remarks absently, but doesn’t push any further. TK curls his hand tighter to squeeze his before pulling back slowly.

“I added some more things to our Netflix queue. Want to call it a night and continue to preach about inaccuracies in medical and police dramas with me?” TK tilts his head invitingly, his eyes shining with mirth, and Carlos just wants everything with him.

��I’ll get the popcorn.”

***

Leave work at the door.

That’s what his father had always done when he was growing up. All talk of casework, of work stress, were almost always shed like a layer of skin when he came home, a wide smile present on his lips as he lifted him up into a hug and gave his unruly curls a fond ruffle.

Which was why he was currently still at the station at 10:34pm, finishing up the unexpected paperwork that couldn’t wait when they had been called in to a tip just before his shift ended.

Sighing in both exhaustion and frustration, Carlos glared at the offending words in front of him, his pen tapping restlessly against the table as he chewed on his lower lip.

He had promised his little boy that he would make it home tonight to finally watch the new Disney movie together as a family, maybe even build a pillow fort. Now, that promise felt like a scar etched upon his heart bleeding through his every thought as he tried to focus on the papers in front of him.

Their schedules would start being asynchronous again tomorrow, and although it made it easier so that one of them could always be with their son when the other was on a shift, Carlos missed his husband. He missed coming home to more than just a passing kiss as the other left for their shift, he missed going to bed with a warm body to wrap around him, he missed seeing that smile he’s loved more and more every single day for the past seven years for longer than five seconds.

They tried to have at least one evening a week to just be husbands, to spend time with their son together as a unit, but the case he had been working on for months finally had a breakthrough and they hadn’t gotten proper family time for close to a month.

It was times like these that he didn’t get the usual satisfaction of seeing the nameplate Detective Carlos Strand-Reyes on his desk.

“That’s a very impressive scowl you have going on there, detective.”

Carlos almost falls out of his spinning chair at the amused voice speaking lowly in his ear and spun around abruptly to see TK grinning at him, their three-year-old son Micah in his arms giggling happily.

“Papa!” Micah’s ecstatic voice echoes through the almost-empty precinct, and Carlos immediately catches him in his arms when his son practically launches himself into them.

“Micah! TK, what –” Carlos was a little lost for words, but tampers down the confusion when Micah squishes his cheeks between his tiny hands, grinning broadly. He was sure if his partner hadn’t left to grab them another coffee, she would be taking pictures to last her a lifetime.

“Have gift!” Micah declares proudly, his legs shuffling excitedly as he sat down more comfortably in his lap, and Carlos tips his head up for a quick kiss with his husband before looking at TK questioningly.

“Our son didn’t like how you would be spending movie night alone doing work,” Carlos couldn’t help a laugh at TK’s terrible impression of their son. “So, we decided that since you couldn’t come to us, we would bring family to you.” TK’s expression softened at the end, and Carlos could see how his eyes were taking him in fully, his own eyes doing the same.

He notices his partner arriving back to the precinct then, pausing in the doorway of their shared office. Her eyes lit up with understanding, sending him a quick wink before mouthing out a ‘more for me,’ and gestured to the two coffee cups in her hands. She lifted one of the cups as if in cheers, and quietly slinked away to take a break elsewhere.

Carlos mentally noted to send her a gift basket sometime.

“But you were looking forward to watching the movie.” Carlos looks at his son, and Micah frowned up at him, looking at him like he had suddenly grown two heads.

“Moo’ night is moo’ night ‘cause we all there. Papa, daddy, me. Two…two…” Micah furrowed his eyebrows as he tries to remember the word and TK gently cuts in.

“Together, sweetheart.”

“Together!” Micah repeats louder, and Carlos kind of wants to cry.

TK lifts up a plastic bag between them, and he knows exactly what’s in there when Micah’s eyes light up mischievously.

“Really, Strand?” Carlos deadpans, a smile twitching on his lips at TK’s indignant pout. “A sugar rush near midnight?”

“It’s Strand-Reyes. I didn’t marry you in the pouring rain with a broken foot just for you to neglect the second half of my name. And some occasions require processed sugar no matter what time it is.” TK says softly, and Carlos is momentarily taken back to that memorable day five years ago, where everything that could have gone wrong actually did go wrong, as if testing their brush with fate.

But in the end, love won. Which meant come hell or high water, they would be standing on that altar, no matter how many hours they had to stay at the hospital afterward in lieu of their planned honeymoon.

When he looks up into TK’s eyes, he could tell his husband had been thinking the same thing, and they shared a private smile.

“It’s chocolate.” TK grins, wiggling the bag enticingly as if his favourite flavour would make him cave, when he in fact had already caved a long, long, time ago.

“What a coincidence. I have French vanilla.” Carlos smiles as TK looks at him knowingly. He had let it slip once that he always kept a batch of French vanilla ice cream, TK’s favourite, in his private minifridge in the office ever since that night a couple of weeks into his new detective role when TK had come into the precinct soaked to the bone and on the verge of tears.

The news was never kind, and his fiancé had to find out through the grapevine that there had been a nasty altercation with the case he had been assigned to and immediately ran out of their house to search for him when he didn’t answer his cell phone. It was somehow the only thing they had at the precinct that day, and TK had stayed beside him for the rest of his shift, occasionally taking bites of the ice cream and cuddling close.

Now, the particular flavour of ice cream served more as both of their comfort food whenever they wanted to feel each other’s presence during a long shift, and sometimes just seeing the familiar packaging immerses him in comfort.

“Papa get break?” Micah’s question pulls him out of his thoughts, and he kisses the top of their son’s curls, smiling affectionately.

“It’s a good thing I have spoons, then.” Carlos pulls out the drawer meant for miscellaneous things, and takes out three plastic spoons from their packaging. He also reaches into the fridge to take out the container of ice cream, with TK doing the same with the two chocolate flavoured ones in the plastic bag. His husband passes one container to each of them, graciously accepting the one in Carlos’ hands extended to him before hopping on to sit on his desk.

“Papa happy?” Micah asked between spoonfuls, and Carlos hugs him tighter against him, leaning his cheek against the back of his head. He looks up at TK who’s watching them fondly, and he has a sudden urge to hug them tightly and never let go. He leaves that for when they all finish their midnight treats, instead reaching out to squeeze TK’s leg and kiss his son’s cheek, feeling lighter than air.

“I’m always happy when I’m with the two of you.”

***

Years of laughter, hours of tears. Days of contemplation, millions of joyous occasions.

And you were in every single one of them.

“We are getting too old for this.”

TK makes a sound of disbelief, turning to shoot him a glare that’s just as piercing as they had been in their younger days, his green eyes sparkling with life.

“Says you, Mr. I’m-seventy-four-but-can-still-lift-double-your-weight. Age shaming will not be a thing that gets between us.” TK scowls, and Carlos laughs at the way the wrinkles that came with age and years of laughter and joy deepened. His husband’s hair was now almost completely grey, matching his own, and yet…

Tyler Kennedy Strand-Reyes was just as beautiful as the day he first laid eyes on him.

“My hips are already protesting, and you haven’t even asked me to stand yet.” Carlos mused, laughing as TK extended his hand to him then, looking down at him in exasperation. The dim light from the fireplace lit up his husband’s features in flashes of brief memoirs, with each passing of the flame’s light echoing a different time in their life.

“And when have you ever said ‘no’ to me?” TK raises an eyebrow, his fingers wiggling in front of him, and Carlos touches the palms of their hands together, admiring how well they fit together, even after all these years.

“Plenty of times,” Carlos responds, even as he gets up all the same. Like two pieces of matching puzzles, they fit together effortlessly. The lulling chords to a song whose name was just at the tip of his tongue was playing softly in the background.

“And your hips move just fine,” TK murmurs in his ear teasingly, and Carlos could feel the wide smile against his neck as he laughs.

They sway together, both of them lost in their own worlds. Carlos closes his eyes as he latches on to this moment just like all of their many others through the time they’ve spent together.

“Feeling wooed yet, babe?” Carlos couldn’t hold back a shiver at the warm current of air brushing past his ear, squeezing TK’s hip at the knowing smile pressed against his shoulder. It never ceases to amaze him how far they’ve come since the beginning, never once letting go of each other’s hands, facing anything life threw at them as a team.

All these years, and Carlos still remembered the night that forever altered their futures crystal clear. Two imperfect souls, meeting in the middle. Willing to share each other’s worlds, learn each other’s purpose, and choosing to love through it all.

Shifting back slightly so that he could look into TK’s eyes, the beautiful green orbs that never failed to be filled to the brim with adoration since that night under the stars, Carlos smiles.

“TK, baby,” He reaches up a hand, cupping his husband’s cheek and feeling his heart stutter when he didn’t hesitate to lean into his hold. Tilting his head to gently press their foreheads together, Carlos revels in the tender warmth of their bubble of intimacy.

It’s with shining eyes as he continues.

“You’ve been wooing me our entire lives.”

#Tarlos #Tarlos fic #Fluff #A love through the years #Prompt fill #bellakitse

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the-dream-team · 3 years

Note

From National Treasure: ʺ In another life… I arranged a number of operations of… questionable legality. ʺ

Thank you for this incredible prompt!! This is the silliest thing I’ve ever written, so I hope you enjoy :)

Read on Ao3

In another life… I arranged a number of operations of… questionable legality

James Potter had always been a menace.

The vendors who set up their stands in Godric Hollow’s town square knew to be wary of the young boy, whose messy black mop of hair was just visible over their countertops as he skipped from booth to booth. No one was certain where he came from or where his parents might be (though Marcus, the apple harvester, swore he once saw the kid just over the hill with an unexpectedly kind older couple), but everyone knew trouble followed the boy like an obedient puppy.

It started with the usual childhood mischief. He would show up at the farmer’s market, seemingly out of nowhere, wielding twigs from a nearby tree or sometimes a cardboard sword. Always battling an imaginary enemy. Large bursts of energy mixed with childish incoordination would result in smashed crates of potatoes or torn awnings. Farmers turned red with frustration, but their wives brushed them off, absolutely charmed by those big hazel eyes behind even bigger wire-rimmed glasses. The boy would wreak havoc and get off without so much as a loving pinch on the cheek.

But then one summer, once his glasses started fitting his face and those wide eyes became more calculating, the real hijinks began. Peculiar things seemed to happen whenever the young boy made his way to the square. Marty’s carrots would suddenly appear on Andrew’s cabbage display, as if out of thin air. Abigail's piglet disappeared, then reappeared again, squealing up a storm, in Michael’s barrel of beans. Oddities popped up left and right around the child, still too small to reach the booth’s counters without having to balance on his tiptoes. The vendors groveled and knit their brows into headaches, but the boy would flash his little grin and the wives would fawn, offering up samples of their best honey or slices of freshly baked bread.

Eventually, the farmers settled into their new routine of expecting the unexpected. Until one day, when the unexpected turned into the unbelievable.

The boy was making his rounds one sunny morning, peering over the fruits and vegetables, when Helga offered him a strawberry. He beamed, reached out for the piece of fruit, and then yelped when the berry burst from his hand, transforming into a flittering hummingbird.

Those wide eyes turned to saucers as he watched the bird fly off, leaving its strawberry brothers behind in their basket. The look he flashed at the berry farmer was one of deep disturbance and the boy disappeared on the spot, leaving the rest of the vendors to grapple with what should have been impossible.

They didn’t see the boy for days, and the farmers would have reveled in the much-desired calm, but the mystery behind the hummingbird still sat fresh in their memories. But then one morning, the vendors all held a collective breath as the little boy marched down the street, directly to the town square, with a little jingling satchel in hand.

He went straight to the strawberry stand, meeting Helga with a determined stare and a gold coin in his outstretched hand. She tentatively accepted the strange looking currency and nervously handed over a basket of berries, flinching as he reached out to collect his purchase.

The boy looked at his basket, then back to Helga, and grabbed a handful of strawberries. Just like before, the berries erupted into delicate little hummingbirds and flew off through the village. The boy puffed his chest out at his accomplishment and his eyes surveyed the other booths, looking for his next victim.

The farmers were in a state of shock. Possibly a shared psychosis that could only be explained by spending a little too much time under the summer sun. They waited patiently as the boy decided who would receive his next gold coin.

It ended up being Daniel, the cabbage farmer, who watched in awe as his heads of lettuce transformed into a swarm of skittish squirrels with just a light touch of the young boy’s hand.

One by one, the strange little boy purchased, transformed, and set free an entire zoo’s worth of animals. More than one weary eye drifted to the town’s church lingering above them, wondering what kind of miracle or devil’s work they might be witnessing.

And then, he left, a litter of kittens and rabbits following in his wake.

Four years later, the boy with messy hair and glasses (that definitely now fit his face) sat in the Hogwarts dungeons with three other boys, cleaning out cauldrons.

“Bloody infuriating that they took our wands, don’t you think, James?” said the boy with longer hair and sharp features. He lazily scrubbed the same spot on his cauldron over and over, even though it had become clean ages ago.

“Don’t be daft, Sirius,” said James, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand. “We aren’t allowed our wands in detention, otherwise we’d have this washing done in a minute.”

“My mum says doing things the Muggle way builds character,” added the third boy, tucking his sandy bangs behind his ears.

“Well Remus,” responded the fourth boy with watery eyes, “the rest of us grew up not ever having to do it the Muggle way. Maybe since you’re most used to it, you can take care of the rest of these cauldrons for us.”

“Bugger off, Peter,” said Remus, throwing a very dirty washcloth and hitting Peter square in the face.

The four boys laughed together before getting back to their scrubbing.

“Oh, look who it is,” came a sneering voice from the doorway of the Potions classroom. “Potter and his gang of cowardly lions. What is this, the third detention you lot have had this week?”

“Shove off, Snivellus,” spat Sirius, throwing up a few choice fingers at the greasy-haired boy.

“Come on, Sev, don’t bother with them,” came a softer voice from behind the boy.

“Is that Evans?” called James, his interest piquing. He ran his hand through his hair, forgetting how much grime had coated his fingers during the course of the detention. When the red head girl peaked out behind her friend to see James picking out dirt from his fringe, she giggled.

“Potter, it looks like you’ve been rolling around in the mud with Hagrid’s pigs,” she said with a teasing grin. Severus shifted next to her, his eyes flashing at her playful tone.

“That might be so,” laughed James with his signature lopsided smile, “but at least I’m still not half as greasy as Snivellus, here.”

Severus turned bright red and reached into his robe pocket to draw his wand. “Lutum!” he shouted, and a thick layer of dirt coated the piles of freshly cleaned cauldrons.

The boys jumped up in outrage, but Severus had a wand and they were defenseless.

“This is bollocks!” barked Sirius, a dangerous shadow crossing his face.

“Tough luck,” smirked Severus, turning back to Evans with a smug look across his face. “Come on, Lily, let’s go practice our Pepper Up potions.” And with one last smarmy look, he led her into another classroom across the hallway.

“That’s not fair,” whined Peter, looking at his now-dirty cauldron.

James still stared at the doorway where Severus and Evans stood just a moment before. “Well, we’re not going to let him get away with that.”

“But we don’t have our wands,” pointed out Remus, who had gone back to patiently scrubbing his own cauldron.

“I have a plan,” said James simply.

“Mate, I think Remus has a point,” Sirius said with a huff. “What could you possibly do to Snape? We’re just a bunch of wandless first years.”

“Look boys,” said James confidently, “In another life… I arranged a number of operations of… questionable legality. I learned some skills back then that may prove useful in our current hour of need.”

Sirius, Remus, and Peter stared at him, matching dumbfounded expressions on their faces.

James stood and surveyed the dirty cauldrons around him and looked at his hands. He took a deep breath.

In theory, he knew what he had to do. It was just a matter of concentrating. Focusing on a goal and letting the magic burst through his fingers. There weren’t any fruits or vegetables in the dungeons, but that shouldn’t matter. Maybe when James was younger, when his imagination ran a little wilder and his grasp on transfiguration wasn’t quite as strong, he believed that animals were stuck inside strawberries and ears of corn. But James was a wizard in training now. With a few months of transfiguration under his belt, he knew that any object could become anything new.

So he paced back and forth, letting himself fall back into the mindset of being a little boy sneaking out of his family’s cottage while his parents were busy reading that morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet. He remembered the thrill of running off to the village, just as independent as any other adult visiting the market, and marching up to the stalls of fruits and vegetables and honey. He could almost smell the freshly baked bread, see the kind smiles of the farmers’ wives as they ruffled his hair and sent him off with fresh apples and oatmeal cookies.

He let himself live in those not-so-distant memories and channeled all their warmth to his fingertips as he reached out and touched the nearest cauldron.

With a flash, it became a potbelly pig.

“Bloody hell!” shouted Peter.

“Merlin’s beard!” laughed Sirius.

“Holy shit,” gasped Remus.

James sent them a crooked smile, cracked his knuckles, and swiftly got to work touching every dirty cauldron in the dungeon.

The piglets squeaked with wild energy, dripping in mud and looking for somewhere to run. And James had just the place.

He led his parade of piglets through the classroom, out the hallway, and opened up the door across the way where Severus and Evans had gone to practice their potion-making. The pigs stormed into the room with excited squeals which only intensified by Lily’s and Severus’ screaming as the pigs swarmed them.

“Sorry Evans,” shouted James over the sea of oinking, “you’re collateral damage here! My apologies for the smell, but I assume you’re used to a bit of stench hanging out with Snivellus all day!”

Once all the pigs had crammed into the classroom, trapping Lily and Severus in the far corner surrounded by muddy hogs, James quickly closed the door and the rest of the boys helped drag over a heavy bookshelf to barricade the entryway.

They grinned at each other, quite pleased by their success, and made their way back to the scrubbing brushes and washcloths.

“Well boys,” said James, his hand finding his way back to his hair, “I don’t see any more dirty cauldrons, do you?”

The others shook their heads in glee.

“Then I guess it’s back to Gryffindor Tower for us!”

And with that, they raced out of the dungeons, snickering at the shouts of their classmates, overpowered by the squealing of dozens of potbelly pigs.

#ask #national treasure prompt #this is insane #the marauders #pranks #james potter #godrics hollow #this is the goofiest thing i've ever written #it was fun #i have so many more prompts i promise i will get to them all!!

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stellawella97 · 3 years

Text

Atelephobia: The Fear of Never Being Good Enough (Shane/Gender Neutral Farmer) - Chapter 1/3

Just posted 1/3 of my first Stardew Valley fanfic!

Read it below or over @ AO3

Summary:

Shane has got 99 problems but never did he think the entire world losing its colour would be one of them.

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It started off as just any other normal day in Shane’s life.

The chickens clucked noisily outside, the cows joining in their song occasionally with their loud chorus of moo’s. None of these sounds woke Shane up in the slightest - he heard them every day and he’d grown so accustomed to the noise, he figured he’d still be able to continue sleeping even if his bedroom floor caved in beneath his bed.

The slightly battered alarm clock sitting on Shane’s bedside table began its shrill ringing at 6:30am sharp. Shane tended to run by a strict ‘5 more minutes’ rule when it came to waking up in the morning however. Refusing to open his eyes till he absolutely had to, Shane managed to turn off the alarm clock by swatting aimlessly with his hand till it met with cold metal and the ringing stopped.

He tried to fall back asleep for those precious extra 5 minutes of peace before he had to leave for his soul-sucking job at JojaMart. However, memories of the night before began to flood back into his mind. Shane had been up in the mountains late at night, drinking again. He faintly remembered seeing the hermit (Linus, was it?) entering his tent, a plastic bag that was stuffed to the brim with what looked like half-eaten food grasped tightly in his hands.

Shane had drunk a couple cans of beer before he decided to enter the mines nearby. It had been dark and full of strange noises neither human nor animal could make but Shane had managed to make it down several floors with a pickaxe he’d found at the mine entrance in his drunken state. As to why he’d chosen to do this, Shane had no idea whatsoever.

He didn’t remember much else except for the sound of a creature speaking in a garbled ancient language, a warm tingling sensation that filled his entire body, and finally the sharp pain that shot through his head as he finally keeled over from the amount of alcohol in his system, smashing his head against the rocky terrain. Oddly enough, his head didn’t hurt at all this morning. Doctor Harvey must’ve patched him up real good this time. Or maybe Marnie had. Who’d even brought him back to the house?

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he was actually found with trousers on this time, Shane heard the sound of the front door slamming shut. Marnie must have gone out to feed the animals. Shane was just about to roll over onto his side to continue his reminiscing when it began to dawn on him that he’d probably been in bed for more than just 5 minutes.

Shane quickly sat up in bed and grabbed the alarm clock. It was now 7:10am! He couldn’t risk Morris docking his pay again this month - he had to get to JojaMart quick. He jumped out of bed and had just put his leg through a pair of jeans when he noticed that it’d turned from blue to gray. When had that happened? He remembered wearing this exact pair of jeans just two days ago and he certainly hadn’t ever bought gray ones before.

It was then that he realized - everything had turned gray from his walls, to the cushion placed in front of the television set, to the alarm clock, and even his own skin.

I’ve finally done it, haven’t I? I died in those fucking mines last night and now, I’m in some kind of Hell?

The thought ran through Shane’s mind as he spun around, inspecting everything in his room for any sign of colour. This was to no avail. Even his favourite pair of boxers was gray with slightly darker gray hearts dotting it. In a moment of pure desperation, Shane decided to pinch himself as hard as he could on his arm in an attempt to find out if he was in fact still alive. He was.

Rubbing the sore patch of skin on his arm, Shane decided that he didn’t have time to waste standing here and waiting to see if the world around him would get its colour back. If he was still alive, he needed to get to work pronto. He quickly pulled on his ratty, old JojaMart jacket that still did its job and ran out of the house, only just remembering to shut his bedroom door behind him because he just didn’t think he could deal with Marnie yelling at him again about the mess of empty beer cans and pizza boxes in there.

Shane ran through town, almost knocking over Abigail who had just left Pierre’s General Store with a flute in her hands. It worried him to no end that even her usually bright purple of her hair (She must dye it, right?) was now a dull gray, but Shane had no time to be stressing about that now. He’d just have to wait till during his break or after work.

Once he’d arrived at JojaMart, Shane immediately went to the employees office to clock in and change into the uniform. He took a moment to glance at his reflection in the mirror and sighed as he noted that the usually bright blue uniform was just as unflattering as always in a gray shade. He walked out onto the shop floor and began stocking the shelves, determined to just get through the day now.

However, he must’ve done something to offend Yoba because Shane’s shift did not go well at all. He’d first managed to trip over his own feet and crashed straight into the display of limited edition shrimp-flavoured Joja Cola that he’d been hard at work stacking up for over an hour. As Shane was stomping angrily back onto the shop floor with a bucket of soapy water and a mop in his hands, he’d then bumped into Pam who’d screamed in rage when she discovered her brand-new jumpsuit was now soaked. Even though he’d apologized profusely to Pam, Shane still had to sit through an hour and a half of Morris’s lectures as well as had his paycheck docked for the day to reimburse Pam for the damages.

Just as he thought his day couldn’t get any worse however, Shane was just about to clock out for his lunch break when Morris asked him to help Sam unload the delivery trucks that had just arrived with a new shipment of powdered butter, gluten pucks and Carbo Cones. This meant he had to endure almost an hour’s worth of listening to Sam go on and on about how awesome some indie band in Grampleton was - which on some days, was fine. Just not today, for Yoba’s sake. Instead of putting up a fuss however (Morris wouldn’t care anyway), Shane simply gritted his teeth and headed out to the back of JojaMart.

It wasn’t till 2pm that Shane finally managed to clock out for his break. He flopped down onto a seat at a small round metal table in the employee’s break room and stared at the silently humming vending machine in the corner of the room. The vending machine sold only JojaMart products, all of them disgusting and overly sweet - Shane had tried each one. At first, he wondered to himself ‘Wasn’t that vending machine blue before?” before it dawned on him for the second time that day that he hadn’t been able to see colours all day. As crazy as it sounded, he’d just been so distracted with work that he hadn’t had time to notice.

Shane leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, biting his lower lip in concentration. How had this happened? Had something happened to him in the mines? Maybe he should pay Doctor Harvey a visit after work, he would know what to do.

“Knock knock!,” a familiar voice suddenly came from the direction of the door. Shane, who had been staring blankly at a spot on the table, looked up to see who had managed to sneak into the break room in surprise but flinched almost immediately, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of colour amongst the gray. Once his eyes had adjusted, Shane saw that the voice belonged to the new farmer that had recently moved into the farm out of the town. They were now standing by the door, their hands clasped behind their back.

He must’ve been staring at the farmer for just a moment too long because they’d then asked “Shane? Are you okay? with an eyebrow raised questioningly. Shane cleared his throat and stood up from his chair, moving to stand in front of the vending machine. It was hard to tell what he was looking at when all the cans were the same gray colour, but he pretended to be deciding which drink he was going to buy to buy himself some time. His heart was beating so fast in his chest, Shane began to wonder if he was about to pass out.

Why’s the farmer the only one who’s in colour? Why of all people has it got to be them?!

Just as he thought of something smart to say, Shane heard the sound of the break room door opening again. He spun around to find the farmer already halfway out the door. However, the farmer noticed at the last moment that Shane had finally turned around and was now looking at them. They hesitated for a moment before saying with a shy smile tracing their lips “I’ve gotta go now but...I’ll be stopping by the Stardrop Saloon tomorrow night, I hope I’ll see you there there?”

“I-I’ll see you there!,” Shane blurted out, feeling his cheeks begin to heat up. The farmer flashed him a warm smile before shutting the door behind them. Shane fell back into his seat and buried his face in his hands, mentally screaming at himself for two main reasons. One, he had sounded way too excited at the prospect of seeing the farmer again. Two, had the farmer just subtly invited him on a date? And did he just...agree to it? What was going on today?!

Not once did he stop to wonder why the farmer hadn’t turned gray like everything else, himself included.

Shane managed to breeze through the second half of his shift at JojaMart without any further mishaps, and had made it all the way back home with his head high up in the clouds. He popped a frozen pizza he’d stolen from JojaMart’s freezers into the oven and entered his bedroom, kicking his shoes off at the door.

He was just wondering if people still brought their date flowers in these modern days when he noticed a small slip of paper that was being held in place beneath a small stone that was smooth to the touch. Written on the paper in a barely legible script were the words ‘Lost your ability to see colour, huh? If you want it back, meet me at the mines tonight at 11pm’.

Shane looked around his room and decided to check the windows. They were locked. Whoever had delivered this note must’ve come in from the front door but Marnie who had been home all day would have said something to him if someone had come looking for him. She hadn’t though, so they must have snuck in without her seeing. Now he knew how they got in, there was still one question left unanswered:

Who sent me this note?

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Author Notes:

Part 2 will be up sometime later this week so stay tuned for that.

If you'd like my work and would like to support me, please consider donating to my Ko-fi @ https://ko-fi.com/stellawella97 where I am offering custom fanfic commissions for a cup of coffee! It'd really help me out. Thank you <3

#stardew valley #stardew shane #stardew farmer #stardew fanfic #gender neutral fanfic #sdv #sdv shane #sdv farmer #fanfiction #fanfic

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worryinglyinnocent · 3 years

Text

Fic: Not Quite Right

Summary: Edward and Alphonse Elric succeed in achieving the impossible, committing the ultimate taboo to bring their mother back via human transmutation. Trisha Elric is returned to life, and everything seems to be well in their world.

It’s subtle at first. The faint smell of decay that hangs around the house. Trisha looking a little bit pale and blue-tinged. The fact she sometimes blacks out and can’t remember what happened or why she’s woken up with the taste of blood in her mouth.

As much as they try to hide it, they can’t deny that Trisha has come back just a little bit… wrong.

Written for the WriYe Zombie July challenge.

Rated: M

Content Warning: Mild gore and body horror. Zombies.

Not Quite Right

Trisha isn’t quite sure what’s going on. All she knows is that something isn’t quite right. She had been in a nice place: a nice, calm, peaceful place where she could wait for Van to eventually join her. She was warm and comfortable, and she wasn’t in any pain. She had been quite happy where she was.

Then there had been a searing flash of light, and now Trisha doesn’t know where she is, but everything hurts and everything’s cold and everything’s hard, and something really isn’t quite right.

“Mom!”

That’s Ed’s voice. Why is Ed here? Ed shouldn’t be here, it’s far too soon for Ed to be here. What’s happened?

“Mom! Wake up!”

That’s Al’s voice. Al shouldn’t be here either.

I can’t wake up, darlings. I’m dead. I’ve been dead for years now. I’ve moved on. What are you doing here?

“Mom!”

Trisha opens her eyes to darkness and cold and a dull ache spreading through every limb. It almost feels like she’s never used her body before.

“Mom!”

Ed and Al’s voices are no longer so far away. They’re right beside her, and their arms around her are almost scalding in their heat.

“Ed? Al? What’s going on?”

“It worked! We brought you back!”

Trisha’s eyes get used to the darkness and she realises where she is. She’s in the basement, where Van used to store all of the junk he’d accumulated over his long, long life. The suit of armour is still standing stoic in the corner, watching over them as the boys cling to her for dear life. It’s freezing down here, and Trisha’s not wearing anything, but the boys have wrapped her in a blanket.

She was dead. She was very definitely dead.

She looks around at the chalk on the floor, the remains of the intricate transmutation circle that they are all in the middle of.

“Oh boys… What did you do?”

Trisha is no expert when it comes to alchemy, but she knows that human transmutation is the one thing that they should never attempt, the one taboo that they should never break. Even Van, with his vast, unknowable skill in it, would never try this. The cost, the equivalent exchange… Trisha dreads to think what would have happened if something had gone wrong and there had been a rebound.

She pushes it to the back of her mind as Ed and Al help her off the floor. She’s back. It’s been a long time; she can see how much the boys have grown and she wonders just how much time has passed, but it doesn’t matter. She has a second chance now. She can keep her promise to Van, and more importantly, more immediately, she has more time with her precious babies.

Something still doesn’t feel quite right, but she chooses not to dwell on it too much as the feeling of ravenous hunger starts to overwhelm everything else.

It quickly becomes clear that when they decided to bring Mom back, they really didn’t think through all of the implications that doing so would bring if they were successful.

Human transmutation is forbidden, and they said that they would keep it their secret. The trouble is, they can’t exactly keep Mom a secret now that she’s back. If it had only been a couple of weeks, perhaps, but it’s been six years since she died. She was buried, people came to her funeral, her death is registered at the registry in Resembool and copied down on record in Eastern City.

Her suddenly appearing in the world again is going to raise a few questions. Still, it’s nothing that Ed can’t handle. They live far enough away from the village that they’re not likely to get people finding her in passing, and all they have to do is make sure she doesn’t leave the house. Mom understands implicitly without questioning them. She knows as well as they do that what they have done is forbidden, but she doesn’t chastise them for it. She’s grateful to be back with them.

Pinako sums it up best when she comes over to check on them like she always does, regular as clockwork, and although Ed does his best to head her off at the pass with hasty excuses of ‘we’re fine, we’re fine, there’s no need to worry’, he knows that’s the worst way of making someone not worry ever, and Pinako simply sidesteps past him on the lane and continues to march up the path and into the house. Ed rushes after her, and she stops in the doorway of the kitchen, looking at Trisha.

“Hello, Pinako.”

“Oh boys,” Pinako says softly. “Oh, what have you done, you idiots?”

Still, she doesn’t shout at them. Pinako’s never been shy of telling them exactly what she thinks of all their madcap schemes whenever they have them, but she doesn’t tell them off for this. This is something so big, and something that’s done and over and can’t and won’t be repeated. There’s no point in it. They just have to live with it now, and so Pinako and Winry are let in on their massive secret, and work to help keep it as secret as possible.

The other problem that Ed cannot deny is that despite their best efforts, it’s clear that something must have gone wrong during the transmutation. He knows that Al can see it too. There’s something about Mom that’s just not quite right. Her skin is always so very cold, as cold as it was when she was dying, and she always exclaims that they are very hot to the touch. It’s a cruel irony in a way. They brought her back because they wanted to hug her again and feel her arms around them, but it’s not the same as it was before, not when she’s so horribly, deathly cold.

Then there’s the strange smell. It’s almost like decay, the faint odour of rot that permeates the house now. Ed knows that they built Mom a brand new body, transmuting it from base chemicals. This isn’t her original body rotting under the ground in the cemetery, so why is that smell hanging around?

The final clue that something went wrong is the moments where Mom isn’t really… Mom. She’ll just vanish, her eyes going blank as if there’s no soul behind them. It’s frightening.

It’s only a couple of weeks after they first get Mom back that it happens, the irrefutable proof that there’s a part of her that isn’t really Mom anymore. Farmer Anderson, whose fields back onto the Elric land, comes over first thing in the morning asking if they heard anything last night because two of his sheep were attacked and killed in the night, by something with too much strength to be a stray dog.

Perplexed, Ed disclaims all knowledge, but then Al is shouting for him from the basement and he has to rush away.

Mom is in the basement with Al. She’s covered in blood and tufts of wool, and the horror in her eyes is heartbreaking.

“Boys, what’s happening to me?”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Ed hugs her. “I’m sorry. We brought you back wrong.”

“It’s ok. It’s ok, my darlings. I’m just scared that I’ll hurt you two.”

Ed thinks of those moments where she’s blank and not there, and suddenly, he’s scared too. He pulls his mind away from those thoughts.

“You won’t,” he says decisively. “We’ll make sure you won’t.”

It’s a very strange routine that they settle into after that, but it’s a routine nonetheless.

Mom’s ‘episodes’, as Ed euphemistically refers to them, eventually start to become more frequent, and Al dreads to think how many of Farmer Anderson’s sheep have been sacrificed to Mom’s inhuman hunger. She never hurts them, perhaps she retains enough of herself in her primal state to recognise them even when she’s not all there, but it’s been touch and go with her trying to attack Pinako sometimes, to the point where she apologetically forbids Winry from coming over to the Elric house anymore, just in case.

The smell of decay is a constant presence in the house now, so much so that Al no longer notices it, and it’s only when he finds Mom in the kitchen staring down at the two rotten fingers that have just fallen off her hand that he realises what it really means.

Still, they’re able to fix her up with medical alchemy whenever bits of her do start to die off, and life continues as it did before. For the most part, they’re content. Mom is herself for most of the time, even if she is cold and decaying slightly, and they can handle her when she’s not herself. She generally knows when she’s ‘fading out’ as she calls it, with about thirty seconds’ warning, and as much as it breaks his heart to do it, Al locks her in the closet under the stairs until she’s back to normal.

One evening, when Mom is sleeping off one of her raging, inhuman hunger fits, Al voices a thought to Ed. It’s four years since that fateful day when they brought her back, and the question has been eating at him for all that time.

“Ed… Do you think we did the right thing?”

For a long time, Ed just stares into the middle distance.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually. “I really don’t know.”

It’s a perfectly ordinary day when Trisha sees an extraordinary sight out of the kitchen window where she’s washing the dishes.

“Van.”

“What?” Ed startles up out of his seat and rushes over to the window, but Trisha ignores Al and Pinako telling her to stay where she is, and she rushes out of the kitchen, throwing the front door open and hurrying down the path towards Van. He asked her to wait, and wait she did. Not even death could stop her.

Ok, it stopped her for a while, and she’s still not quite right, but she’s here, and he’s here, and everything’s going to be ok now.

Van was never much of a smiler, but he’s positively grinning as he puts his suitcase down and opens his arms for her.

“Trisha.”

He’s so warm, hotter than everyone else is to the point where holding him is almost uncomfortable, but Trisha doesn’t want to let go of him. He’s back, despite everyone’s cynicism. He’s back at last.

“Trisha, you’re freezing. Are you all right?”

She nods against his neck. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine now you’re here.”

“Are you sure?” He pulls back a fraction, his brow furrowed, golden eyes worried behind his glasses. “Trisha, something’s wrong, sweetheart, what is it?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Trisha says firmly, but she can tell from the little wrinkle of his nose that he’s caught the smell of decay that follows her around almost constantly now.

Speaking of smells though… Did Van always smell this good? On the face of it, Trisha knows that he shouldn’t smell good. She can smell the travel on him, smell that he hasn’t bathed for a few days. But there’s something else. Something wholly delicious. She cuddles in close again, breathing him in, and he strokes her hair.

“Oh Trisha,” he whispers. “What happened to you?”

He smells so, so good…

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Al never thought that he would ever be in this situation, but then again, it’s a very specific situation so he thinks he can be forgiven for not being prepared. It’s not every day you have to pull your resurrected mother off your ten-years-vanished-and-only-just-returned father when she tries to tear his throat out with her teeth because she’s peckish and only living flesh will do, and now you’re watching your extremely angry father and even angrier brother have an argument whilst standing guard outside the cupboard that your mother is locked in.

And that’s not even taking into account the fact that the weird stories your mother’s been telling you about your father being a living Philosopher’s Stone and functionally immortal are all true, because despite the blood soaking the front of his shirt, Dad is completely fine for having a large chunk of his neck taken out.

“We did what we had to do!” Ed yells. “Mom died! She was dead, and you were who knows where, so we did what any half-orphaned, half-abandoned kids would do and we brought her back!”

“There’s a reason it’s forbidden, Edward.”

“Well, maybe if you’d been here, you could have told us that at the time! You left us alone! You have no right to lecture us about breaking the taboo! You do not have the moral high ground here!”

Dad doesn’t reply for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, and Ed actually takes a step back in surprise, having been ready to launch into another tirade and clearly not expecting the apology. “I’m sorry that you were alone for so long and that this was the only solace you had, and I’m sorry that Trisha never got the chance to tell you what was going on and why I left before she died. I can’t change what’s done, but perhaps I can try to begin making things better now.”

Ed is breathing heavily, about to explode from the emotion, and since Mom is quiet in the cupboard now, Al chances to take a couple of steps forward to get between the two of them in case Ed decides to just resort to punching Dad in the face, which Al is pretty sure he would have done already if it wasn’t for the ravenous Mom and profuse bleeding and alchemical healing going on before he had the chance.

“We don’t need your help,” Ed growls eventually, hands balled up into fists but showing no signs of actually swinging. “We got on perfectly fine without you for ten years, so just go back wherever you’ve been hiding and don’t bother us again.”

“No, you probably don’t need me,” Dad agrees quietly. “I know I don’t have much right to try and insert myself back into your lives as if I’d never left. I don’t expect to. But it’s not just you two. I came back for Trisha as well.”

They’ve been talking about her as if she’s not there, but she’s only a few steps away behind the cupboard door, and Al can see the guilt in Ed’s eyes as he glances over. They can’t leave Mom out of this. They’ve had to make a lot of decisions on her behalf over the last few years, but this isn’t one of them. Mom has always believed in Dad. She’s always waited for him and she’s always known that he was coming back, and in the end, he kept that promise to her. It took a long time, but he did come back, just as he told her he would.

And as much as they have always tried to deny it and pretend that everything’s good, because a not-quite-right Mom was better than no Mom at all, the fact remains that when they brought Mom back, they brought her back wrong, and maybe Dad, with his centuries of knowledge and Philosopher’s Stone’s worth of power, can make her right again.

“Her soul hasn’t bound to her body properly. That’s what’s making her black out and resort to a primal state, and it’s why her body is rotting. The body will decay without a soul in it. Her soul is still partially trapped beyond the gate, and it’s trying to get back there.”

Mom is tucked up in bed, still asleep from her last episode. Hohenheim has just fixed up the latest patch of decay on her chest.

Ed notes the lack of blame in Hohenheim’s words. It would have been easy for him to say you didn’t bind her soul properly, but he doesn’t.

“Can we fix it?” Al asks.

“No.” The single word is sharp and blunt. “No. There’s nothing you and Ed can do. There’s a huge price to pay. The equivalent exchange for a human life is too much for either of you to bear and I won’t lose you. I can try and fix it.”

“What do you mean, try?” Ed hates how small and young his voice sounds. “Can you fix it or not?”

Hohenheim dodges the question. “When you first brought her back, what did you use for the exchange?”

Ed reels off the chemical components of the human body; he’s had them down rote for years now.

“And a drop of blood from both of us to anchor the soul,” Al adds once he’s done.

Hohenheim nods, his eyes still on Mom.

“It wasn’t enough,” he says. “Human transmutation requires a much greater sacrifice. A life for a life, a soul for a soul. Sometimes more than that. Often, not even that is enough and the transmutation will fail no matter what is sacrificed.”

Having heard the story of his immortality now, Ed has to give him that, and not even grudgingly. All things considered, he and Al got off extremely lightly, and the guilt that Mom is suffering now as a result eats away at him a little bit more.

“Can you fix it?” he asks again.

“I can try. I should be able to provide the exchange with the souls, and they’re willing to make that sacrifice for Trisha.” He smiles. “They always loved her. She won them all over in the end.”

“But…” Ed prompts. That makes it sound way too easy.

“But ultimately, it’s up to Trisha whether her soul returns or stays beyond the gate. You can’t force someone to come back to life if they don’t want to.”

Ed hadn’t thought about it like that. He had always assumed that Mom would want to come back. She died before her time and now they’ve given her more time with her family, they’ve allowed her to be there for when Hohenheim got back, just as she promised she would be. But then again, he’s never thought about what happens after death, beyond the gate as Hohenheim called it. Her soul had been somewhere, and if all the accounts of heaven and the afterlife are to be believed, then it was a nice, peaceful place that perhaps she might not have wanted to leave after all.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Trisha can taste blood in her mouth again when she wakes up. The boys are always so good about cleaning her up when she has one of her episodes, but they can’t really brush her teeth easily when she’s out of it.

“Hey, Trisha.”

A gentle hand strokes her hair and she looks to the side to see Van lying on the bed beside her.

“Did I hurt you?”

Van shakes his head. “No damage done.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and Trisha is reminded once again of the blood in her mouth, getting up to brush her teeth. She looks at herself in the mirror above the sink, taking in her blue-ish tinted skin and lips, and her eyes several shades darker than they always used to be back when she’d been alive the first time. She’s amazed that Van can even recognise her now, but he’s still looking at her as if she’s the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled into one. He doesn’t care that she’s a little bit wrong, but at the same time, it breaks her heart just a bit.

She returns to the bedroom, hovering in the doorway.

“Van?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I’m not… fully me. I wanted to be here when you got back, but I don’t think that all of me is here.”

“I know.” Van comes over and takes her in his arms, and Trisha wishes she could stay there forever and not have to worry about anything else. “I know. I think I can make you whole again. I think I know how to give you the chance to fix yourself.”

Trisha nods. “Thank you.” There’s a long pause. “You’re going to use the souls, aren’t you?”

“Yes. They’ve talked it through. They’re happy to help make you whole.”

“Thank you.” She whispers against his chest, hoping that the souls can hear her. “Thank you, all of you.”

“They say you’re welcome.”

Trisha closes her eyes, trying to lose herself in his embrace.

“Will it hurt?”

“No, my love. I promise.” He holds her a little tighter before letting go. “Come on. Let’s get you fixed.”

Van takes her down into the basement. The boys are there too, drawing out a complex circle on the floor in chalk. Trisha shivers. She doesn’t like it down here, it brings back too many bad memories of waking up after a black out episode with no memory of what she did or who she might have hurt, the taste of blood in her mouth making her feel sick. Nonetheless, she accepts that what Van is about to do is not something that should be done anywhere that people might witness it by accident.

Van gives the circle a onceover and proclaims it perfect with soft pride in his voice. Trisha knows that human transmutation is the one thing he would never do, and whilst he might be mad at the boys for doing what they did, he can’t help but admire their craftsmanship when they did it.

She steps into the centre of the circle with him.

“Van, I’m scared.”

“It’s ok, love. I’m right here. It’ll all be ok.”

He takes her in his arms and she closes her eyes, burying her face in against his shoulder. Even then, she can still see the flash of red alchemic lightning race around the edge of the circle.

Everything is bright white and jumbled, her mind feeling like it’s tearing itself apart and putting itself back together again over and over at the speed of light. It doesn’t hurt, just as Van promised, but it’s disorientating and frightening and it makes her feel dizzy. She can still feel Van’s arms around her but she feels totally alone and adrift at the same time.

Finally the sensation stops. Everything is still bright white, but Van is definitely real and solid and her mind has reordered itself again.

Trisha chances to open her eyes. Everything is very white, apart from the ominous looming gate floating in front of them.

Although she doesn’t remember ever seeing it before, Trisha knows that she’s been here before. She’s been beyond that gate. She remembers that nebulous time before the boys brought her back. It was calm, and warm, and peaceful, and she was enjoying it. She didn’t have to worry about anything. She could just wait for Van and the boys to join her, however long that took, and she knew that everything would be all right in the end.

Trisha is incredibly grateful for the extra time she’s had with her sons but now that she’s back here, within touching distance of that wonderfully peaceful afterlife with nothing to worry about, she realises just how much she missed it.

“Trisha. You’re back again already? And you too, Hohenheim. We didn’t really get a chance to speak the last time you were here. You were screaming a bit too much.”

Trisha turns to the source of the voice. It’s just an outline, a silhouette, strange and amorphous and shifting, sometimes appearing female, sometimes male, mirroring first her and then Van as if it can’t make its mind up.

“I’ve come to pay the toll for Trisha’s soul,” Van says levelly.

“Of course, the living Philosopher’s Stone.” The outline smiles, unnerving teeth in the middle of a featureless face. “Well, if you’re willing to sacrifice those souls, I’ll take them. It’s not your choice to make though. It’s Trisha’s soul you want to anchor, after all.”

The thing turns to Trisha.

“It’s up to you. Where would you like to stay?”

The lightning is still blazing around the circle, the powerful red lightning of a Philosopher’s Stone, something unlike Ed and Al have ever seen, and Al is starting to get just a little bit worried. It didn’t take this long when they brought Mom back the first time. It feels like Mom and Dad have been gone forever. He looks over at Ed.

“Something’s wrong. It’s taking too long.”

Ed shakes his head, but his expression looks just as worried as Al feels.

“It’ll be ok. Mom has to make the decision after all. It’s a pretty big one.”

Al supposes he has to accept that, but at the same time, he can’t help wondering what will happen if Mom decides not to come back.

She’s always been happy to be back with them, to have more time with them and the potential for more time with Dad. But Al can’t deny that her second life hasn’t been easy for any of them, and even if she comes back complete with her soul fully bonded and she won’t be affected by her primal hunger anymore, it’s still not going to be easy. It’s still not going to be much of a life, stuck in the house all day because no one else can know what they did. And what if Dad’s internal Stone doesn’t have enough power to bring her back after all? What if they lose both of them?

Suddenly, the alchemic light is gone, the electric lightbulb is blown out from the power, and Al can’t see a thing. He hears a rather ominous thud though.

“Mom? Dad?”

“Hey Mom.”

Ed pats her headstone and sets the flowers down in front of it. It took him a long time to come to terms with what happened and to accept her decision. He still remembers the flood of bitter recriminations that had come out of his mouth when they’d realised that Dad had come back from the gate without Mom, and he remembers Dad not taking any of it in because he’d only had Mom back for a few hours before he lost her again.

“She said that she was sorry not to come back and have more time with you, but that this is the best way for everyone. She wants you to be able to move on from it all. She’ll see us all when we get there. She loves you both so much. So, so much.”

“We’re ok.” He settles on the ground in front of the stone. “Dad and his motley crew of tame alchemists managed to save the world. I like to think they couldn’t have done it without us though.” In the back of his mind, he hears Mom’s laughter. “And we think he’s mortal again; he’s started going grey. We don’t know if he’s actually noticed that or not.”

There’s a long pause.

“I understand why you did it,” Ed says eventually. “I didn’t, for a long time. I was so angry. I thought that you’d abandoned us like Dad did. Except that was more complicated than we always thought, and I know that your choice was more complicated too. You would always have been a reminder that we broke the taboo, and even though I know you never complained about it, I know it must have been hard for you to have to be kept secret all the time. None of us had any idea if it would have worked properly. It wasn’t worth that risk. It wasn’t worth that pain. I’m sure that you’re happy wherever you are.”

He gives the stone a final pat. “I love you, Mom.”

In the quiet peace beyond the gate, Trisha Elric smiles.

“I love you too, Ed.”

#FMA Brotherhood #FMA Fanfiction #Trisha Elric #Edward Elric #Alphonse Elric #Trishenheim #Fic: Not Quite Right #cw: mild gore #cw: mild body horror #cw: zombies

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