#it takes so much more out of me than mending a sock or knitting something

[senadimell]

On “Writing it anyways”

There’s definitely something to be said for “no matter your skill level, if you’ve got a dream, do it anyways,” because that’s how I managed to write a 70k fix-it fic after not writing fiction on my own since literal 6th grade (that’s 11-12 years of age).

But there’s also something to be said for “help, I’ve got so many ideas and they’re literally beyond my capacity to create because I know from experience the toll required to make them reality—and I cannot afford to pay that toll.”

I’m thinking here about Susanna Clarke after Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell here. I haven’t yet read Piranesi, though I’ve heard it’s brilliant, but I do know it’s not a book of the same scale and scope of Norrell. That’s not an indication of quality, by the way—just saying that it may not ever be possible for Clarke to create another monstrously intricate, brilliant, massively long book like Norrell again due to health limitations. I hope she can, and I’m sure she also hopes she can, but there’s no guarantee. Writing something requires a toll.

On a slightly different but still related note, we joke about how fanfic writers are able to churn out stories through the wildest of circumstances, and that’s certainly true, but for every one of those “sorry for the late update, I just gave birth!” people, I’m willing to bet there are many who produced one or two things and then didn’t keep going. Or, think of the thousands of unfinished stories out there. The thousands of unpublished drafts. The one-hit wonders and the cryptids, the people who publish once every seven years. That 125k unfinished monster story that hasn’t been updated since 2007. I’d argue that the vast majority of fic writers are stopped by car accidents and health crises and family challenges and jobs. Turning to writing to cope is one response, but leaving writing by the wayside is another common response.

I dunno, I keep seeing posts that are about “write it anyways,” and I keep refraining from reblogging them with snarky commentary because I realize I’m not the target audience here. Those are primarily aimed at people intimidated by the incredible amount of skill they see and are afraid to be novices. Or people who think that beginning at something means only doing incredibly tedious beginner projects like what dick-and-jane readers are for kids. You know, not learning to knit at all because you think you have to suffer through making a garter stitch scarf before you can make a sweater. To that target audience, those posts are probably really inspiring! You don’t have to do the boring thing before you graduate into being allowed to write interesting things!

But on the other hand, there is something despair-inducing to realize the amount of work required to produce your dream, especially when you don’t know if you’ll ever have the spoons to be able to create it. So yes, write it anyways. But leave room for grief at what you can picture but not accomplish, and learn to make peace with the beauty you can find and cultivate. That’s how we got Piranesi, by the way.

...What Piranesi is not is the longed-for sequel to JS&MrN. Only months after the publication of her debut, Clarke became ill with what was eventually diagnosed as chronic fatigue syndrome. “I was doing a lot of travelling and promoting and getting on and off aeroplanes – the sort of thing I’d never done before. And then in the spring of 2005 I collapsed, and that was the beginning of it. It’s hard to remember an illness because it’s just a lot of nothing. It’s very hard to make it into a shape.”

Writing became torturous – “all the projects I’ve tried to work on while I was ill kept flowing down a lot of alleys, that was part of the illness” – and the JS&MrN sequel is still “a long way off” completion. “I think it may be a feature with chronic fatigue that you become incapable of making decisions. I found it impossible to decide between one version of a sentence and another version, but also between having the plot go in this direction and having it go in that direction. Everything became like uncontained bushes, shooting out in all directions. That’s the state that the sequel to Jonathan Strange is in. It’s almost like a forest now.”

An invitation to the set of the miniseries in Yorkshire helped to clear the path. “I was really uncertain about going, I thought it would be too much for me, but I loved it. I’d felt ‘I’m not an author, I’m just this invalid and I have been for years,’ but they treated me as an author and that made me feel it was a possible thing again.”

With “the consciousness of all the years that I hadn’t written and all the projects I hadn’t completed” weighing on her, Clarke decided “to simplify what I was asking of myself”, returning to an old work in progress that was to become Piranesi (“it probably predates JS&MrN”) as a more manageable prospect. “I thought, it doesn’t have hundreds of characters and it won’t require a huge amount of research because I don’t know what research I could do for it.”

Susanna Clarke: ‘I was cut off from the world, bound in one place by illness’

So you might not be able to ‘do the thing anyways.’ You are allowed to grieve at what you can’t see yourself doing. But that doesn’t mean you will not find a more manageable garden to tend to. It is often hard to anticipate any kind of recovery when in the doldrums of sickness or pain, and yet we often do find easier and more enabling ways to live.

#on writing #fanfic #fandom #not to be too gloom-and-doom; i'm not greatly ill or limited in many ways #but i do find myself in a time and place of life where most of my mental resources need to be devoted to writing horrid things #like cover letters #and there's rarely enough left over for creative endeavors of the writing variety #(in a *exhausted; whole week drained; operating at low capacity for days* kind of way) #it takes so much more out of me than mending a sock or knitting something #and i am quite limited in how much mental energy i have left over to spend on things like writing #most of my actual writing was a joyful but also slightly desperate attempt to cope at several things going downhill in my life #until the point where i reached the finish line of the story #which coincidentally coincided with the beginning of a recovery #and i have barely written anything since then #but i'm still here and learning and hopefully have a long future ahead of me in which to learn

[sarahwroteathing]

Stockings, fluff, Steve Rogers

You were half-frozen and half overheated by the time you reached Steve’s apartment, bundled to high heaven in two shirts, two sweaters, a scarf wrapped all the way up to your nose, a puffy coat, and a hat that almost covered your eyes entirely. You knew you looked ridiculous, but the look Steve gave you when he answered the door, amused but undeniably endeared, made it hard to mind so much. While you tossed your hat onto the small table by the door, he hooked a finger in your scarf, tugging it down just enough to press a smiling kiss to your lips.

“Excuse me, pal. At least take my coat first,” you said, laughing as you followed his defensive point to the mistletoe he had tacked over the doorway. 

“You decorated!”

“I did!” he said, looking extraordinarily proud of himself as he helped you out of your coat and one of your sweaters. 

“You do realize you’ll be giving out a lot of free kisses with that mistletoe placement though, don’t you? The poor mailman is going to fall in love with you.”

Steve snorted, and you couldn’t help but break into giggles thinking of his elderly mailman with his silver braid and curly mustache. 

“I just hung it up when you said you were on your way. I can move it.” 

You smiled, finally getting your wet bootlaces untangled and wiggling free of the heavy snow boots with a relieved sigh. Finally feeling human again, you looked up at Steve, who was leaning against the wall watching you with a little smile on his face like he’d be perfectly content to stare at you all evening. 

“Hi,” you said, dragging him away from the wall for a long hug, snuggling your face against his soft, green sweater.

“Hi,” he whispered back, giving you a gentle squeeze until there was no space between you at all. 

“Wanna show me your decorations?”

“Mm… One more minute?”

“Retirement is making you soft, Rogers,” you laughed.

“Yeah. I’m okay with it.”

When Steve was satisfied, he let you go with a kiss to the forehead, taking your hand to lead you farther into the apartment. 

It was cute, what he’d done to the place. Understated but cozy. There were extra blankets on the couch, a maroon chenille and a deep green wool. A neat row of red votive candles sat on the coffee table, and a surprisingly tall Christmas tree was tucked into the corner, more garland and lights than ornaments. But it was what hung from the two little hooks on the wall that made you press your hand over your mouth to hide a smile.

“What?” Steve asked, having spent the last few moments looking at you while you looked over the living room.

“Nothing! It looks lovely. Very cozy!”

But when you walked over to sit on the couch, he followed you with slightly narrowed eyes.

“Did I leave a price tag on something?”

“Not that I can see.”

Steve grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch just as you reached for it, holding it behind his back.

“No soft new blanket for you until you tell me.”

You bit your lip, glancing again at the socks hanging from the wall by the loop of ribbon safety pinned to the top. 

“I just um… Did you hang socks on the wall?”

Steve followed your gaze.

“Yeah? But they’re the nice fluffy ones you like. They’re not… running socks or something.”

“Okay…” you said with an endeared smile. “Just asking.”

“People don’t do that anymore, huh?” he asked with a self-deprecating smile. 

“I’m sure some people do! Most probably get the stockings they sell in stores though. They’re bigger and easier to put stuff in. But I remember we used knit socks one year when I was a kid! We had just moved and didn’t know where the Christmas stuff had ended up.”

“One year when I was about… ten, maybe? Ma had a few dresses that needed to be retired. It was getting too obvious how many times she’d had to mend them, I guess. So she had me cut them up, and we used the fabric to sew stockings. They kinda looked like quilts.”

He smiled at the memory, and you squeezed his hand. 

“I love that.” 

“I can go buy some stockings tomorrow. You want to come? Pick out your own?”

“Absolutely not. Leave the socks. They’re cute,” you said, kissing his cheek. “Just like you.”

“Cute?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhmm. And charming. Also like you.” You gave him another kiss. 

He shook his head at you, but he was smiling now. 

“And if you want…” you started hesitantly. “I mean, I have a few old shirts and things that could be retired. If you wanted to maybe make some little quilt stockings together. But I don’t want to barge into an old family memory so -”

You didn’t get to finish your overthinking spiral because Steve took your face between his hands and silenced you with a warm and enthusiastic kiss.

“Oh!” 

“I love that idea,” he said, leaving you with one, two, three more soft little kisses.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers imagine

[anjelicawrites]

The lost honor of Badger's crossing

Paring: Abraham x reader

Synopsis: you are adjusting to your life as Abraham’s wife. Everything seems to be perfect, when two strangers come knocking.

Warnings: reader has burn marks, angst, fighting, Abraham’s possessiveness, reference to arson, reference to murder, reference to prejudice against the Romanichal community, kissing, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, kissing, scratching, overstimulation, conceive kink if you squint your eyes.

A/N 1: I don’t know anyone from the Romanichal community and used Google for my research for this fic. I tried to be as accurate and respectful as possible. Please let me know if I’ve written something wrong so I can make the needed corrections!

A/N 3: Abraham doesn’t have a surname, I had to use Google to look for Romanichal surnames and pick one.

A/N 3: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

Abraham stares at you with a small smile on his face as you put some more wood inside the stove; the vardo is paneled with thick wood, but you like to be warm all the time, for this reason you're wearing one of his oldest cardigans: a ratty thing you had stitched back together with love and patience, that you wouldn't let him wear outside but it's perfect to stay indoors while doing chores. 

NSFW and 18 + only under the cut!

Quickly you finish putting together his lunch and give him the tight knotted cloth, hoping the food will not get too cold by the time he eats it. 

His big hands cover yours and he kisses your forehead gently; Abraham is such a different man in the privacy of your vardo, more affectionate and less aggressive than anyone has the luck to see him.

“Are you staying here today?”

You can see the worry in his eyes, he doesn't like when you wander around on your own, even flanked by the dog he bought for your safety. 

“Yes, I have so much work accumulated I will have my hands full for the whole day.” 

You’ve been elbow deep in your own old book trades, the only thing you bought with you from your old life, that you let the normal chores slip a bit and you don't want anyone to think that you're not taking care of your husband properly. 

“Good.”

His warm lips find yours in a deep kiss and you have to force yourself not to slip out of your clothes: the horses need him, he has his share of work to carry out. 

He's near the door when you stop him hastily. 

“Wait! Put this on, it's awfully chilly already!”

You wrap his long neck in the warm scarf your adopted mother knitted for you when you were a child, using thick, red wool and a simple, yet elegant, pattern. 

“You worry too much.” He jokes, but you can see in his eyes that he appreciates your care. 

“It is my job, you know. Take care of you.”

“My perfect little wife.” He growls, his free hand lands on your hip to grab the soft meat there. 

“Oh no Mr. Heron. Off you go!” You laugh as you walk backwards deeper in the vardo. “I’ll see you later!”

He stares at you with a burning stare that tells you he's not going to let you sleep tonight. 

The commotion happens later in the afternoon. You’ve been a busy bee for the whole day: doing the accumulated washing up, deep cleaning the vardo and cooking yourself a quick lunch. You had just put the heatless curlers in your hair and pulled out your sewing kit to start working on the random array of ruined socks that needed some mending, before the sun sets, that you hear shouting outside and the dog at your feet starts growling.

You step out of the vardo and mingle with the women standing behind the wall of men partially shielding you all; you can still see the two men dressed in cheap suits and the car they drove to the field where you are all currently living.

Between the shouting and the drove of buzzing chatting all around you, you can barely make out what the men are saying and froze when you pick up that they are policemen and they are looking for you; when they shout your maiden name, your instinct is to step up, but Mrs. Lee grabs your arm to stop you from moving and her husband shouts that there’s no one with that name living in the community: it is a technicality, you’re now Mrs. Heron and those men don’t know that, yet, but they will.

Without having spoken to them you know they will come back with questions about Badger’s Crossing.

You scuttle back into the vardo to curl on the bed and cry: for how long will that place hang over your heads? 

You catch a whiff of Abraham’s aftershave and the tears come out harder: you wish he was here to keep you safe in his arms, but you know it’s better that he wasn’t around: he’s so protective of you and aggressive with the outside world, that you fear he would attack those men and put himself in a ocean of troubles just to keep them off your scent. 

He’s not going to like any of this: you know he’s deluded himself into thinking that the matter with Badger’s Crossing had been resolved, but it’s always going to come back and haunt the whole community, even though none of them had anything to do with it.

Your fears have been proven right when he enters the vardo like a storm; likely Mr. Lee has already spoken with him and he’s charged himself up with rage, which explodes in a shouting match between you two.

“You’re not talking to these men!” 

He orders and boy how much that doesn’t sit right with you!

“You don’t tell me what to do Abraham!”

“You are my wife! You will do as I say!”

“I’m not your possession! And I do whatever I feel it’s better!”

“This is not your decision! The community will decide what’s better!”

This is something you still struggle with: you are used to shoulder the consequences on your own, make your bed and lie on it, as your adopted mother used to say, do what you think it’s right regardless of what others think (and if you hadn’t followed this mindset, you would have never met Abraham in the first place), now you have to do the polar opposite. You understand that your circumstances have changed, that gadji see the community, not the person and all excuses are valid to perform violence and persecution, but those policemen came for you and, to protect the community, you should do your part, even though the idea makes you sick.

You go to the assembly still angry at Abraham and stand stiffly by his side, only to slip away as soon as voices are raised: you know where this is going and you know you’re going to say something you’re going to regret.

You walk to the edge of the camp, Cyril the dog flanking you the way Abraham teached him and you scratch his head; the animal is still young but he’s big, a mongrel with some shepherd dog in him, by the way he tries to move you towards the path he thinks it’s the safest for you to walk.

You can hear in the distance the sounds of the assembly and you desperately wish for a pack of smokes.

“Penny for your thoughts’” Mrs. Lee says from behind you and you jump out of your skin.

“Jesus Christ!”

“I didn’t mean to scare you child. I didn’t see you back there, I thought you wanted to express your opinion on the matter.”

You try to look into her eyes but darkness has fallen and you can barely make out her form.

“If I were to voice what I think, I would regret the words immediately.”

You can’t see Mrs. Lee, but you can sense her gaze weightining you. She’s an impressive woman who commands respect not because she’s married the head of the community, but because she exudes a charisma you’ve rarely felt from other people. 

You’re not sure she likes you, she’s accepted you and helped you when you had no one else, like everyone else has done, but you wonder if she just did it out of affection for Abraham, or if she saw something in you.

You often ponder about this matter, if Abraham’s extended family simply tolerates you because he’s imposed you to them through marriage; on some levels you know you’ll always be the gadja that’s now living in their community, who tries to adapt but will always be something else, bought up following a different set of rules.

“What would you say that’s so scandalous, child?”

You take a deep breath and try to organize your thoughts.

“There shouldn’t even be a discussion happening at the moment: those people came calling for me, I should address whatever issue they have with me.”

“It became ours when you joined us. And we were at Badger’s Crossing as well.”

“None of us did anything wrong!” “Are you so naive to think that truly matters?”

The ice in her voice stops you: you still forget that the privilege you grew up with has never extended to them.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” You hang your head. “I still don’t think pretending I don’t live here or, God forbid, leave, will solve the problem. Those men will come back time and time again, until they’ve got what they’re after.”

Mrs. Lee hums and you feel her heavy gaze on you again.

“We should have never stopped in Badger’s Crossing, it was never part of our atching tan: we should have known better and now it’s our problem to shoulder, not yours alone, child. You didn’t bring that in our lives, if that’s what you fear, it oozed in our direction the second we stopped.”

You let go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I don’t trust the police.” You tell Mrs. Lee. “Half of the problems at Badger’s Crossing would have been solved if our constable had done something. I don’t know why they want to talk to me, but they didn’t come guns blazing, perhaps if they get what they’re after, they’ll leave us be.”

Mrs. Lee's hand curls around yours; her palm is dry and work hardened, still is gentle and holds the faint memory of your birth mother’s touch.

“I’ll talk to my husband, just promise me you will not do anything without talking to him. The discussion is still ongoing.” She clutches your hand tightly. “You should do the same with your husband. He means well.”

“I know he does. We’re both stubborn like mules.”

When you get back to the vardo Abraham is nowhere in sight, he is still discussing the matter at hand, probably, and you wish a final word hasn’t been said on the matter.

You enter and go to the stove and put some more wood in there, before you light some candles and start undressing.

The vardo is bigger than the one Abraham used to live as a bachelor and far more decorated than the masculine, but simply furnished old vardo even was: you two want to expand your family and will need the space one day.  

You two had decorated it as newlyweds, you wanted more colors and painted all the wooden paneling with botanical designs and put pretty fabric everywhere, Abraham letting you because he knew he couldn’t stop you and helped you with all the patience he had: it had truly been a work of patience to live in an ongoing project and isn’t that the perfect metaphor for marriage? Still you don’t want to talk to him right now because you’re reeling from the fight and how he addressed you as his property and not his wife, the memory stroking anger and sadness in your chest, so much so that you can feel the tears already forming in your eyes: you need to sleep on this before you can even start to think about addressing the situation with him.

Abraham comes back later to the silent vardo. The fire is dying in the stove and the air is not as chilly as he thought it would be; you’ve left all the stubs of candles you two own to illuminate the vardo for him and he smiles at your thoughtfulness. He undresses as quietly as he can and slips inside the bed, next to your form.

You’re facing the wall and pretend to be asleep, you don’t see the way Abraham’s hand lifts towards your form, before he turns on his side to try and sleep a handful of hours: if he were a more courageous man, he knows he would curl his arm around your sleeping body, making sure that you know he’s still here for you, your fight be damned, but he fears your rage and can’t stand your rejection, not today, not when the world of the gadji came back to hurt you and he’s afraid of not being able to protect you.

So close, he had been so close in Badger’s Crossing to lose you, he feels like the air is escaping his lungs at the mere thought of harm befalling you: he needs to keep you safe, whether you want it or not, he’s too selfish to think of a life without you, why can’t you see it?

You wake up alone and cold, not because the stove isn’t burning, Abraham left it going at full mast and he’s put some more covers over you, but because you haven’t slept in his arms as usual and it feels wrong, as it had been going to sleep still angry at one another. You and Abraham haven’t been married for too long, shy of a year and you don’t want that to happen ever again.

You quickly eat your breakfast, your heart swelling when you see that Abrahams has brewed tea and left the pot on the stove to keep it warm for you: you will talk to him as soon as he gets back, loathing that the fight has lasted this long.

You feel the nervous energy pervading the whole camp and are glad that your chores are outside, for the day, having decided to go look for mushrooms and special herbs for old Mrs. Doe: she’s ancient and her poor knees and ankles don’t work anymore the way they should, you’re happy to help her any way you can. 

You’ve been walking for the good part of three hours, Cyril unleashed but never wandering around and with a big basket at your hip, full of mushrooms and herbs. 

To go back home you have to walk the last leg on the country road and leash Cyril just in case: there aren't many cars around but you don’t want to risk it.

You’ve almost arrived when you see the two policemen, they are smoking next to their car parked on the curb and are eyeing the road.

“Mrs. Heron, it has been difficult finding you.”

As you approach you can observe them: the one addressing you is tall and lanky, with a long, thin face and piercing eyes, his colleague is as tall but bulky, with a fat face and small, dark eyes.

“Who are you?” You stop at a distance and Cyril stands in front of you.

“I’m DCI Anderson and this is DS Thomas. We would like to have a word with you about Badger’s Crossing.”

You stiffen, even though you expected that to happen.

“There’s nothing to talk about. The whole matter was sorted by the coroner.”

“I still would like to talk to you. I’m curious to understand what happened.”

Both men are moving closer to you and your first instinct is to step back, keep the distance between you three.

“I think you can easily access all the documents you need. If you don’t mind, I have some work that needs to be done.”

“Actually, we do mind.” 

As if on a cue from his boss, DS Thomas’s hand curls around your wrist, stopping you from sidestepping them, Cyril growls at him.

“Keep that mongrel at bay!” He barks.

“Then keep your hands off me!”

You try to pull your arm away and his hold only tightens painfully.

“There’s no reason for violence. We’re here to help. We're all friends: let Mrs. Heron go.”

The brute does as he’s told and that’s all you need to know about their dynamic.

“As much as the paperwork was informing, I very much like to know what had happened from one of the survivors, and why you left.”

“I don't wish to revisit that and it's none of your business the reason why I don't live there anymore.”

You don't like this DCI Anderson, the more you look into his eyes, the more the coldness there seeps into your bones. 

“We decide what's our business, not you.”

DS Thomas barks in your face and your mind goes to the small knife in your pocket. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“No one is accusing anyone of anything, Mrs. Heron. I'm just curious to know why an Oxford graduate decided to change their life so drastically.”

“Then again, not a crime. We all need a change of scenery.”

DCI Anderson stares at you with unreadable eyes and you know he’s like those dogs who don’t stop chasing their prey until they’ve grabbed it. 

“Take my card, Mrs. Heron, there’s my phone number, if you ever need it. I'm not here to cause you any harm.”

“There’s no need for that:”

You three were so focused  that you didn't see Mr. Lee and some of the other men arrive; you use the sheer number of them to put as much distance between the policemen and yourself: hopefully they’ll let you go.

“Don’t be afraid to ask for our help, Mrs. Heron!” DCI Anderson says with a cold voice. 

Someone takes the basket from you as Mr. Lee asks you if you're alright; you don't truly know what to answer, something in the interaction irks you. 

As soon as you all arrive at the vardo, you can see Abraham pacing in front of the door. 

“What are you doing here? Is everything alright?” You blurt out. 

“Did they hurt you?”

His hands land on your arms and curl there to stop himself from checking all over you in front of the whole camp. 

“How? Abraham? I'm fine.” You half lie to him. 

“I’ve sent Paul’s children to collect him. We need to discuss this.” Mr. Lee interjects. 

“Yes, of course.” You say, opening the door of the vardo.

The two men sit around the table and you wish you were alone with your husband: now, more than ever, you need the comfort of his embrace. 

“Cuppa?” You ask, unable to sit still. 

“Thank you.” Mr. Lee answers

You zone out from the conversation and focus on what you're doing in the vain attempt to understand what irked your brain so much. 

Like an automaton you fill the kettle and put it on the stove, the drone of the men's voice not truly entering your brain as you try to decide which tea to brew and which biscuit to offer to Mr. Lee. 

“They think you stole me.” 

You say, putting the tray with the teas on the table, cutting through the men’s discussion. 

This is an old habit of yours, losing yourself in your thoughts to simply blurt them out, something both your birth and adoptive mothers used to scold you about

“That horrible DCI saying that he wants to help me. Yes, he wants to know about Badger’s Crossing, but he thinks you’ve taken me against my will, even married me into the community in the same fashion.”

The two men stare at you as if you’ve sprouted a second head. 

“That's why he was so pushy yesterday and ambushed me today. He believes me captive.”

Abraham stands up abruptly, almost sending the tea set flying around the vardo. 

“I’m going to kill him!”

“You're not going to do such a stupid thing, son!”

Mr Lee is already on his feet, back against the door of the vardo, ready to stop Abraham from doing something stupid. 

“It is not the worst thing gadji accused us of. They have no honor, they can't understand.” Mr. Lee adds. 

“That's why I need to talk to them.” 

You stand in front of your husband with one hand on his beating heart, Mr. Lee stands behind you, forgotten. 

“I'm not letting them steal you away!”

Panic and rage tinge your husband's voice, more than ever you wished you two were alone. 

“I'm not going anywhere but the matter needs to be addressed or it would truly appear as if I am a prisoner here.”

“Do you truly think those men will believe you?” Mr. Lee stares at you dubiously. 

“The only opinion that matters is that horrid DCI’s, the DS is just his guard dog, I don't even think he has a brain.” You pause to let the information sink in. “And me not being a romni could probably help: they’ll never believe any of you, they might me.”

You can feel Abraham's chest vibrate under your palm, his strong muscles shifting. 

“If they put a hand on you!” He growls. 

You hope no one will ever tell him that's already happened. 

“No one shall ever touch your bride, not with all of us ready to protect them.” Mr. Lee says. 

“No, that can't happen or it will truly look like I am not free to talk with them. And I don't want them in our space.”

“I'm not letting you be alone at their mercy. It is not negotiable.”

You recognise the possessive tone in Abraham's voice, understand that's his way to express his concern, and guilt envelops you like a blanket: he shouldn’t be suffering for you. He shouldn’t live in fear for you.

“The clearing is surrounded by trees.” Mr. Lee’s voice is reasonable. “We can easily hide there, they'll never see us.”

Abraham keeps you in his arms, after Mr. Lee leaves, his masculine smell, mixed with the horses’, fills your nostrils and calms you.

“Do you have to go back?” Your question is muffled against the wool of his jacket.

“No, Ben and his children can manage for today.”

Abraham’s arms tighten around your body, his face finds home against the curve of your neck.

“You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. I hate it.” It comes out more broken than what you’d like.

“I’ll never let them take you from me. Never!”

“That will never happen. I’m yours Abraham.”

His arms tighten to the point of pain and you wish you’d never have to leave the safety of his hold, of your vardo, to face the past again, after the onslaught that had been the inquest.

You still wish you were in Abraham’s arms, instead of standing in the clearing, having to endure the small talk of DCI Anderson.

“I’m glad you called, Mrs. Heron.” He says with a flat tone: now that you’re here he doesn’t have to pretend.

“I didn’t feel like I had any other choice, DCI.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way, Mrs. Heron. My job is asking questions, even when people don’t want to answer them, it is no one’s fault.”

“In this case, your enquiries are about a matter that has been closed and that reopens a wound, DCI Anderson.”

You know all your answers are stiff, but you can’t help but feel the same wave of pain you did when Badger’s Crossing was set ablaze, killing many of the people you used to call friends.

“It wasn’t my goal, Mrs. Heron and I am truly sorry.”

You want to ask him how much truth there is, since his DS snorts at your words, but you don’t want to derail this conversation.

“You should ask your questions, DCI Anderson.” You try to inject as much steel as you can in your words: those men don’t need to know how off putting this whole conversation feels.

DCI Anderson’s cold eyes bore into yours, trying to assess you.

“Badger’s Crossing was an idyllic place to live. Why not go back?”

You bark an unhappy laugh at his face: you can’t help yourself, this man is far more of an imbecile than you thought he was!

“I think you should scrap that ideal country village image from your mind, DCI. Badger’s Crossing has been my home for years, but it wasn’t an idyll. What happened was a long time coming.”

“The arson? The murders? It is hard to believe, Mrs. Heron.”

“To you, maybe, who live in the big city. I have been living there since the war, I knew those people and the violence was simmering.”

“Mr. Simmons was a decorated official…”

“Who used to beat his wife into a bloody pulp.” You don’t let him finish.

“A bit of behavior correction never hurt anyone.” The DC adds, and you know he pulls that at home constantly.

“Truly? She mustn't have gotten the idea when she decided to leave, instead of risking her life every day!”

“You shouldn’t exaggerate, Mrs. Heron.” DCI Anderson intervenes.

“I am not and this is the truth. Take it or leave it, I don’t care if you like it. Mr. Simmons was a cruel man who loved bullying anyone smaller and less strong than he was. From the moment his wife left, he started raining his violence on the whole community; constable Smith knew and did nothing to stop him.”

“I don’t see how scolding two gypsy girls is raining violence.” the DC adds with a scowl. “They were going to steal anyway. He did what any good man should.”

“What happened to be considered innocent until proven guilty? He berated those girls without any reason and didn’t like it when I told him to stop. It happens when you act the asshole in public!”

“I didn’t go to war to hear this disrespect!” DC Thomas advances towards you and you fear the men would do something stupid. “A man has the right to protect his community!”

“Well, both my parents died during an air blitz, this gives me the right to protect anyone, according to your logic.”

“Mrs. Heron, my colleague doesn’t want to offend anyone, but we all know how those people are.”

“Oh, so you know all of them. You probably know the whole of humanity. Did you know that Mr. Simmons attacked and threatened his neighbors for no reason? That Mrs. Ashtown and her son were two blackmailers and that the wife of the vicar had intercourse with half of the men in town? Badger’s Crossing was my home and had many secrets.”

You take a big breath as you let the men absorb the barrage of information.

“We all had secrets, only exacerbated by living in such a small community. Mr. Simmons needed help, he came back from the war a different man, more cruel than he ever was and lived among us, until he did the unthinkable.”

You will never know why he did what he did, what did the Ashcrofts did to deserve to be annihilated and if Mr. Simmons ever wanted to destroy the whole village, or if he couldn't control the fire he set at his neighbor’s home.

No one will ever answer those questions.

“You want to know why I chose this life? Because that place is cursed now and I can’t live in another village without thinking about Badger’s Crossing, without imagining the horrors hiding behind the nice cottages and farms.”

You move the patch of hair you use to hide the burn marks on the side of your head.

“I have to live with this. I have more on my body and I was lucky enough to find a way out of the burning village.”

Abraham saved you. He faced the flames and the smoke to pull you out of the inferno that was your home, when you were too frightened to find a way out yourself; you often wonder if your birth parents felt that way during the air blitz that killed them, if fear petrified them as your home caved on them, or if your dad had tried to save you mum, and failed in the process. 

“Is this enough of a reason?” You ask, removing the fingerless gloves you always wear and roll your sleeves to show the extent of the damage.

Both men are visibly repulsed by the mess that’s your skin and whatever questions they might still have, die on their lips: DCI Anderson’s cold demeanor seems to fall as his eyes land on your body and you know he’s trying to imagine if there’s more scars that you’re not showing, DC Thomas looks haunted and you wonder if he’s seeing someone else, someone who never made it home.

“It was my husband’s people who nursed me into health, as the inquest went on. They went against their own interests to keep me safe and sound, no survivor of Badger’s Crossing ever came forth to ask about me, how I was fairing, and those people knew me ever since I was evacuated there. They saw me grow up and be adopted, they came to me at the library asking for reading suggestions, they bought their antiques at my adopted dad’s shop. I was part of the village life and no one wondered about my health.”

Slowly you cover your scars and adjust your hair.

“And you ask me why I don’t want to go back to that life?”

You don’t know what those men came looking for, or if your answers were what they wanted, the only thing you know is that you feel drained, that your feet barely carry you away from the clearing and that those men let you go with haunted eyes; not that you care.

You seek Abraham’s embrace as soon as you’re away from the clearing, ignoring the men around you: you’re shook and need to be with him, as he does.

Abraham had to be stopped by the other men as soon as he sensed DC Thomas’s animosity towards you, his rage the only way he knew how to express his fear for you, and the pain, when you had to show those men your scars, as if your words weren’t enough to justify your decisions. 

Ever since the fire, he lives with the fear of losing you, of harm befalling you and him not being able to come to your rescue again. In his life before you he had never thought he would care for someone as much as he does for you. He was raised in the knowledge that he needed to be the good man who provides for and  protects his family; the fire had showed him that there’s a limit to what he can do to fulfill this, that anything can happen to you and he would not be able to protect you: how is he supposed to live with this? When the buried past comes haunting you and you have to relive it, and he is powerless against it?

Abraham helps you up enter the vardo and gently removes your thick jacket and boots, he seems to be unable to keep his hands away from your body to show his brain that you’re real and alive, and still with him, that those men hadn’t kidnapped you to bring you back to that accursed place.

You let him remove the pins in your hair and the bandana you always wear and follow him to the sofa in front of the stove, where he makes you sit and covers you with a thick blanket, one of the memories from his own mother and he makes tea for you.

He feels big and clumsy with the dainty tea set in his hands and the biscuit box that you two are supposed to replace, but he needs to move, to do something, anything to ward his fears away.

“Abe?” You raise your hand to grab his trousers. “Abe, come here?”

He falls between your splayed legs to hug you and you hide your face against the side of his neck to muffle your sobs; you can’t control your emotions anymore and simply let go, opening the floodgates as you grab your husband with desperation and he hugs you as tight has he can, crushing you against his body in the vain attempt to absorb you within himself, the only place he knows you’ll ever be safe.

He knows he’s possessive and that it’s hard for you to accept, free as you are, but how is he supposed to show you that he cares? He is a simple man, words don’t come easily for him as they do you, he has to make sure that you know how important you are for him, in any way possible.

His big hands caress your head and back with a gentleness that’s still foreign to him, he murmurs in your ear the same nonsense he does with the horses when they are skittish, until you stop crying and are silently hugging him with all your might.

“Abe?”

Your voice sounds so small it breaks his heart.

“Yes, my love?”

He tries to keep his emotions under control for you, because that’s what you need, but he hears the tremble in his own voice and hates it.

“Will you make love to me? Put your child in my belly? Show anyone who comes knocking that I belong with you?”

You two have been trying since your wedding night, without any luck. You asking him this, now, it’s your way to show him how much you care, your unwillingness to be parted from him, to change your body irreversibly, this time on your own terms.

“Yes, I will.”.

Abraham unfolds his body and stands to his full height, before he lifts you up, bridal style, to carry you to the bed.

With infinite care he sits your there and starts removing your clothes, kissing your scars as they come to light, until you’re naked in front of him, in all your glory.

“I don’t know how you can stand looking at me.”

“I don’t have to stand anything. I chose you for myself and that’s all it matters to me.”.

The certainty of his voice, the blaze in his blue eyes tell you that he is not lying; perhaps another man would wax poetic about your ruined skin, he touches you with reverence and love, calloused hands that become feathers where he knows you still hurt, chapped lips that leave butterfly kisses everywhere as he undresses himself, until he’s naked in front of you, strong muscles born of hard work and his cock, hard and leaking already, just for you.

“I need you Abe, don’t make me wait.” You beg, spreading your legs to show him just how much you need him.

“Never.” He growls from between your thighs.

His hands are strong on your hips when he pulls you towards his mouth, his tongue thirsty for all the sweet nectar you’re about to give him and he feasts on you, his lips everywhere on your cunt, sucking, kissing, nibbling; he moans when your juices hit his tastebuds, making you shiver in his hold and his lips fasten around your clit, sucking harshly, hungrily for more as his fingers explore your depths, looking for that special place that makes you kick against his face and he fucks against it, fast and unforgiving, needing you as wet as possible, mad for him as he is for you.

Your hands grab his hair and pull, desperately, trying to control his movements, how fast he’s throwing you in the throes of your own orgasm, to no avail: you’re at his mercy, your hips are pushing against his face without your control, seeking the pleasure he’s giving you, rubbing against his nose and chin, until he’s drenched and fucking your hole with his tongue becomes a need and you keen, muscles clenching desperately around the intrusion, your own legs manacles around his face and he woudln’t want to die in any other way but drowning in your juices.

He removes his face with a grunt and you cry out, your orgasm so close.

“Ride me. I want you to feel me in your throat. Remind you whom you belong to.” He growls, low and hungry, as he lays on the bed.

His cock is proud and red, small pearls of precum bubble on the tip and you swiftly lick them, not wanting any of his essence to go to waste.

You’re so wet when you straddle him, your hole loose already for him that his broad head breaches you easily as his nails rake down your unburnt skin, his hands explore your body possessively, one finding home around your throat, the other grabbing your hips to help you move with gentle figures if eight that make his cock burrow inside your cunt all the tighter.

You grind against his body, your clit sending shockwaves of pleasure with every pass, his hand curls around your throat when you start begging for his cock, to go faster, please! He intends to savor you properly, suck on your breasts as you move over him and keen and moan when he finds that spot again and bullies it mercilessly.

“Abe please!” You sound so pitiful and lost, luckily he’s here to keep you safe. “You’re spitting me in two! Abe please!”

His hips move faster now, a trot that has your breasts sway over his face and your cunt squelch around his cock, your muscles pulling him in with every pass and his hands are the only thing keeping you up, now that his hips are pistoning inside of you and your vision blurs with tears and pleasure.

“Pleasepleaseplease.” 

You beg and you feel yourself tighten painfully, your cunt barely able now to house his massive erection and he keeps going, fucking you mercilessly, opening you up to his invasion, spurred by your desperate keens of pleasure.

You come with a scream, your body rigid as he keeps fucking you, prolonging the pleasure until he has to slip out: he’s not done with you.

You’re still trembling over him when he rolls you on your back and bends your legs against your chest, before entering you again with a grunt of pleasure.

You choke on your words as he fucks you hard and fast, your legs around his hips, his hands grabbing the mattress to propel himself inside of you and you’re reduced to a puddle of pleasure and tears, your cunt sore and hungry for his cock and seed, his head reaching so deep inside of you it almost hurts with how full you feel.

You can feel another orgasm surging, stronger than the one before, your whole body curls around him and he has to be brutal to keep fucking you, opening you up again and again, deaf to your pathethic sounds of pleasure, spurred on by your nails on his skin and the small pain they’re causing him.

You’re crying now, your whole body arching under him, your cunt strangling him when his thumb brutalizes your poor clit and you beg him, pathetic and desperate for what you don’t know, needing the pleasure and fearing the band tightening in your belly.

You come abruptly, and he follows you with three sharp pushes and stays rooted inside of you, his weight carried by his arms and legs, his face hidden in the curve of your neck.

“I can’t risk having any of it going to waste.” He groans in your ear.

You kiss him, hungry for him as your cunt is for his seed.

“I can’t wait to have your baby.” You pant, body still shaking.

“I can’t wait to see you full with my seed. Time and time again. See your belly swell and your breast fill out. Show everyone that you’re mine.”

“Yes Abraham, yes. Let everyone know I’m yours.”

He kisses you again and you try to push your heel against his lower back when he moves to dismount.

“Don’t go anywhere. I want to feel you grow hard inside of me.”.

He groans, eyes crossing at your words: he’ll do anything for you, anything you ask, as long as you’re happy and safe.

#abraham #abraham x reader #abraham x y/n

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: ii

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii (epilogue)

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @firein-thesky​​

word count: ~15.2k

Healing takes time, but it’s easier with someone else around who’s on the mend with you. 

(You and Keigo learn to start living again.)

warnings: codependency but make it sexc, injured reader, post-trauma symptoms, reader has abandonment issues, angst, ouchies <3

a/n: part 2 :’^) we made it!! soft hurt and very horny codependency that involves keigo’s immaculate d*ck. all that is left after this is part 3 which will be more of an epilogue :’^) 

enjoy loves <3

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

The doors to exit the hospital scare you.

How can they not?

They’re... automatic.

The glass panes are wide, sliding and slapping as folks come and go, the quiet ring of metal on metal and the slap of the plastic padding makes your heart race.

Get over it, get over it, get over it—

It’s just some doors, they’re normal.

You’ve walked through automatic doors so many times. Never before had you even taken conscious note of them. 

(But that was before you heard them let in that man who—)

Without thinking, you take a little, tentative step back from them. 

Consider you are leaving your own slice of healing hell; you are shakier and sweatier than you would’ve liked. Your clothes are like the ones... he used to wear, cheap garments obviously pulled from some industrial multipack that stank like plastic and rubbing alcohol.

You hate it.

But you didn’t have another choice. Your old articles were bloodied and disposed of long ago, and the hospital gowns you wore during your stay were far more uncomfortable than your scratchy, wide pants and crewneck long sleeve the same pale, lifeless blue as your old bed sheets. 

It would be enough.

You shift the crutch under your right arm and shuffle the backpack on your shoulders. It contains just enough to get you to the shelter, where they’d supposedly have a bed— a cot, more than likely. You had a toothbrush, some extra socks, and a prepaid card for a single, one-way train trip across the country and into the unknown.

Tears stung your eyes as you lingered by the doors.

It all feels so uncomfortably real. The world kept moving, and you’re reentering it far-more battered and perpetually bruised. 

And completely alone.

(The thought horrifies you to your core, but you try to ignore it.)

Despite the time you spent at the hospital, you were leaving without a hint of reverie. Everyone, nurses and doctors and anyone who has fucking eyes is too busy dealing with the casualties that had lasted months. 

It didn’t matter how long you stayed. You were just a body. A fucked up one too. 

You count yourself lucky to even have the backpack, as cheap and sterile as it smells.

It all unnerves you, but you didn’t have a choice. Numbness settles over you as you accept your future. 

There... is a little glimmer that he will show up.

(He won’t. Empty promises.)

(Everyone leaves.)

(Why’d you call him, anyway?)

(Because no one had spoken to you like a human in a month.)

Solitude makes people desperate and crazy.

You are a little crazy, you know. Maybe not in a bad way, but certainly in a way that is eating you up and out in ways you don’t understand. You don’t have the energy sort through it all. You just have to finally start moving forward. Or try to. 

Tentatively, you walk toward the doors, stepping out and onto the pavement. You lurch and you would’ve tripped if not for the crutch shoved under your arm. 

For the first time in a long time, you suck in fresh air and the trickling sunlight. It feels fresh, cleansing you with each little inhale as you face your cheeks to sky. You have your moment, basking before your journey.

Then someone whistles. You ignore it at first.

The person whistles again, calling out— 

“Your ride’s here, starshine!”

Your breath punches from your lungs. You whip your head to the sound. 

Though it’s overcast, you do see your morning sun.

Your steps stutter as you nearly trip over your feet.

He is standing, not far at all, leaning against a shiny black car, sleek and expensive and out of place. He’s all overgrown hair and lazy-expressions, one which stretches into a grin as he sees you.

And you see him.

(He really came?)

(Of course he did.)

Your crutch nearly clatters to the ground as you stumble toward him. The moment you waver, he’s running to catch you.

You meet each other halfway.

And without a goddamn lick of shame, the moment you near him, your arms lock around him. Your face buries into the hollow of his throw and you inhale. The scent of him, a bit spiced but mostly skin and sweat fills you. Not a hint of antiseptic. 

 And you shudder at how good it feels. 

He stabilizes the two of you, greedily wrapping his arms around your waist and squeezing as if to give a much-needed greeting. 

There’s a moment of heat between you, familiar and blessed and so damned missed that you both share shuddering breaths. 

“It’s good to see you, starshine,” He soaks up any part of you he could get to. So casually, he touches like he wants to consume you.

You squeeze him just as hard.

“You came?” Your words muffled into his skin.

He simply nods, and the only confirmation you need to sink into him. Perhaps, there’s onlookers, but neither of you have the mind to care. All you care about is the shift of his muscles beneath your fingertips, the heat of him, his golden, pretty visage—

Like he had so many times, he tucks hair behind your ears and tension drains from him. 

So tenderly does he squeeze around your middle where he holds you up, “Let’s go home, starshine.”

You want nothing more.

...

The drive to your new home is long, but you don’t mind.

The world has changed in the months you’d been tucked away in the forest-hidden hospital. As disconnected as you were, you still heard of the unrest and upheaval across the country. The political clashes are marked by the... contrarian billboards lining the highway, new slogans battling each other every mile or so. 

The scenery slowly goes from flatlands, to wetlands, to rolling hills that are a lush green. From the safety of the car, you could see that the air even looked wet, and you could imagine the way it would stick in your throat and tacky the tips of your fingers. 

“Where do you live?” You finally ask, voice soft in the melancholy softness of the light mist that sprayed the car.

“In the mountains, high-up,” He squeezes your hand (the one he’s been holding the whole ride). Quietly, he adds. “I still couldn’t bear to be too close to the ground.”

He laughs, though it fades into the suddenly heavy air.

This is the world, isn’t it?

You blink, gulping at the face of your reality, and let your eyes go half-lidded as you trace the shapes of growing evergreen as your drive takes you higher and higher. 

...

Keigo had made up the guest room for you.

He doesn’t have much for extra sheets and softness, let alone decor, but he does what he can. The bed is made and pressed with clean lines, freshly washed. The curtains on the windows hang heavy, but warm up the room with their clement, tan fibers. It’s a start, with lots of space for you to add your own touches as well.

He’d spent the night prior on it, laboring, like he was preparing a nest as opposed to a simple bedroom.

(It is a nest, but he doesn’t need to accept that just yet.)

There wasn’t anything else to do for a while when he first escaped that fucking hell. He’d really given up. Keigo was uncomfortably content to rot away as he had dreamed of since he’d been burnt. The little, dusty corners of the cabin would’ve made perfect places to waste away in peace and alone. 

Except, he didn’t.

Keigo started to make the home better.

He isn’t sure if it was out of some need to just do something, and the outdated, worn cabin was his most available canvas. Part of him is convinced it’s some buried avian instinct, and without the Commission’s constant hovering, he has no reason to suppress those more animalistic urges. The need to nest somewhere cozy and safe took him over, and he had gotten to work.

The cabin is cleaned up incredibly well. New appliances, floors patched and polished. The furniture is mostly old, but it’s obviously been shined and tended to. The living area isn’t horribly large, but it’s more than enough space for the two of you. It has wide windows that looked down upon the slopes and peaks that your home is nestled in. The colors are warm oranges and tans that are easy on the eye. Nothing too red and nothing too blue.

Nothing too imposing.

(Nothing too reminiscent.)

He leads you from the car, gingerly helping you up the rickety stairs to the front door. 

The wound on your leg may be ‘healed’, but you don’t appear comfortable in the slightest. Your expression pinches with half of your steps, the bending of your scarred flesh undoubtedly painful. It makes something in his chest squeeze as he navigates you into his house, from the snow into somewhere warm. A place that he crafted all on his own. Shaped with his own hands. A real possession, all his own. 

When you enter, you don’t say anything, only tightening your grip on his hand.

“I like it,” You smile, soft and dreamy, worrying the strap of your backpack. “... Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay?”

“Of course,” Keigo assures you. Of course, it was okay for you to stay. “I’m happy to have you here, especially when the other option is one of the shelters.”

You wouldn’t have lasted a day with your bum leg and natural softness.

The thought has him gulping, the heat flaring in his chest as he tugs you closer, ghosting his lips over your temple.

With only a bit of stumbling, he shows you the rest of the home.

...

You’re quiet the rest of the day, curled up on the couch in the same clothes you left the hospital in. There’s clear exhaustion in your face, from the dark circles ringing your eyes and the tremble in your hand and leg. Keigo is content to cover you in a nice knit blanket he purchased down in the nearby town, and let you rest.

His own back burns when he catches glimpses of your scar. It ran down all the way to your ankle, even bleeding onto the top of your foot. The gnarled flesh brings back memories of screaming and metallic exam rooms.

And he, like you, stares at a wall for a while before making dinner.

 You can’t manage much.

The TV glows with some show you might’ve watched and been engrossed in it.  But the hollow feeling in your chest keeps you submerged in the static of your skull. It’s more comfortable than acknowledging how quickly the picture moves in front of you.

Your only motion is a ‘light’ scratching over the thin fabric of your pants.

‘Light’.

He enters sometime later, bearing food and an easy smile that falls all-too quickly. 

“Hey, starshine— oh fuck,” His voice clips as he enters, setting down steaming plates on the coffee table and pulling your hand from your thigh. The tips of your fingers are stained with enough blood to make your eyebrows shoot up. 

Your eyes shoot to your leg, where you’d apparently tore through the thin fabric of your pants and torn your skin up without even thinking. So close to the scar—

Heat flares between, light bouncing in your eyes as you cover the hole, “S-sorry, fuck, I didn’t even realize.”

“It’s okay, it happens,” Keigo assures you, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Let’s clean you up quick and then eat, okay?”

You nod, exhaling a weight from your chest as the light skitters out of your eyes. 

And the heat fades from the room. The absence of it chills Keigo, and the abruptness makes his nose scrunch. 

He patches you up quickly and with a precision that screams ‘yes, I have done this far too many times.’ The wound isn’t too severe, just a nasty-looking scratch. The dried blood on your finger is wiped away. 

You both settle onto the couch, eating in silence.

Something hangs in the air, thick and unsaid. Questions and paragraphs that have been ignored up until now. Not out of will, perhaps just tired negligence. 

But, Keigo has always been the blunt type, so he finally asks one of the many facets that needs to be broached. 

“What’s your quirk?”

A little surprised sound lodges in your throat with a bite of baked fish, “My quirk? I thought you figured it out already.”

Keigo raises a feathery eyebrow, “I’m a bit slow these days, starshine.”

The nickname makes something settle pleasantly under your ribs, and the light, little orbs of yellow and orange return to your eyes. 

And heat fills the room, like it had so many times before. Like those first nights in the common room, stargazing in the lamp and starlight. It’s warmth that bleeds between his bones and tendons, through and through.

Keigo puts it all together, jaw going slack and eyes going wide.

Had he never realized it?

It does make sense, in retrospect and without a sinfully heavy dose of painkillers swimming in his veins. The heat that permeated all of the nights you sat, eyeing the stars and each other.

The odd heat of it all. 

You’d been warming the two of you. Souls cold from the sterility of it all. 

“That’s your quirk?” Keigo leans in closer, inspecting the little specks of light in your irises. The tell. “This whole time?”

“U-um, yeah,” You worry a hangnail. “I don’t mean for it to be activating all over the place, but it has been since everything happened.”

“Why’s that?”

You chew the plump of your bottom lip, brows pinched.

Without thinking, Keigo bows to the will of the ever-present, needy feeling in his chest and presses a little kiss to your forehead, willing it to smooth away some of your worry. 

I’m not upset, the action says, but the cabin is quiet.

“... You know how cats purr?”

Keigo quirks an eyebrow, “I do.”

“Well, I think it’s kind of like that,” You met his eyes, the light returning and the fire-like warmth tickling the hair on your arms. “Cats purr when they feel good, but sometimes, they purr when they’re not doing well.”

“... ‘Not doing well’?”

“If they’re in pain, or if they’re really scared,” You go quiet, tracing a seam on Keigo’s jeans. “They’ll purr to comfort themselves. It’s like that.”

Comfort themselves.

No wonder all those nights you spent together, you felt so warm. It was your quirk— 

And you must’ve felt awful. 

Part of him feels betrayed, just for a moment, before it dissolves with the watery look you wear as your injured finger traces over his knuckles. 

And the heat of you flares. 

Your quirk is a part of you.

“I didn’t think to tell you.” Your voice wobbles, yet remains vacant. “‘M sorry.”

You don’t need to apologize.

If anything, the knowledge only strengthens Keigo’s resolve. 

...

The first weeks at the house are odd as you both settle into rhythms of living. There’s an orbit to how you choose to live, though it’s not predictable or reliable. It can’t be, there’s no way for it to be. You float around each other like little planets to a fickle sun, unstable and wavering, but elliptical, nonetheless. 

You’re both learning to be human again with your own rhythms.

Keigo’s biggest challenge is dragging himself from bed each morning. The lazy bones he thought the Commission had broken and beaten out of him still remain somehow. Now that he has no obligations to tend to at the break of dawn, he thoroughly enjoys lazing about in the sheets, even if he’s just staring at his wood-paneled ceiling wishing that Dabi had finished the job and burned him dead.

He’s doing great.

Despite his sluggishness, you move about on your own. 

You make coffee each morning, and curl up on the couch under the same knit blanket. A few patches of the multi-colored throw have been pulled apart by your restless hands. 

Neither of you comment on it.

Though Keigo takes longer to rise, you move far less during the day during those first weeks. You’re tethered to the cushion until the sun goes down.

It’s like the nylon straps at the hospital never left your wrists.

Your vacant nature scares him, if he’s honest. There’s an unspoken, massive wound you carry with you, both physically and mentally, and its manifestation is a little haunting. 

Keigo knows about trauma, knows about how the mind worked and how to, you know, deal with it. He is— was, a hero, for fuck’s sake. Trauma is in the job description and he’d had his fair share of bruises before he went undercover, before he killed Jin (REALLY don’t think about it—), and lost his wings. He’s stitched himself up by filling up his schedule with anything he could. Distractions. Things to occupy him, help him forget for a while. If that didn’t work, he always had a bottle or two of imported soju that he could nurse.

Again, coping.

The state you’re in is the opposite of coping, it’s being. Existing. The strain you carry from everything shows in you, and the way that it’s manifested terrifies him.

Keigo is smart enough to know to keep a few boundaries. He can’t fix you and he can’t get it in his head that he can. He’ll smother you; he knows he will. The solace he finds comes from being there when you need him, and always being close by. 

It’s all he can do to soothe what’s obviously an open wound. He has his own, that you tend to in your own way as well when you can. It’s all give-and-take, naturally and easily. 

You’ll find yourselves on the couch together, leaning and touching so naturally, but with no intent. Your little fingers trace shapes over his clothes, hearts and lettering he can’t catch. The heat of you will cling to him, whether your quirk activates or not.

He holds you, simply and truly. Tries to be a new, kinder being. 

...

You don’t have much that is solely yours. 

You’d been living in an odd combination of Keigo’s clothes and the single outfit you arrived with. It works, enough. Most garments are worn until they’re filthy, but it takes you a little too long to notice. 

Keigo notices.

One day, he sits down with you and his heavy, black credit card and helps you pick out... whatever you wanted. The guy is loaded and will be until he dies, and he’s smitten to help you pick out whatever you need. 

You’re more challenged by the task.

“I’m fine, you don’t need to do this,” you murmur into his collarbones, narrowing your eyes at the laptop screen. “I have enough.”

Keigo clicks his tongue, rubbing the fraying fabric of your shirt, the same, cheap scratchy fabric from the hospital. Your pants are soft cotton, old ones of Keigo’s that he should probably throw away. You adore them, and spend most of your time in them, too.

“You deserve some nice things that are yours, don’t you think?” He coaxes with some extra soft touches as you glare at the screen.

Perhaps, you think to yourself. Your jaw locks.

You deliberately avoided thinking about your lack of... things. The absence of all the bits of you that you had once carried tugs at something deep in your chest. Grief, probably. Loss at the very least. Your home has been torn apart and you have nothing. Not a single remnant of then except you. And you’re hardly a good cast of the existence you once lead. 

The world feels dimmer with the thought. 

...

The house gets cold at night.

It’s inevitable, with the chill of the snowy valleys and peaks slipping through drafty windows and cracks in the woodwork. It slunk into the house once the stars rose, sinking bone deep. It’s easier to ward off during the day. The little stray touches and the ambiance of shared presence helps. 

But, you slept separately. 

It’s cold— so fucking cold in your beds. Keigo hates it. Despises the way how it makes his eyes droop and his body heavier than it should be. Despite not having wings any longer, his other avian traits lingered, and torpor was definitely not in his top three faves. He can only be thankful that he thought to invest in an electric blanket for himself, for his nest.

Though it would be a lot better with you in it, the last thing he wants to do is push you. You’re fragile. Everything is fragile. Keigo has laid awake on more than one night, trying to make sense of all of it, everything and coming to the conclusion that sleeping in his too-big, too-cold bed would have to do.

Sometimes, there’s no way to swallow the state of things.

...

“Your packages are here.”

You look up, eyes wide and sweet.

Oh, yeah. Material goods.

Clothes.

Objects.

It takes a while, but the result of your shopping spree is a small horde of packages down at the town post office, all with your name attached. The idea of so much newness is daunting, but your few remaining garments are threadbare and practically falling apart. It’s necessary, you acknowledge, even if you’re terrified of not living in Keigo’s worn crewneck. 

(Change can be good, you remind yourself. The thought is quiet.) 

Keigo stands by the door, buttoning up his coat and lacing up his boots as you watch from your soft perch on the couch. The blanket has a new, wide hole picked in it, but you don’t notice. 

“Would you like to come with me and pick them up?” Keigo flicks his gaze to you with a careful, easy smile.

You hadn’t left the house since you’d arrived. 

The thought sends your stomach knotting and sweat gathering in your palms. You jerk your head side to side, sinking back down into the cushions.

Keigo doesn’t hold it against you. You can tell by the way his expression softens around his eyes. 

He leaves after kissing you on the forehead a few times, telling you he’ll be quick to return. It’s not often that he leaves, though he’s always timely on coming back. His excursions are never more than a trip to the town market, thankfully. An hour or two feels like a lot, but the too-still air and quiet of the floorboards without Keigo’s pacing unsettles you.

Not having him near unsettles you. The thought of having him gone for too long shoots something hot and needy in your chest.

(Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave—)

Thankfully, just like always, Keigo isn’t gone for long. And he returns bearing a few armloads of packages and some takeout curry. You take it all, and him, greedily. 

(Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

...

It’s a few days later when Keigo wakes to you knocking on his door in the early hours of the morning. 

It had been a... rougher day. You had been a bit livelier early on, joining him on the snowy patio for morning coffee and even taking a quick walk around the neighboring forest. With the snow so deep, you could only go so far though. The motion of it aggravated your injury, left your gasping and clawing at Keigo’s arm as the scar tissue pulled.

The scar is still dead, thank god, but the impact is just as present physically as it is mentally for you.

The rest of the day you spent curled up on the couch, taking little sips of water between short naps. That night, you hardly touched your dinner. Keigo was smart enough to cut up some fruit and lay it with a handful of crackers and offer it to you throughout the rest of the night. You nibbled at the bits, but hardly consumed much at all.

You went to bed early, giving him a hard hug before retiring to your lonely room.

Those days are the worse, the bad ones. They’re the ones where Keigo wants to break all the boundaries he still has. The little touches and kisses he gives you are one thing, but there’s much more he wants to do. Craves doing. But, pushing you too far or too hard would break you. He’s smart. He knows that. So, Keigo doesn’t wait. He satiates all those protective needs. 

He accepts circumstance, just as he always has. 

(He doesn’t understand how much you crave him, but that’ll come later.)

             That night, things begin to shift. 

His voice cracks with sleep as he calls for you to enter. You linger in the door frame, clutching a pillow to your chest, like a scared child who’s had a— 

“Nightmare?” He asks, sitting up and tugging a blanket with him to cover his bare chest. 

The cold air of the cabin hits his scars. He hisses under his breath, shoulders drawing tense. You must notice, eyes going a little wider as you recede from his room. The darkness of the hallway nearly dissolves you. His chest aches, hands tightening around the fabric in his fists. 

“Come back here, starshine, come on,” Keigo calls, praying you’ll heed him. “It’s alright. What’s wrong?” 

Keigo half-recognizes that that’s a very loaded question, but you’re both a bit sleep addled. Maybe it will slide. 

Your eyes alight in the pitch of the room, sputtering with little orbs of amber. Your atrophying arms squeeze the pillow, and you take a few more tentative steps closer. 

“... We’re safe, right?” 

The question surprises Keigo, enough to make his old wounds ache.

One loaded question answered for another.  

It’s reasonable to ask. It’s very reasonable to ponder. Keigo has wondered about it too. The townsfolk don’t know who he really was, and he was quite secretive about the initial move. The world hadn’t caught onto the fact that ‘Hawks’ had moved him and his new love to an isolated little cabin in the woods, and hopefully they never would. Society had a lot bigger problems, according to the over-processed news channel he tuned into on occasion. 

Keigo was old news at this point.

So many heroes had been called out for poor behavior. Scandal after scandal, coverup after coverup. Corruption, everywhere. It was an industry secret, all of the bullshit behind closed doors.  Keigo’s little double-agent schtick and you know, murder of a good man (for the love of god, do not fucking think about Jin) was still bad, but the public had a whole new slew of bullshit to torch people at the stake for.

Still. 

He’s glad no one knows about your little hideaway or you.

“We’re safe, starshine. Very safe.”’

It makes his answer easier to say, more honest. 

You inch closer from the doorway. There’s a tremble in your shoulders that runs to your hands. You’re only wearing a t-shirt and thin shorts, maybe just panties, he can’t tell. Your scar runs down your thigh and calf, gnarling and twisting the flesh it dared to mar. The seam of it is a shining black that Keigo had failed to notice before. 

It reminds him of why you’re so scared and the types of nightmares you must have. 

“... Promise?” You stop at the foot of the bed, throat bobbing with a thick gulp.

Keigo gives a sympathetic smile, patting the sheets next to him, “I promise. You’re safe. We’re safe.”

You look skeptical, but climb into bed with him all the same. 

Something stirs in Keigo’s chest as you do. As he watches you clamor over the sheets and blankets he... nests in, the heat of it fills him. A combination of yours and his own, spills through his ribs and down to his toes.

He shudders with it, something needy wriggling down from

You sit up on your knees, sinking into the mattress and holding the pillow tight to your chest. Watching, eyes still alight and wide.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Keigo asks.

You don’t, you both know that, but breaking the silence is a start.

You push the pillow against the headboard, trading it to link your fingers with his, over his chest and pressed to the linens. 

You squeeze and let out a breath you’ve been holding. There’s a weight to it, like there’s something you’re actually carrying. There has been something you have been carrying, but only you are able to see it— feel it in its actuality.

But, that doesn’t mean you have to shoulder the burden alone, especially on darkened, lonely nights. 

He tugs you closer, mindful of your tenderness and the scars you both bear. The night is only lit by starlight, and the room is dark with the new moon. It makes it easier to be closer as you settled into the bedding next to him.

It’s uncomfortable for a few moments.

Despite how much contact you share, this feels different. The little touches, kisses and caresses you trade throughout the day are second nature. Comforting someone else who so obviously needs it. His person who needs it. 

(He wonders if you think of him as your ‘person’ too.)

You lay on your side, facing away from him as you fall into his nest, still tense, still on edge and unsure. It reminds him of those first days at the hospital, when you both had lost your tongues and yourselves and just enjoyed the stars together in oddly comforting silence and broken conversation. 

It’s a process, he reminds himself. 

Keigo slides closer, throwing an arm over waist and adjusting the blankets with his other. There’s plenty, piled on top of each other without much reason. Careful hands properly tuck you into it all, next to him, with him. He brings them up to your chin, pressing stray hairs back into place and laying a trailing kiss or two over the back of your neck. 

“... Is it okay if I stay?” Your voice sounds far-off, like the question is more for yourself than for him. 

He can feel the unease and fear still bound up in your shoulders. It’s always there, whether it’s a moonless night or a snow-glitteringly, sunny day. The tension he presses his thumbs into is held in all of the muscle of your back, in your hips, your hands— everywhere.

It makes part of him ache.

A few little coos, soft little rumbles, roll from the back of his throat. 

Normally, he’d be a bit embarrassed. But at the birdish chirps, you’re falling deeper in the sheets, the nest, and against his chest. 

“Please stay,” He assures you with a squeeze. A small comfort, one he’d keep giving. 

 The odd quiet returns, sans the little sounds in his chest. 

Slowly, tentatively, you turn in his arms. Your own lock over his waist, splayed low on his spine. The pads of your fingertips brush scars, the old ones and the new. It makes him writhe a bit in his own skin. It’s unfamiliar, compared to all of the cold prodding and meaningless pleasure he was used to.

It is the closest anyone of familiarity has been to the scars in a long time, and you, preciously, grace him with the softest touch. No expectation in it, just some much-needed, shared bits of love. Once again, precious. 

And you both relax into it all. The ambient thrum of the other's body, the shared breath and smells that mingle between you. There’s little pains and stings that never really go away, but with the other so close, neither of you mind. 

It’s hard to tell when your quirk settles, and the organic heat you create together fills the rooms and your lungs. 

All Keigo knows is that he falls asleep with your lips brushing the hollow of his throat, still and warm against his chest. The feeling of the living rhythm of your body with your breath lulls him off, content and hazy. 

...

You never sleep alone after that night.

Keigo pulls you into his room, or you pad in after brushing your teeth and pulling on your soft, soft sleep clothes. The bed feels a lot less big and lonely with the two of you wrapped up in each other, fully giving in.

It puts Keigo at a remarkable amount of ease. 

The urge in his chest to ‘keep you safe’ feels the most sated at night, when he can keep as close as you both can bear. Your hands always make their home at the base of his spine, or the fat and flesh between his lower back and his rear. The pads of your fingers rub away years of stored tension and weight, quietly and kindly before you fall asleep each night. 

During the day, you’re equally as needy, though you’re slowly becoming a bit more independent. You’re more lucid in general. Though the couch and worn blanket are your greatest comforts (other than him), you’re beginning to stray and poke around the house a bit more. 

The shelves have a few more familiar comforts, things Keigo had slowly accumulated to pass the time. There’s a video game console or two he’d never used, a few stacks of books he’d heard were good, and some tucked away art supplies if inspiration struck. 

As much as he urges you to take and use whatever you’d like, you’re still tentative. The first few times you pluck a crisp book from the shelf, Keigo’s back aches with how the old muscles that once controlled his wings tried to puff-up non-existent feathers. Despite how it tugs at all the wrong parts of him, he still glows at the progress.

You start to help him with dinner too. That’s some of your favorite time. 

There’s a rhythm to it, when you both start preparing meals together. Keigo can’t season food for shit, (though, he’s made leaps and strides with cooking that pats himself on the back for) but he’s quite skilled with a knife. Remnants of his training that have domestic applications. 

He doesn’t tell you that that’s why he’s so good at dicing vegetables and paring meat, he just chatters to fill the air. You tend more to the process of cooking, seasoning and watching and nodding along to his words. 

The more meals you share in creating, the more you start to speak up.  

It’s progress, even in something so small. 

...

But progress isn’t linear. 

It’s not even a goddamn line and it’s fucking infuriating. 

...

The depth of winter bears down on the hills, the house, and the two of you. You’re coping, both of you. But the momentum of it is fragile.

It scares you, secretly and privately. 

You feel fragile, and you have for a long time. Your scar remains tender, gnarled and ugly on your leg. You avoid looking at it at all cost, though Keigo has free reign to graze tender touch nearby it. 

That’s how you find yourselves, leaning on each other on the cushion of the couch and idly watching the glow of the television. Your cheek tucks over his shoulder and you watch with half-lidded eyes. You’re only half-there as Keigo changes the channel.

He hums after a few moments. 

“There’s a storm coming tonight,” Keigo tells you, lips just a touch dry against the shell of your ear. “I’m going to go to town and—”

 Oh wow.

You interrupt, fisting the front of his shirt, “Can I come?”

The question stuns both of you.

Your eyes are honest as you peer up, genuinely unsure if you can.

“Of course, starshine,” Keigo assures. You notice the way his eyes, his pretty eyes, look wide and bright. All for you. Wow. “Let’s get you out of the house, hm?”

Getting out.

Time has stretched out and you can’t remember the last time you left for anything more than a little stroll on the backroads, Keigo on your arm. Going to town and seeing people strikes something odd that has your stomach churning. 

You’re nervous when you finally pile into the car, both bundled up with hats, mittens and scarfs (Keigo wears a mask to better hide his identity, but he’s sure some of the townies have figured him out.) The tasks are simple. Stock up for the coming storm and make sure he pays to plow their little backroad out once the storm passes. Easy, things that wouldn’t take too long, but it still makes your palms sweat. 

Keigo massages your thigh as you drive into town. The comfort of the snowy hills and evergreens disappears, and it has you in goddamn knots. 

You squeeze his hand, locking your jaw. 

“I’m scared.” You break the silence as the small structures of the town come into view. “I don’t know if this was a good idea.”

You haven’t decided again. 

He kneads his thumb into the tension in your thighs with a little smile, “Let’s give it a try.”

“It’s scary, though.”

“I know.”

You pull at a hangnail with your teeth but say nothing else as you roll in and park at the small market.

The first thing you notice is the goddamn doors. Automatic doors.

When you see them, you want to climb back into the car, maybe the trunk for fuck’s sake, and hide like you’ve never hidden before. Go home and bury yourself in a snow pile with how your heart hammers in your chest and your breath catches.

Deep breaths.

You catch yourself, just a little. 

You keep walking, Keigo’s hand in yours and you enter the market like nothing feels as wrong as it is.  

The store is small, but there’s a decent selection, all things given. Keigo places a basket in your hands, tells you to ‘go nuts’ and ‘literally get whatever you want, especially if it’s salty or sweet’ and you heed him the best you can. He busies himself talking to the clerk, organizing with that honey-voice you crave. 

You take a few deep breaths and walk around the market like a normal person. 

(Even though, the last time you were in a situation close to this, you got that nasty, cute scar on your leg.)

(You suppress the thought for as long as you can.)

The basket gets filled quickly, but you stuff it to the brim. Keigo picked out plenty of good food, and had learned how to cook decently, but having some... agency felt nice, if not fucking terrifying.

You’ve got your back turned to the entrance of the store when the (automatic) doors suddenly swish open. 

A chill so cold and hard shoots down your spine and you freeze, hovering over a box of breadcrumbs.

One...

 How long was it between that sound and when he touched you?

 Two...

 This was a terrible idea.

 Three—

 It was four—

 Four—

Four seconds, you propose, as your heart beats out of your chest and you sweat under your arms. Four seconds from the door opening to pain. 

You wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Nothing.

Just more voices from the front of the store, a figure entering your aisle and then leaving.

You hate the way you're so rigid, tense enough in your shoulders for it to hurt. The ghost of the wound on your leg makes you want to fall to the ground and writhe, but you grab the box of breadcrumbs and try not to think. 

It works, and you land next to Keigo, presenting your filled basket to be rung up. 

You bury your face into his shoulder and take a deep inhale. Keigo keeps you close, tucked in your side with an arm around your waist. Your anxiety must’ve been quite visible, as he takes to quietly rubbing your shoulders over your sweater.

Things get hazy as you feel safer. Keigo laughs and sways the two of you as he speaks to the clerk. 

(Her sons are going to blow your little house out when the storm passes. The family cat recently got out and came back pregnant. Her husband has been reading some odd literature he found on the internet. Something about ‘the strong triumphant over the weak’. Her daughter might be able to return from her foreign university now that the travel restrictions had been lifted.)

Everything moves forward, even if it’s unpleasant.

It’s an awful reminder at an inopportune time. 

You watch your feet as you crunch your way back to the shotgun side of the car, only relaxing when you hear the doors lock and the engine thrum.

...

The storm comes, just as the faces on TV said it would.

You’re in the country, in the hills and mountains where the weather is already turbulent and changeable. All the same, the overcast skies dump snow over the land and blanket the world in quiet and cold.

Snow silence sucks the sounds from the air, sans the howl of angry wind. 

You’re tucked away and safe. It’s Keigo’s only solace.

After going into town, you keep more to yourself as the storm takes it sweet time rolling in. He recognizes the far off look in your eyes; it’s the one you wore stargazing, but there’s no kind smile on your face. Just a thoughtless frown as you go through the motions of your day.

It makes his chest ache.

(Part of him regrets bringing you with him to the market. It rots part of him, and he can only hope it sprouts again.) 

Finally, when the storm truly comes and the hills get heavy and crisp white, a bit more of you returns. Keigo wants to take the fragments you’re willing to give him and tuck them close, horde them and squeeze. The way he’s gotten abashedly greedy for you has him handsier and needier. 

He’ll take what he can get, and give what he can too.

It’s easiest to bear at night, probably out of habit. Maybe the time in the hospital fucked both of you up (yes, for sure, it did), but nighttime was the time where you were open and easy with each other.

The storm gives the perfect opportunity to all of your time shamelessly twisted together, only leaving for brief coffee breaks and light meals. Otherwise, you’re both nested. 

Pillows and blankets piled on the oversized mattress, all soft against your scars and old scratches. Keigo’s still fond of the color red, he can’t let that go, but he trades in the scarlet that was once his ‘brand’ for a deeper burgundy. All the sensations are rich and velvety, whether it’s the bedclothes you’re wrapped in or the touches you share.

It feels safe.

The feeling is something almost foreign to Keigo. He’s been getting used to it, even as the isolation weighs down on him. No one around means no reason to be so alert. The house isn’t bugged, there’s no villains or Suits watching his every move. He’s just a flightless bird, with no cage, but no captors either.

It feels amazing.

It feels even better that you’re always the heat against his side. That you and your perfect, sweet hands always know how and where to touch. Your words flow easier when you’re so close, so surrounded and so deliciously suffocated.

Keigo fills you up in all the best ways, and you’re finally able to breathe easier.

You tell him your secrets, little stargazing facts and facets of you that you’d held away and far from him before.

“Do you know what cosmic microwave background radiation is?” You ask, sweet as your lips nip at his jaw.

“No, not a clue,” He laughs, the giggle only you get to hear. 

You hum, shifting your thighs so it lies over his. Your hips grind, slow and unhurried as wind rattles the windows.

“It’s this ambient radiation that’s just everywhere, all the time, forever,” You tell him, voice going a little huskier despite the fact you’re talking about theoretical astrophysics. “It’s left over from the Big Bang. A little bit of the beginning that never stops.”

“And how do you know all this?” 

“A documentary, love.”

The questions fade as your lips slide together, lazy hands sliding into each other's hairs. You pull, only lightly, just to bring him closer. Keigo gets greedy, (again, always), licking into your mouth and tasting you. It’s all cheap coffee and the stale mint of toothpaste, and he drinks you down like the finest nectar. He sucks on your tongue, moaning at the way you keen and shift next to him.

It’s not enough. It never is, so he rolls to sit himself over your hips and grab your jaw in a tight grip. He can’t be too forceful, he can’t— his little birdbrain won’t let him do anything too rough to you, even if neither of you would mind it. He tilts your head just right.

You roll your hips up, breath mingling with his as it hitches and shudders from you. It’s so much, so much good, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. 

Keigo pulls away, eyes half-lidded to take in your own blown pupils. It makes something purr in his chest, to see your eyes already glassy and wide for him. Your neck is thoroughly covered in darkened splotches, already sucked and bitten while the storm sang. 

Little marks of him.

“You’re all mine, you know?” Keigo nearly moans at the way your expression goes gooey and sweetened. He tightens his grip on your jaw just a fraction, enough to make you gasp before he licks and nips below your ear. Just to make sure you hear him. “‘Everywhere, all the time, forever’, I’ve got you.”

“Y-you do,” you gasp as Keigo shifts your sleep shorts off, pushed away forgotten in the nest. The thin tank top you’re wearing is hardly covering anything, not that either of you care. The nearly-sheer fabric of it stretches over your collars and curves beautifully. It does nothing to hide the way your breaths heave or the sweat and heat gathering on your neck.

You’re bared to him.

And if Keigo’s being honest?

You own each other, in the most pleasantly fucked up way.

“Y-You’re so good,” The word holds weight, so much heaviness. Keigo groans, palming one of your breasts and rolling one of your nipples. It’s ambient, something to occupy himself as he resists your words. Just a little—

Your hand slips into the front of his sweats, bare beneath, and wraps around the velvet of him. Thick and hot, firm in your hand but not close enough.

You squeeze, almost in warning.

“You are good.” You gasp as Keigo pulls off you, leveling gazes with you, all pretty eyes reflecting the starshine and snow. He is good. There’s so much more to it than that, but your poor, fucked up little mind can’t synthesis it yet. Only that Keigo is good, warm, safe, and wholly yours. And you’re his. You stretch to ghost a kiss over his lips. “My good boy, always keeping me safe. You keep me so well.”

He stills, even as you slowly pump in his cock. It twitches in your hand, your thighs squeezing between his hips. 

Keigo’s mind races, in the best way.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He murmurs, head tilting and body sagging to drink down your kiss-bruised lips. More, more, more— “You just need to be taken care of.”

“I don’t need to,” You lie, huffing. 

Keigo raises an eyebrow, biting his lips as your grip floats down to his balls, massaging them in your soft grip. It’s tender, weirdly vulnerable, as the whole of you two are.

“Maybe you don’t need to, you’re very capable,” Maybe not right now, but he knows it’s in there. “But you want it.”

“I-I like it,” You scramble the wording, shoving down his sweats, huffing again and urging Keigo to kick them away. Your palm goes to his cheek and drags him closer. “I like you a lot, love you, you know. You make me feel... safe. It’s a good feeling.”

It’s the most honest you’ve been in a long time, and it sits in the air. Keigo remains silent for a moment, silent and trying to control the way his birdbrain wants to take you. Wants to fuck you up and ruin you for anyone else.

You’re his, aren’t you?

“Good girl,” Keigo breaks the tension, squeezing your hips to the point of bruises. His, his, his. “I keep you so good, don’t I?”

You nod, spitting out little affirmatives between kisses. They dot his cheeks and forehead, slipping to his nose and downward. You pull his bottom lip into his mouth, letting out a little half-sob as Keigo’s touch drifts to your cunt, to your clit that’s swollen and untouched. 

More, more, more—

“You keep me so good,” You gulp, whining and grinding into the heel of his hand. Slick coats your sex, sticky and hot. “So, so good—”

Keigo drops down the bed, ignoring the flare of his scar tissue, to seat himself between your thighs. They get thrown over his shoulders with a squeeze. His hands cup your ass, slipping a pillow beneath your hips before eating your cunt like he’d die if he didn’t.

It’s one of his favorite things. Stuffing you full of him until your belly swells is another, or seeing the way his cock opens and stretches you until you’re gasping for breath and begging for more, more, more—

Keigo slips a finger into you without resistance. He curls it, unyielding as he massages the little knot of nerves in you that makes you arch and beg for more, for him.

You choke on a sob when he adds another finger, and he hushes you so sweet, tears prick your eyes. 

“Starshine,” He coaxes, withdrawing only to give your clit, a few kitten licks and slow kisses. His gaze flickers towards yours, holding your wet eyes. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

You nod, the meat of your thighs squeezing around him. Keigo would be happy to die like this, you soft and opened for him, crying for him. Broken and cracking for him, by his tongue, by his touch, Him. His.

“Who takes care of you?” He curls his fingers, and you throw your head back into the nest of pillows. 

“Y-You,” Your voice breaks and you rub at your cheeks. 

“Who knows just how to keep you so well? How to make you feel so good?”

He presses a third finger in, tending to your clit as you cry above him. You’re molten around him, and he laps you up until the smell and taste of you is all he comprehends. 

This is what you both need, isn’t it?

Each other. All of each other.

Your cries turn sour quickly, and it has Keigo jolting up, fingers withdrawn and leaving you to feel empty. The little sobs turned into hiccupping cries, one's stifled with the back of your hand. 

Keigo rises over you, tugging you hand away to get at your cheeks, kissing them soft and sweet. 

It isn’t often that you cry, surprisingly. You probably should more often. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Keigo urges. Please, please, just tell him what the fuck is wrong. He knows, you know, the meat of it all. But please tell him something he can tend to. Something he can stitch up because god, he needs to be useful— “What’s making your cry sweetheart? Tell me.”

You paw at your forehead, “It’s silly.” 

You sniffle and look at him with the most unguarded expression he’s seen you worn. The vacancy is gone, the hollowness and pain has been pulled away in the safety of that perfect nest and all that’s left is—

“‘M scared,” You mumble. Your arms curl over your chest, covering what’s primitively most precious to you. “I’m scared.”

Your eyes grow bright and heat, hotter than anything he’s felt from you, explodes over the room.

He’s half-choking and he fucking loves it. 

Something in his chest snaps and he worries your hair, bringing his nose to yours, nuzzling and nudging your hands away. He nips you. His poor little birdbrain.

“I’m afraid you’re going to leave.”

Keigo stills.

He sits with your fear for a few beats.

“I’d never leave,” He says easily, truthfully and fully. He couldn’t.

Those long nights in the hospital and the warmth passed between you had so easily gotten you wormed his chest, right next to his second and third rib. He can feel it, always; you’re ever present. He grabs your arms and holds them to yours sides. You’re exposed, soft flesh and squirming a bit beneath him. He wants to mark you purple and near-bloody, so that no one would think of you as anything other than his.

His, his, his.

He shows you.

Worn hands, a bit chapped with the dry air, pull your high to rest on his shoulders. He massages your calves, kissing your ankles.

“I mean this real lovingly, starshine,” He breaths deep, fisting his cock with a few slow strokes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t get a chance to protest as he slides into you in one stroke. The stretch of him has you burning; he can tell by the way your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his shoulders as your little cries only get harder.

“Bear it, I know you can,” You had before, and you would many times more. The stretch feels amazing, even if it burns something in your core. You like it, how the pain pricks something that shoots into your toes. Only Keigo gets to fuck you up, gets to own you. “You’re always good f-for me— f-fuck, so fucking good—”

His, his, his.

There is, of course, the inverse.

You grab his jaw, your grip tight like his was earlier, and you meet his gaze. You blink away tears, sniffling, but expression set with determination.

“You’re mine too,” You squeeze around him, grinding down to the root of his cock. “‘M only good for you because you’re mine too, Keigo. All of you.”

Without thought, your hands ghost over his scars.

You have avoided them for so long. It was an untouched spot, something tender and from a time where Keigo was being that was entirely and wholly different from who he is now. It’s a piece of him that’s always been off-limits.

But you’re both so cracked open, you do it without thought.

And something in Keigo snaps.

He pushes you down by the backs of your thighs, folding your legs to your torso. And he fucks you.

His hips slam against yours, opening you up with pants and groans. You feel full, full of him in every and all ways, everywhere, always, and forever. 

You’re greedy with your touches, tugging him closer and uncaring of the way your nails scrap over his shoulders and arms. His body is yours and you’re his. It’s disgusting, it’s fucked up and perfect the way you slot together. It’s like little, scared pieces of existence slide together, and everything feels whole, yet open and uncracked.

Keigo fills you up with a sob, tears dripping down his cheeks as you pressed down on the burns and scars that rack down his back.

“Fill me up,” You demand, the heat of you swelling as his hand dips to your clit, circling and rolling with the little pleas falling from both your lips.

The world drips as his thrusts go harder, sloppier as you tip your head back and scream. Your voice breaks, hoarse from all your pleading and possession. 

Keigo stuffs you, tip of his cock pressed to the deepest parts of you. His cum, all him, leaks from around his cock as he gives a few more weakened grinds. He makes sure you’re full, content and sated and his.

He falls over you, coating your cheeks in kisses and praise. You sputter little sobs for him, begging for him to be closer, despite the way he still fills you even as he softens.

It never feels like enough, the closeness. But you’ll settle for all of him that you can get. 

...

The storm passes, and you spend your time much the same way. Fucking, feeling, and for a little, blessed while, forgetting.

Eventually, the snow stops falling. The wind that has been whipping the power into tree trucks and your windows falls still. It’s peaceful, then. Not that it wasn’t before, but without the weather bearing down on you, you’re both less hungry. Still greedy, just not starved.

You share the first morning after the storm outside, on the porch. Keigo had shoveled a little clear patch and you’d brushed off the two, brittle lawn chairs that had seen better days. You fixate on the task a bit too much, the steaming coffee you’re to share is forgotten. The straining plastic of the chairs is a yellowed-white and bright red. It felt strong enough under your fingers, cold fingers, as you cleared away the snow. 

It feels like a remnant

Whatever fixation you have on the object passes as Keigo runs a hand up your spine. His hand is wide and warm, still a bit warm from the toasty mugs.

You rearrange your chairs and yourselves to be close as can be, in your little patch of snowless porch, and sip at your coffee as the world begins to wake up. 

...

Oddly enough, the storm helps you make forward progress, at least a little. You take up making breakfasts on your own, occasionally carrying plates into the bedroom with a big, previously unseen grin

Keigo returns the smile so big, his cheeks burn for hours. 

You take to a few of the little crafts and things Keigo has been hoarding. Paper folding and little canvases with acrylic painting are your favorites. Sometimes, you paint your little strokes and press creases from the comfort of the couch. Other times, you make you place for the day at the kitchen island while Keigo makes his day-long meals. 

There’s a rhythm to it that’s so good.

It’s progress, and seeing it visibly start to the fill the walls feels good for both of you. Your little canvases get hung around the cabin, little portraits of the stars and their mother, all for you and Keigo to admire. ;;

 ...

             He gets the call exactly three weeks after the storm passes. 

Keigo awakes before you to the shrill ring of his cell. It vibrates against the bedside table, loud enough to wake the both of you. You both startle out of sleep, squeezing each other. 

He takes the call in the other room, after he sees the contact name.

[Suits] Calling...

 He paces as he listens to her drone on.

There’s no greeting, no “hey, how does it feel to be a flightless fucking failure?”. It’s business. Just business. It’s always been like that with her, and the lot of suits that treated him like a fixture until he got particularly cracked and unsightly.

“So, you come into Tokyo, we’ll do a small event—”

“The event you’re describing really doesn’t sound small,” Keigo tilts his head and gives an angry smile to his own reflection in the mirror. “It sounds like a circus that I really have no interest in being a part of.”

“It’s for the people, Hawks—”

It makes him snap.

“Stop fucking calling me that.” He growls into the receiver, grip tight enough to hurt. “Stop calling me, stop asking me, I am not coming back.”

The woman is silent on the line for a beat, before spitting, “What if I didn’t give you a choice?”

His blood runs cold before burning in his veins. And he laughs.

“You think you could?” He only feels a little hysterical. “You don’t have any power, not over me, not over anyone else as far as I’ve seen, Madam President!” 

“Hawks—”

Shut up, shut up, shut UP.

“The Commission is dead, the world is in chaos, and putting the corpse of a hero on the big screen isn’t going to convince anyone that this is all fixable,” Keigo chest gets tight, and he can’t tell if it’s from the uncomfortable laughter he’s spitting or the sobs that are locked in his chest. 

“So, you’d rather turn your back on the people you swore to protect?” Suits speaks with no emotion, not an ounce of feeling. “Selfish.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish. The word echoes in his mind, worms its way down his throat and suffocates him. 

“You’re really going to say that to me? Of all fucking people?” He feels his nails break skin where he’d been clenching his fist. “Me, selfish?”

“You left, didn’t you? Ran away?” The woman has the stones to fucking laugh. “Everyone’s lost something. You’re not special, and it doesn’t justify—”

“What the fuck are you getting out of this?” Keigo interrupts, burning, burning— “Did you call me to go to this little gala or did you call to dig into your perfect little hero? You told me I could be done. Should’ve known you were lying, you always lie—”

“You’re being childish.”

“Oh my GOD!” Keigo nearly screams and doesn’t notice how you’ve tip-toed from the bedroom. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I hear you screaming at me, the woman who practically raised you, like some petulant brat. Get a grip, Hawks.” 

He snaps.

“STOP FUCKING CALLING ME THAT!” He screams into the phone, vision going white and scarlet. “I am not Hawks! Hawks is DEAD! Why can’t you understand that? There’s no fucking hero to attend your little ‘healing’ gala, there’s just me. ‘Childish’, ‘selfish’, and wingless, babe. That’s what I’ve got, and this is what I am.”

Suits takes an audible sigh, and Keigo can almost see how she’s shaking her head at him, “You’re being ridiculous, Hawks. Take at least a goddamn ounce of responsibility for your actions that helped cause all... this.”

Ah, there it is. The thing Hawks has so properly compartmentalized, tucked so far back in his psyche that it’s almost impossible to reach.

How much of the dissolution of... everything is on him?

Something in him snaps, and it slips through his own fingers. 

  “I’m not going and this, Madam President? This is for me.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

He hears her unspoken words echoing in his skull as he hangs up, slamming the phone on the countertop.

Something hotter than rage and more poisonous than pain fills his blood, and it makes him want to both wretch and break his fingers in the same breath. He slams a fist onto the phone, cracking it against the countertop. He can buy a new one— 

“S-Sweetpea?”

Keigo freezes.

You’re at the mouth of the hallway, hardly out of the shadows, eyes wide and fearful. His chest somehow gets even tighter. 

Normally, he would’ve rushed to comfort you, calmed himself down to console you for seeing his little outburst.

But he doesn’t that day.

He breaths ragged with his lips slowly curling, panic’s ugly cousin turning his spit acrid behind his teeth.

“Here, let’s go back to bed, okay? We can—” You take a few steps closer, hand outstretched and eyes beginning to light.

Oh, and Keigo’s hit by fucking envy, and it’s over. 

“Don’t.” 

You freeze, “Pretty eyes—”

“Don’t, just don’t.”

You don’t move as Keigo trudges to the door, throws on his thick parka and snow boots, pocketing his keys and grumbles to you that there’s leftovers in the fridge.

It’s shitty and selfish.

And he just doesn’t care.

He can’t make himself care as the door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing off the trees and so quickly dampened by the snow. 

...

Keigo drives, white noise in his ear that echoes the wind in the treetops of the mountains he’s descending. He’s only half there as he leaves town. 

It’s still too much. 

...

You, on the other hand? 

You’re frozen, stuck-still, as you watch Keigo climb into the car and drive off. Maybe your mouth has gone a bit agape, you aren’t aware of your body. 

You panic. 

There’s no other word for it, not that you were able to think of as you were untrenched in it. 

There’s something thick and knotted that is rolling unraveling in your chest. The... thing is worse than a feeling and runs deeper and hotter than you can manage.

You tried to manage it.

While Keigo is god fucking knows where, you paced the house, always within eyeshot of a window. Hoping for a glimpse of his dark parka, or the tufts of his blonde sticking out in the snow, a return—

Fucking nothing.

He just left.

No return time, no destination, just a departure with no explanation. He’d obviously left the cabin before, you’d handled those times quite well, but he’d never stormed out. Never raised his voice and screamed and then just left. 

Is he okay? 

(You heard most of the call, at least his side of it. Is that awful Hero Commission he told you about calling him back? Or even worse, dragging him away.)

(He’d tell you, wouldn’t he?)

(Guess you’ll never know! Because he’s fucking gone.)

It made something seize in your chest, hot and awful as you walked your circuit, praying. Worry is damning. 

How could he just... leave?

You need him back.

You alone without him.

Your thoughts rot you, despite the winter’s cold outside. The chill of the cabin seeps into your bones, coats them and leaves you sticky and downright paranoid. The lack of... presence (his presence) was driving you up a wall. The air is too still, the floors quiet and without the telltale old creaks of movement that you’ve become accustomed to, and the cabin is silent other than your breathing and rabbit’s heart.

Beneath the anger was a thick layer of fear. 

You are alone.

The feeling rolled its way into you as the sun began to dip lower in the sky.

What if he never comes back?

Of course he is, you remind yourself, hurriedly, worrying the scary on your leg and picking at the core of it. He wouldn’t leave.

Why wouldn’t he?

The thought gets your poor little heart racing faster, air choking in your lungs. Your head whips to the window to see the empty, snowy driveway.

“I-I’m alone,” You break the silence of the house, the walls answering with their pensive quiet and the wind shaking the fresh snow from thin branches just outside.

All alone.

All fucked up and broken and fucking alone.

“He wouldn’t leave,” You start talking to yourself, threading a hand in your hair, gripping. “He cares, he wouldn’t just leave.”

He cared about being a hero too and he left everyone else.

What if things changed? 

Insecurities, new ones and old ones, cloud your mind and vision and stuffed your lungs. The grip on your hair goes tighter. 

All alone in the mountains.

All.

Alone.

It scares you more than anything, how much you need him.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you tug at the roots of your hair. It hurts, but everything is starting to hurt very quickly, and a bit of hair pulling is child’s play to how it feels like your chest is being hollowed out.

You really have so little. It stuns you in the moment as you choke back a sob. The little house in the mountains, Keigo, and the starlight you still both enjoy— that’s fucking it. You’d never returned to your ‘apartment’, or rather the remnants of it. Any possessions you had were lost to destruction and unsalvageable. Your meager relationships and friendships had fallen away when you were bound to hospital for months.

He’s all you have.

“No, no, no,” You nearly trip in your pacing, dragging your feet as you accept your reality. “He can’t l-leave.”

The world responds with silence. The mountains are cold and lonely, just like you are. It’s cruel, it all hurts and after being in a daze so often, the reality of your situation hurts like a hot brand.

He’ll come back.

He cares.

You desperately try to convince yourself as you tug your parka on, throwing on your boots. You don’t bother to fasten or tie anything, you just stumble onto the deck blindly and scan the hill of the drive.

Not a single soul.

Something rotten curls up behind your teeth. Bile climbs the back of your throat and you have to swallow to keep from vomiting. Your chest is too tight, the world is too bright, and you’re terrified.

You’re not sure what to call the type of panic response you have; it doesn’t make any logical sense. Your heart runs in your chest, your breath is hot and tight, and you simply slip to the ground in the fresh snow.

And you wait.

...

Keigo drives until he’s nearly out of town, into some flatlands near the river that gurgles and churns nearby. The surrounding forest is the perfect place for a pensive walk. 

It’s the best place for him to just get it out.

It had been a long time since Keigo had just talked to himself. Audibly sorts himself as he walks along the bank of the almost-frozen river. He doesn’t keep his voice quiet, no, its full volume complaining. It’s anger that’s bundled up in his chest that’s finally being lit and the smoke of it nearly chokes him out. 

It’s not fair.

He does feel a bit childish, thinking about it like that. But hadn’t he done enough? Hadn’t they told him that he’d done enough? He lost it all and was just starting to the plant the seeds for a new life to sprout. Couldn’t he just have that? He’s not the shiny thing he used to be he’s fucking worthless. And that’s fine. He’s made peace with it and can find worth outside of saving people.

He’s capable. Adaptable. And he’s doing it all at his trademark speed.

But the thing that makes his gut twist is facing everything he (ran away from) left behind. The only short statement he’d given after Dabi’s video was nearly as viral as the actual video of him killing Jin (don’t think about it, don’t think about it—) 

He’s not sure what possesses him to pull out his phone and pull up the video. It’s not hard to find. 

It hurts to watch, but he does it anyway. Fucking masochist. 

He’s standing beside Enji and Tsunagu, all of them in hastily tailored suits. They all had their visible injuries. Scars and brands that had just been carved and burned into skin. They look haggard, they look beaten. 

Because they were.

Keigo watches as he adjusts his microphone in the video and gives his statement. Stupidly simple and vague, all at the same time.

“The villain Dabi did not lie. I am the son of Takami, and I killed Twice of the League of Villains. It was all necessary. Please accept my apology for the upset I have caused.”

His voice doesn’t even sound like him. It’s manufactured and broken. He remembers how the smoke had charred his throat and lungs for the first few days, before he was transferred from Central to the big facility in the tall-tree-ed forest. 

He bows on the video and Enji begins his statement. Something solemn about the suffering he’s caused his family, how he wants to atone and how he is atoning. The public was too angry to listen and is too angry to listen. And the world Keigo ran from is the result. 

He lets himself cry.

Finally.

His shoulders shake as he hunches over himself. The tears slip down his chilled cheeks and make little divots where they fall into the snow beneath him. His little gasps turn into sobs, the kind that hurt your chest and give you a headache that lasts for days.

He repeats a little mantra between scratchy breaths—

“I’m still good.”

“I’m still good.”

“I’m still good.”

He falls against the thick bark of a tree and slides down to the ground. 

He let’s go.

It’s good for him, cleansing. Maybe it’s the rushing of the nearby river or the snow he's buried his hands in, but with each ragged breath he can feel some of that filth that’s clinging to him fall away. Not all of it, not by a long shot. 

But feeling the worst is the first step to feeling your best. 

So, when Keigo’s ready, he stands and moves forward. Trudges onward, albeit a bit slower. 

...

Keigo returns home just as the sky begins to change from red to indigo with the night. It paints the pines and evergreens an eerie, dark color, shadows long and deep against the fluffy snow.

His gut twists in knots as he gets closer to home. 

He’s tired. Exhausted. His eyes are still puffy from his tears, sore and aching. His body still feels tight, tense in his shoulders and arms as he grips the steering wheel. He needs rest. A good cup of tea and maybe a beer later. 

And you.

As weak as Keigo feels, he knows he fucked up... just a bit. 

It wasn’t fair to storm out. He isn’t dumb. All the same, if he stayed with you in the cabin, he probably would’ve said something he regretted. Or locked himself in the bedroom all day. It wouldn’t have been good or fair for you or him. 

(Coward.)

Probably, but he was also burned alive fairly recently, so he had to give himself a bit of credit. 

As he nears, his stomach drops. 

You’re on the porch. You sit on the steps, parka pooling around your waist as your head rests on your knees.

Something’s not right.

Some of his old, honed senses trill to life, seeing you. Something in his gut twists, the muscles in his back tense, the old ones that controlled his wings. 

You must be cold. 

Keigo leaves the car and slaps on a smile, “Waiting for me, starshine?” 

You twitch, curling over your body harder. 

Something is very wrong— 

He calls your name, your actual name, and you hardly stir. You all but twitch from where you sit, head tilting up just the slightest bit.  It’s not enough to ease any of the worry pulling his old muscles, if anything, it makes it worse.

He falls to his knees in front of you, ignoring the crack his bones make.

“How long have you been out here?” Too long, he knows the answer, but he still has to ask.

“... A while,” You murmur, barely audible. “You’re back.”

“I am,“ Keigo pushes you up by your shoulders, scanning your face as more fear curls in his gut. 

Your eyes are glassy and unfocused.

“We need to get you inside, now,” He isn’t sure if he sounds scared or angry (probably both), and he can’t make himself care. 

You’re freezing.

Too cold, way too cold.

Keigo had to take plenty of survival courses during his training with the Commission and he had learned plenty about hypothermia. His avian anatomy made him more susceptible to the cold and knowing the symptoms for himself kept him from turning into a bird-adjacent popsicle more than once. He’d rescued his handful of civilians—

(Don’t think about being a hero right now or you’re gonna start crying again.)

You’re not some civilian, you’re you and you’re in front of him with darkened lips and dull eyes and full panic breaks his ribs.

...

You remember how pretty red the sky was.

You like sunsets. 

You should see if Keigo wants to watch the sunset sometime.

Keigo’s gone.

You could drive—

Keigo drove away. You’re alone.

You aren’t sure how long you sat in the chill, but it was comforting despite how your fingers and toes began to ache. Outside, there were plenty of sounds and sights to keep you company. The wind whistled through trees, and the sky echoed a few, far-off sounds from distant civilization. 

It was nice. Peaceful, at the very least.

...

“Inside, you need to be inside,” Keigo sputters, pulling you up under your arms. Your feet drag for a moment before going flat, and you sway in his arms. 

Getting you inside makes his body ache in new ways, your weight mostly on his side. Old pains crawled to the surface as he dragged you to the couch, setting you down on the cushion and assessing you better.

His hands run over your body, over curves and divots he knew and loved and the chill of you filled him with dread.

“Your pants are wet from the snow,” Keigo swallows, rising. “I’m going to grab you dry clothes.”

As soon as he tries to move away, you catch his wrist in a weak grip.

And finally, half-lucidly, you regard him with terror in your eyes.

“You l-left,” You spit, lips curling over your teeth. “You left, Keigo.”

You use his real name and he really wants to die a little. 

Sure, Suits used it on the phone with him and it made him see blood fucking red, but it’s you, and you saying the name he never really had, for the first time, so fucking angrily makes part of his secretly fragile heart break.

He freezes, breathing hard through his nose as he looks down at you.

“I’m sorry,” He says softly. “Let me get you warm, then we can talk, okay?”

You don’t look convinced, tightening your grip on his wrist and pulling him closer.

Keigo gives in, so, so easily, dropping to his knees and pulling your icy hands into his. He rubs warmth into them, bringing them to his lips and breathing hot over your knuckles.

“Please, starshine. Let me get you warm.”

“I’m already warm,” Your voice slurs, entirely unconvincing.

“I say this very lovingly,” He says, somehow cracking a smile, “but you’re genuinely hypothermic. You can be as mad at me as you want, but you need to get warmed up.”

You chew your lip, cupping his cheeks with your freezing palms, “... You’re not leaving?”

Your voice drawls and Keigo makes a note to turn up the thermostat.

“No, god, no, I’m not,” He tries to assure you, shaking his head, but your grip only gets harsher. He placates you with a squeeze to your knee. “Please let me help.”

He can’t tell you how much he needs to. How hyper aware he is of your chill and of his own thumping heart. That protective urge in his chest wants to just pull you to his chest and wrap you up in him, in his heat, but that’s for later.

Your eyes' gaze goes softer, little specks of light bouncing between your irises. The room fills with blessed, familiar heat and Keigo can feel his shoulders slacken and some of the worry in his chest dissipate.

...

He returns with some of his own soft joggers, fleece-lined and well-loved. He grabbed a few layers, and an armful of blankets and pillows. Anything he could carry gets brought as his little, avian mind craves something he suppressed for years so well.

Nest, nest, nest.

Heat them first, then nest. 

He helps you slip into your new, dry clothes as your teeth begin to chatter. Thank fucking god. Keigo is smart enough to check your toes as he slips onto fuzzy, thermal socks, and they all look to be healthy and functioning. 

You’re quiet during the whole ordeal, save for soft breathing and snapping teeth. You occasionally grab his hand and hold it to whatever part of your skin was bared, mumbling something about how warm he is. 

Keigo eventually gets you settled and surrounded by blankets and pillows which you sink into, eyes hardly open. Only then does he feel like he can pull away enough to start the nearby fire.

It feels somewhat unnecessary, given you’re still heating the room. It’s probably somewhat for the atmosphere, considering the sky is nearly fully black. A bit of crackling flame and light would do you both good. 

(He rarely lights fire, but considering the flame is a kind red and not a fucking disgusting blue, he can bear it. Especially now.) 

When the fire is stoked, he turns back to you and deflates. 

“I’m sorry,” You say, all soft and half-lidded from the blankets. “That was... dumb.”

“It was.” 

Keigo can’t fight you on the obvious. 

There’s a goddamn list of questions he wants to ask you. ‘Why’s and ‘what’s, but he has a pretty good idea of why you were sitting outside and what you were thinking. 

He’s not sure you’d want to talk about it anyway. 

The couch creaks when he sits down a few feet from your little nest, running a tired hand over his face.

“... You know, this couch folds out,” You shift a little, slow and lethargic. Still cold. “We should sleep out here tonight.”

He turns to regards you, and it takes everything in him not to fucking break.

“Why?” His voice shakes and he knows you can tell.

You hum, leaning toward him, “Change of scenery. I think we could both use it.”

“Later.” Keigo agrees. The urge to wrap you up in his (wings) arms feels unbearable, the little avian tickings in his skull loud and needy. “Warm first. Futon later.”

You huff weakly, but lift the blankets to let Keigo slip behind you. His body curls around yours, finding the coldest parts of you and tending to them first. His hands clasp over yours and your feet get tucked between his calves. 

“Thanks,” You murmur, neutral and vacant.

Keigo doesn’t push you.

Instead, you stay tucked in his arms, still shivering, but significantly less cold. Your lips and cheeks look a far healthier color and they’re warm to the touch. He traces his fingertips over the curves of your face and neck, preening in the only way he can muster up.

You eventually break the silence, when the fire is all but embers.

“I heard some of that call…” Your voice trails off. “It sounded bad.”

“It was,” Keigo agrees with a little nod. He really doesn’t want to think about Suits and, you know, the rest of the world, but it feels necessary. “Very bad.”

“Who was it?”

“Old boss.”

“… And?”

Keigo sighs, squeezing you probably a little too tightly, “Why don’t we focus on warming you up from your hypothermic excursion and not my shitty life as a shitty hero—”

“You weren’t a shitty hero, Keigo,” He can hear the mourning in your voice and it makes him want to die, just a little. You cup his cheeks, eyes sad and soft around the edges. “You were a really good one.”

“Was I? News to me.” He laughs, the bitter sound tasting like bile. He hates it, the feel of it mixed with the heat and softness of you. It feels wrong. “I don’t want to talk about all that, starshine. Please just drop it.”

Your face hardens.

“No.”

“… No?”

“No, I’m not done,” You sigh, big and hard. “I think we’re more fucked up than we talk about, Keigo.”

He winces, but you keep going, and he doesn’t move to stop you.

“Probably.”

Your jaw sets like stone on stone. It makes him internally wince as your hands go to cup his cheeks.

“I’m fucked up, you’re fucked up, everything is fucked up. We can ignore it up here, quietly, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

Yes.

“Yeah.” He feels his gut roll, but he doesn’t stop you. His grip goes tighter on your hips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Can we just… Acknowledge it? Please.” You ask, beg, softly as you rub his cheeks with your thumbs. “Please, Keigo.”

He doesn’t know what to do at first. He really wants to lock up. Shut down. Lock all the nasty feelings in chest, behind his heart, so they can burrow into his spine and keep him moving forward.

He wraps his hands around your wrists.

Your eyes look glassy, tears sticking in your bottom eyelashes, but not daring to fall. Not yet.

“Keigo, I’m fucked up, I know that, and that’s okay,” You deflate a little. “I’m getting better. We’re getting better. I know we are.”

“We a-are.”

Keigo’s voice cracks, hoarse in his throat and tight as the uniform belt he used to wear. His lungs feel hot, too stuffed even as he tries to swallow the heat that’s welling up on the very back of his tongue.

“You are good, Keigo, I promise,” You lean in to give his forehead the lightest kiss and Keigo feels part of himself die in the best way. “Please, let’s just talk.”

And so, he does.

…

He tells you about Jin first.

You’d heard about him, the villain Hawks killed during the War. Published for the world to see, over and over, forever. The video was one you’d only seen once, during your early days at the hospital, but you could recall the footage on your grainy hospital television.

Your pretty eyes, pretty Keigo, cut him down. One of his old feathers, hardened into a stiff blade, struck Jin across the chest, arcing up to his neck and slicing a few important arteries  and veins. It was an imperfect job, one that probably made his death more painful and prolonged than it needed to be.

You don’t let go of Keigo’s cheeks as he tells you the story. You can’t, you’re too busy thumbing away the little tears that roll down his cheeks.

He speaks between sobs that break from his chest. Underused and much-needed.

“He was good, starshine,” Keigo curls in a little on himself, but you keep him mostly upright. “I had to, y-you know? I didn’t have a choice, if I didn’t—"

How many more people would be dead?

His body convulsed, the little tears turning fat as he collapsed into your chest and buried himself in you. Like he was hiding, and god, did you let him.

You hushed him, soothed him with little kisses, and listened.

“And then Dabi—”

You hate him, obviously. You only know his name and visage, and you hate him so much it hurts. Part of you wants to rub at his scars like he lets you, but you decide against it in Keigo’s fragility.

He tells you of the blue flames, how the boot felt against his back, how his throat burned for weeks from the heat and smoke. His grip on you goes so tight, you’re afraid he’s going to tear your shirt to shreds.

“He took them, starshine,” Keigo’s voice muffled into your shoulder, the sound of it rattling you. “He t-took them!”

And he slumps against you, well and truly, and can’t muster up another word. All you could do is hold him, rocking him from your little, shared spot on the couch and whisper to him little comforts. You’re crying a little too, breath tight and hazy as you let Keigo shatter in your arms.

He’s not ready to talk about his wings and that’s okay. More than okay.

So, you soothe him. He soothes you right back, rubbing at your sides, hips, thighs— whatever he can reach and touch and claim. You’re good, you’re the closest he’s going to get to permeance and he’ll be damned to let you go when you feel so good and he feels so fucking awful.

You fall back onto the chest, pulling Keigo with you so he can lay atop you. His ear presses to your chest, heart thumping in his ear while you lock your arms around him. Caged in and held, with the lightest pressure on the thick skin of his scars.

“I’ll never truly get it, I can’t,” You admit, quietly as you smooth back some of his tear-matted hair. “But I want to be here. I want to listen when you’re want to talk. Need to talk. You can dash off on your own, Keigo, that’s okay. Just know that I’ve got you to, okay?”

Keigo sniffled, peering up at you with wide eyes, “Are you sure you can handle it?”

“I am now, aren’t I? Just a few hours out from nearly being a popsicle,” You hum and joke, glowing from the inside out when Keigo graces you with a little smile.

It takes a few more moments for him to cover, haul himself up to the crook of your neck and breathing hard and deep for a while. Like he’s trying to absorb you through scent alone.

“… Are you okay?” Keigo asks, squeezing you so tight it hurts. (And you want more of it.) “You’re not as cold anymore.”

“I’m feeling okay,” You paw at your face a bit, rubbing your cheeks like they’re still numb and not flushed with blood and sticky with drying tears. “I just freaked out a little.”

“… Because I left?”

You nod, chewing your lips.

“I don’t want to be alone, Keigo,” You whisper it, though he already knows your admission. “I’m terrified of you leaving.”

“When I left,” Keigo rises to meet your gaze, gooey and cobbled. “Did you think I wouldn’t come back?”

“… Maybe,” You shake your head, refusing to look at him. “You didn’t say anything about coming back, just about… leftovers.”

You both frown.

“I panicked.” You shake your heard.

“… That’s what happens when you panic?”

“I guess?” Your mouth feels too dry. “I don’t know. I got scared. I panicked. What else was I supposed to do?”

There’s an obvious answer or two, but it’s unspoken.

“I’m not leaving,” Keigo rubs at your cheeks. “You’re gonna have to try pretty hard to get me gone, starshine. I love you too much to go easily.”

It’s a declaration, a strong one, and god does it feel fucking good to hear.

“… Promise?” You ask him as his palms cup your cheeks and jaw.

“Promise.”

“I heard on the call—”

Keigo interrupts you with a kiss, hard and long that steals your breath and makes your head spin.

“Promise.” Keigo breaths, pretty eyes meeting your heat-filled ones. “Everywhere, all the time, forever. I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a start, even if that insecurity is so deeply rooted. The adoration in his eyes, and the sweetness of his touch tempers it all. It’s there still, just like how there’s so much unspoken that needs to be sorted, chewed on, and digested.

But now?

The embers in the hearth need another log or two. The futon needs to be folded out and I’d be best if you shared a cup or two of tea. Preferably something with lavender that’ll scent the cabin with the smells of spring and herbs.

Now, you’re both more than enough.

…

thank you for reading!!💞keep an eye out for part 3! 👀

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawk x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #mha x reader #my hero academia #anyways ouch <3 #kiss it better keigo #enjoy this big boy heheh #kith kith :'^)

[writeforfandoms]

Merry Go Round of Life 6

Not me sneaking in at 11pm on Thursday to post the chapter that was supposed to go up last Saturday. And also inform you that this Saturday I will not be home so there will be no chapter.

But! I’m working on chapter 7! Stuff is picking up now, I think you guys are gonna like it. 

Find my masterlist

This will be Din Djarin x f!reader eventually. Don’t hold your breath folks, this one’s a slow burn. Sort of.

Warnings: Some swearing I think? Somewhat political discussion. 

Taglist (Lemme know if you want on or off!):  @tibbietibbs​ @fandom-blackhole​ @pedrocentric​ @shoopidly​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @cannedsoupsucks​ @beskarprincessjenny 

Also @zinzinina​ Come get your cowboy!

Chapter six: In which there is discussion of a Witch 

The next few days passed peacefully enough. Djarin was gone about half the time, and when he was around he largely left you to your own devices. The child migrated between the two of you, enjoying the attention and play time. Djarin had returned from one trip with an armful of toys, all of which the child adored. 

You were still no closer to figuring out Peli's curse but you were feeling better about the situation. Honestly, things could be worse. You'd even found some clothes to wash and repair, a task that kept you busy for a few days. 

The kid was playing with Djarin one evening as you sat in your customary chair, mending a pair of socks. For all that Djarin was quiet and hard to read, he was good with the kid, very patient. 

“What brought you out here?” Djarin asked suddenly, tilting his helmet towards you so you knew he was addressing you. 

“Hm?” You blinked at him, caught off-guard.

“We’re not exactly near Kalevala,” Djarin continued. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing. “You must have walked all day to get to the castle, at least.” 

“Who says I came from Kalevala?” you asked, feeling a little nervous now. Not that you’d done anything wrong, certainly. But his gaze was making you feel a little wary, almost. You refocused on the socks, carefully stitching a hole closed. 

“You’ve mentioned it a few times,” Djarin said. “You don’t come from one of the farms, they’re all close-knit family groups. You talk about your family, but they clearly didn’t live with you. So, Kalevala.” 

Honestly, you were impressed with that logic. It was accurate, certainly. “It did take me all day to get out far enough to find this place,” you agreed after a few moments of silence. You still didn’t look up from your stitching. 

“So why here?” Djarin pressed. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him lean forward, towards you.

“I was looking for a wizard,” you decided on, shrugging. “Hadn’t met one before.” Technically true. You’d met a witch. “Didn’t count on finding work here, but I’d heard you help people sometimes.” 

The wizard nodded after a moment, seemingly accepting that. “You shouldn’t have travelled alone,” he told you after several moments of silence. “It’s not safe out in Tatooine.” 

You scoffed. “I had nothing on me worth stealing,” you pointed out reasonably. 

“I wasn’t talking about bandits,” the wizard admitted. “I was talking about the witch of the waste.”

You turned your head sharply to look at him. “What?” 

“Her name is Bo-Katan Kryze,” the wizard told you, leaning back in his chair again. The kid was silent on his lap, looking between the two of you. “She’s been living out near Tatooine for years now. Gained a reputation.”

“What kind of reputation?” you asked slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. 

“She’s… ruthless.” Djarin shifted in his seat, one hand supporting the kid’s back. “There’s something she wants, and she’s been getting bolder the last year trying to get it.” 

“But you live out here,” you pointed out, quite reasonably you thought. “You don’t seem concerned.”

“She knows better than to come at me.” The wizard sounded wryly amused, for some reason. “But I wouldn’t put it past her to send someone else in her stead.”

It took a minute, but his meaning sank into your head, and you dropped the sock in outrage. 

“I would never!” you protested, outright glaring at the wizard now. “She’s the one who--” The words caught in your throat, and for a moment you choked on nothing. Then you pulled in a breath. “That witch,” you hissed, sounding absolutely venomous. “If I ever get my hands on her…”

Djarin relaxed at that. “You’d probably end up dead,” he said, sounding amused now. “Like I said. She’s ruthless.”

“Oh I’d like to see her try to kill me now,” you growled.

“Djarin,” Peli snapped, leaned all the way back away from you. Your walking stick clattered to the floor from where it rested against your cot. The kid whimpered, and your gaze fixed on him. 

“Here,” Djarin said, suddenly shoving the kid at you. You took him, holding him close and shushing him gently, as Djarin strode over to pick up your walking stick. He held it for a few moments before replacing it, carefully. Peli relaxed, settling into her logs again. 

Quiet settled over the room again for a few moments as everyone, including you, calmed down. The kid eventually settled against your chest to nap, one little hand holding tight to your dress. 

“What’s so important that this witch is after?” you asked, keeping your voice down so as not to disturb the little one.

Djarin turned his helmet towards you before he sighed. “Something she thinks will give her power,” he eventually answered. 

You snorted quietly at that but stayed quiet, closing your eyes briefly. That didn’t exactly answer why she’d cursed you, though. She’d said you would do. But would do for what? 

One thing was for certain. Life was much more complicated than it had been pre witches and wizards. 

There were too many unanswered questions, and you didn’t even know where to start looking for answers. 

A sharp knock on the door interrupted your musing, and you blinked at the door. Djarin’s helmet turned to the door as well.

“Er, it’s the Tatooine door,” Peli said, sounding surprised. 

Djarin stood and grabbed something from the worktable, holding it against his thigh as he opened the door. You stood and carefully set the child down on the chair, creeping up behind Djarin to see what was going on. 

A man stood on the other side of the door in a red shirt and dark pants. His silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, and he looked faintly nervous.

“You the wizard?” he asked, giving Djarin a quick once over. At the wizard’s silent nod, he continued, “We’re havin’ a problem with a… creature. Dunno what to call it. But it’s ruinin’ crops.” 

“Where?” Djarin asked.

“That way, off a ways,” the stranger said, turning and pointing. “My village isn’t far from here, I can give you better directions from there.” 

“Describe the creature.” Djarin leaned against the doorframe, and you finally noticed the castle had obligingly stopped moving. You peered around Djarin to get a better look at the stranger and get an idea of where you were. Sand stretched out around you, although you could still see green off in the distance. Clearly you were a long ways from Kalevala. The thought made you somehow nervous, in a way that the door opening on Kamino or Mandalore had not. 

“It’s big,” the stranger said, motioning with his hands. “Has one great horn at the end of its nose. Tall. Sturdy. Four legs. Far ‘s we can tell, it eats plants.” 

Djarin nodded. “I can get rid of it,” he agreed. “I’ll need payment.” 

“Here.” The stranger pulled something out of his pocket, holding it out for Djarin to take, though his gaze kept sliding to you curiously. “We found it not far away. Figured you’d know something to do with it.”

Djarin took the object carefully and turned it over in his hand, examining it. It looked like a crystal - pretty, sparkly, rough-cut. But it was an unusual color, a beautiful deep blue. More unusual than that was that it was almost vibrating. Not exactly, though. You didn’t quite have the words to describe it. The crystal wasn’t moving but the air around it felt charged, thrumming. 

It felt magic.

Djarin slowly looked back at the stranger. “Show me where you found this and I’ll get rid of the creature for you,” he rasped. 

“Sure thing,” the stranger agreed, looking at you yet again. “Didn’t know you had a witch here too.”

“She works for me,” Djarin grunted before you could say anything. “Wait here.” He turned and gently pushed you back inside in front of him, shutting the door before the stranger could say anything. “Grab the kid. You two are coming with me.”

#Merry go round of Life #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #howl's moving castle au

[stiltonbasket]

so i binged all of renouncement verse in one go and lwj sewing clothes for a-yu was so sweet i was wondering if we could see him finally do that for wwx?

(brief author’s note: please please reblog if you can, since that’s how we get prompts for future chapters!)

anon 2: maybe something about wwx getting things ready for the baby?? and lwj helps to feather their love nest a little more too (´• ω •`) like maybe carving a crib or making little clothes! they have advance warning about a baby for the first time ever!

anon 3: For Renouncement Verse: can we see WWX finding new hobbies such as sewing/embroidery to pass time and maybe even sewing their baby some clothes pls <3

__

When Wei Wuxian was a child—about seven years old, or six—he spent a week in bed after catching a mild case of lake fever, which rarely gave children anything worse than a headache and a cough. But lake-fever requires rest to heal, so the healers confined him to his room with strict orders not to move. 

Naturally, the young Wei Ying had disliked this immensely, and soothed himself by making kites for Jiang Cheng with his uncle until Madam Yu deemed him well enough to get up again.

“Did kite-making truly keep you occupied when you were sick, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks now, so lovingly that Wei Wuxian nearly drops his needle and thread. “I thought you would have tried to run away and fly them as soon as you were finished.”

“How do you think I learned how to sew?” he laughs, tucking up the hem of a tiny blue gown and fastening it with a line of straight stitches. “I broke my leg once when I was around nine, and then I broke my other leg the year after that, so Shijie sat with me and taught me how to mend all the clothes I ripped whenever I went out to play. It was nice, even if I thought it was boring, and then I started to like it enough to keep going.”

Lan Zhan nods and sews another clear red bead onto the garment spread across his lap. Whatever his husband is making is far too large for little A-Lan, but it doesn’t seem to be the kind of robe Lan Zhan would wear. Lan Zhan prefers gowns in blanch-white and azure blue, and this one has plenty of pale red flowers scattered among all the blue threads and silver embroidery. 

“Is that for you?” Wei Wuxian wonders, putting the finished baby dress aside. “When did you start wearing red, sweetheart?”

His husband’s lips curl up into a small smile as he shakes his head. “It’s yours. To wear to A-Lan’s full month celebration.”

He gestures to the fourteen feet of pearly silk and its glittering su xiu stitching, which Lan Zhan had done partly by hand and partly with the help of a crafting talisman. The robe is covered in sparkling flowers and soft white clouds, with most of the blossoms raised above the pale fabric in beadwork; from his vantage point on the bed, Wei Wuxian can see crimson lotuses and pale blue gentians sewn beside a flock of silver-feathered birds the size of his thumbnail, so delicate and fine that he has to squint to look at the details in their wings.

“For me?” he hears himself gasp, reaching out to touch it. “Lan Zhan!”

“A-Yu will wear the robe I made him, so I thought you might like to match,” Lan Zhan says, looking up at him with so much adoration in his eyes that Wei Wuxian’s heart turns to jelly. “I will make one for A-Lan, too, but later on. It will be much faster, and there is no telling how much she might grow in the first month.”

Lan Zhan glances at the tiny socks in Wei Wuxian’s hands—a pair of little knitted things, made in dyed pink instead of blue or white because Xiao-Yu insisted on choosing the color—and goes back to his work, adding in a pair of clear leaves and berries on the sleeves of the festival gown.

“I must hurry,” he says apologetically. “We only have another week at most, and then there will be no time for anything but tending the little one.”

Wei Wuxian sighs in wordless agreement and picks up his two long knitting needles. It hasn’t really sunk in that he’s going to have three children instead of two in less than ten days, even though the baby never lets him forget her presence even for a moment, and part of him is deathly afraid of what lies ahead even if he will have Lan Xichen’s help when it comes to giving birth to her. 

He is also afraid of doing something wrong after she arrives, since A-Yuan and A-Yu were both old enough to walk and talk by themselves when he adopted them.

“She’s going to be so tiny,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around himself. “Lan Zhan, what if we—what if I end up hurting her? What if she cries and we can’t tell what she wants, or—or what if she gets sick, and we don’t notice? I’ve never even held such a little baby before. How are we going to do this?”

Lan Zhan takes Wei Wuxian’s hands in his and kisses them. “We will do it together,” he vows—and oh, it feels as if mountains would gladly level themselves at the sound of his husband’s voice, just so Wei Wuxian could have a clear road to walk on and sunshine to light the way. “When we do not know what to do, we will ask Shufu or perhaps Jiang Wanyin. And there are always healers, and my cousins who have had children.”

“Lan Zhan…”

And then Wei Wuxian realizes exactly what his beloved had said. “We can ask your uncle for help?”

“Xiongzhang was given to him to raise when he was only eighteen,” Lan Zhan explains. “There was a nurse, of course, but Shufu insisted he should bring us up if our parents were not permitted to do so.”

Wei Wuxian relaxes a little at the thought of practiced hands being near. “You hear that, A-Lan?” he chuckles, tapping his side over the spot where he last felt a nudge from the baby. “There’s no need to worry. Your shugong is here, and he’s better at this than your A-Die is.”

“Not for long. You will learn, sweetheart, and so will I.”

“You promise?” Wei Wuxian whispers. “Promise, Lan Zhan.”

(And Lan Zhan promises, as he always does, and kisses him until the last of his fears finally melt away.)

#wangxian #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #renouncement verse #wangxian arranged marriage au #my fic

[studyingoose]

i’m always trying to find ways to lessen my impact on the environment but being a uni student means that most of the time i’m trying to find a balance between realistic long term actions and sustainability. so below, i’ve shared some of the ways i currently help lessen my environmental impact as well as some habits i’d like to slowly integrate into my life in the future.

bring your own water bottle - i think this one is pretty straight forward. i’m very lucky in the sense that my university provides a lot of refill stations. i usually pack my water the night before with my lunch so i don’t have to stress about it the next day. plus!! with my own water bottle, i can add lemon slices or mint etc. in winter, i like to use a thermos and bring honey lemon water, hot tea, or just not chilly water.

pack your own lunch - this not only helps you save money but also makes sure you know what you’re eating. i have a perfect sandwich sized container as well so it means i don’t have to use plastic wrap for anything. since i’m a vegetarian, most of my meals are pretty straightforward and feature rice, pasta, eggs etc. that i can buy in bulk with less plastic packaging as well.

bring your own utensils/keep cup - if you enjoy coffee, either sit in the cafe or bring your own reusable keep cup! my university is really conscious about this so all the nearby cafes let us bring our own cups and sometimes you even get discounts for not using single use cups. when i do go out to eat as well, i try to bring my own utensils so i don’t have to use the single use plastic (or even those wooden chopsticks) this also applies to straws for bubble tea or smoothies.

switch milks - i know a lot of people already have coconut, soy, almond milks with their coffee/tea due to lactose intolerance/other medical/personal reasons. many coffee shops do charge for plant milks but if they don’t then it’s an option since the dairy industry produces a lot of methane (also plant based milks are healthier). i don’t personally buy milk often because i don’t drink it so it’s not a big dent in my budgeting but if it is then don’t worry about it.

reuse notebooks  - on top of recycling my scrap paper, i reuse notebooks that i never finished. instead of organising my notebooks in terms of papers or courses, i separate them by area of study so it means that i can use the same notebook for 3/4 years for politics or english. otherwise, i use the backs of notebooks to write practice essays, do past papers, doodle, do random brain dumps etc. essentially i treat unused paper in notebooks like loose leaf.

buy pen refills and do pen audits - find out what pens you actually use!! i know for me, i’ve felt pressured by the studyblr “aesthetic” to buy stationary that i don’t have a use for and it just results in unnecessary consumerism. i use roughly 10 pens at most as well as some art supplies but for my pens, i try to use refills instead of replacing the entire pen. in the future, i’d like to also stop using correction tape and be comfortable enough to just cross things out. i have to use a wide range of pencils for art but in general use, i simply own 3 mechanical pencils and refill the lead instead.

carry a reusable shopping bag - recently, my country banned single use plastic bags so now everyone uses reusable shopping bags or no bags. although you can buy brown paper bags for 20 cents in supermarkets, you never know what you’ll need to carry around so i like to bring a tote bag.

invest in a quilt - i am super guilty of getting cold really easily and that means i usually have the heater/thermostat on in winter when i’m studying but recently i’ve come to realise that i abuse that a lot. so instead of automatically going to turn on the heater, i try to see if i’m wearing enough first or getting a quilt to put on my lap when i feel cold. this way i don’t have to rack a super high power bill in winter.

change your mailing options - previously i’d get mail from my bank regarding bank statements etc. now i’ve opted for monthly statements online instead saving the paper that they’d use mailing me, similarly i no longer sign up for coupon books, circulars, random magazines etc.

thrift shop your clothes - i feel like this is a really big trend in my city but i’m trying to only thirft shop my clothes now instead of buying new. the thrift shops that i have access to are really good quality and it’s basically a reseller where people who bring their clothes in get 50% of the sale. this does mean that clothes are pricier than big chains like h&m but it also means that you have to think about the purchase for longer + a lot of the finds are super unique and will most likely last longer.

mend your own clothes - in a similar sense to thrifting, don’t just throw out a shirt because it’s missing a button. a 20 minute youtube tutorial can make sure that shirt remains a staple item in your wardrobe. plus sewing leads to darning your socks, knitting, crochet, or even making your own clothes.

consider epilating/laser hair removal - i used to go through so many plastic razors during summer because i was someone who preferred no hair. i know there are many people who don’t mind their body hair and that’s great! for those of you who do however, considering an epilator (multi use) or even laser hair removal (permanent). both are more expensive however they both also use less plastic (compared to fornightly/monthly throwing away of razors)

bulk make your own snacks - i really want to make my own museli bars in the future since i eat them a lot. usually i try to limit my snacks to things like carrot/celery sticks, fruit, nuts, berries etc. but i try to not get individually packaged snacks (they can be more expensive as well since you’re paying for convenience). this is definitely something i can work on but i’d like to be able to bulk make my own granola, museli, dips etc. in the future.

replant your vegetables - this is a lot more achievable for me since the place i live is rural in land style. currently my family has a multitude of fruit trees, tea trees and we’ve recently gotten into reusing our vegetable scraps. for celery/cabbage/lettuce/etc. you can replant the root area. the same goes for spring onions (which are super easy to grow! and garlic cloves!) most vegetables are quite easy to grow with just a bit of googling. even if you don’t have a lot of space but would like to give this a shot, consider adding some herbs to your indoors plant collection.

visit farmers markets - unfortunately, this isn’t that big a thing where i live but i remember going to a few as a kid and the produce is much fresher, the atmosphere is lovely, and it’s a good way to source food and products. many stalls also sell premade items like jams, sauces, baked goods, soap etc. so if you find yourself busy then it may be a possible investment to buy from farmers markets.

some other habits: composting, public transport, bicycling, bamboo toothbrushes, natural home cleaners, raising your own animals, beeswax wraps, cloth napkins/handkerchiefs, buy in bulk, use rain water to water your plants, invest in a menstrual cup, choose wooden over plastic

disclaimer: you don’t necessarily need to buy anything to be more environment friendly!! some things on this list do suggest it but look at your life currently, if you don’t drink coffee or tea on the go then there’s no need for a keep cup etc. invest in products, don’t just buy them because they’ve been advertised.also, i’d like to iterate that whilst climate change is a very real and very scary threat,  personal use by the general population only results in a small part of it so please don’t feel like you’re letting anyone down if your personal situation or any part of your life prevents you from doing more than a few things to help the environment. as long as you’re not being dick to the environment and taking 4 hour showers, using 500 plastic straws a day then doing your best is enough. if you can’t do anything more in lessening your environmental footprint, then that’s okay. other people might be able to so even just spreading the news could help a lot.

if you have any other habits that you do not in this list then please tell me as well so we can all learn from each other !

happy learning everyone xx

#environment #study #studyblr #studyspo #studylustre #studypetals #heysareena #heycho #lookpat #eintsein #studyplants #studyquill #obsidianstudy #studyinspo #reference #resources

[angelicspaceprince]

Dewey x Crafter Reader Headcanons

Ive fallen down a rabbit hole of crafting and I can't get up. Help me. I write hcs to help save my soul

I'll also edit when I have computer access so then there is a read more button or whatever they're called, I can't find it on mobile

Wrote directly onto the tumblr app so if there are any mistakes that's why. No betas, we die by our spelling and grammar mistakes here

You were a crafter before you met Dewey, having taken up most crafts by the time you were 17

Sewing, needlepoint, embroidery, cross stitch, knitting, crocheting

You'd experimented with them all and even though each one had its merits, you definitely had your favourites

Then life happened. You had to start working, unable to attend college, and soon you had no time to craft. If you were awake, you were working

Mostly low paying jobs to cover rent, bills etc, taking on as many shifts as possible

It was actually during one of your shifts you met Dewey

You started working at a local music shop, mostly serving and organising CDs when a very excited Dewey rocked up, wanting to find the newest release for one of his favourite bands

You got to talking and realised that you had similar music tastes and, even though you really wanted to get to know him more, you had to remain professional. You were still on the clock

Luckily for you, however, you were invited to go see a group of local bands performing to celebrate your friend's birthday

You recognized Dewey the moment he stepped on stage and was in awe at his musical skill

You figured it'd be weird to go up to him and start talking because a) if he didn't recognize you then having a stranger come up to you and say that you remembered him from work would be odd and b) if he DID recognize you from work that'd be even odder

You didn't want to give off stalker vibes, so you stayed at the bar, content just to leave it

Dewey, however, saw you in the crowd and had a different plan in mind

Still riding the adrenaline high from being on stage, he walked straight up to you

"I don't know if you remember me, bu-"

"I remember you."

"Oh."

You both blushed heavily as you shift in your seat. "Drink?" You offered. "I....I liked talking to you earlier, I'd like to talk some more."

Dewey positively beamed at that, sitting down next to you as you effectively start ignoring your friend's birthday party celebrations in favour of talking to the man in front of you

The rest, as they say, was history

You ended up dating pretty quickly after you first met, moving in with each other after only dating for 6 months

It was an accident, you had your power cut off (again) and it was the middle of winter. Dewey offered you a warm place to stay temporarily and after 4 weeks of looking for a new apartment, he just said "you're already living here, just move in with me."

It made things easier, now there were two people contributing to bills

Rent was never paid in full, but something was always sent in

Patty wasn't impressed by that but Ned wasn't as fussed, just happy to have something coming in

It helped that he really liked you and felt that you were a good fit for Dewey

Even though things still remained tough, you were happy just to have a roof over your head and someone who loved you

When Dewey started working for Horace Green, things became easier

Bills were paid with his paycheck, yours became groceries and fuel money

Even then, for the first time in a long time, you had spare cash

Most went into savings but being able to afford your own Netflix account? Felt amazing

Despite having a bit of extra money, some habits were hard to break.

You rarely bought clothing from anywhere but thrift stores and Walmart, Dewey prefering Walmart but essentially doing the same thing

Unfortunately, that meant the clothing you had bought wasn't always the best of quaility, especially when Dewey was the one wearing it

Just the nature of his jumpy, clutzy, accident prone and slightly messy self meant you were constantly buying him new shirts and mending his sweater vests

To be honest, it was getting old

You'd also been missing crafting for a while so. Two birds, one stone

The next time you were in Walmart alone, you grabbed yarn and knitting needles and on the few days a week you were home alone, slowly you started to knit him some new sweater vests, using an old one that was beyond repair as the template to make sure each one fit

The first one was just a plain, fadded red to get yourself back into practice before slowly beginning to add simple designs similar to the few he owned now

Then a couple of weird themed ones, a couple of his favourite bands, one with music notes in the design, one that was birthday themed, one with mini guitars, whatever amused you and you thought would amuse him, you knitted onto the sweater

Each vest took three weeks to make. By the time his birthday came around, you had made him ten new vests, having kept it a secret the entire time

You were super nervous when he opened up his present, but the giant smile on his face was worth it, excited with the concert tickets you managed to get for the two of you (in the pit, of course) and with each new sweater, he got more and more excited

"These are amazing babe! Where did you get them?" He asked as he got up to try his favourite (the one with a replica of his Gibson knitted around the bottom) on

You go quiet. "I....uh.....I made them."

He looked over at you like you just admitted you had found a cure for cancer

You'd neglected to tell him of your crafting past, it never came up so you never said

Now, however, he was keen to see you craft

He never even dared to try it out for himself, but enjoyed watching you knit or crochet without looking at your work, watching TV or chatting to Dewey as you just continued to work

Every year, he got at least two sweaters from you, and you made sure to knit a sensible one and a silly one

What amazed you was the fact that Dewey seemed to have fewer accidents

He took extra special care of all of the stuff you make him, never spilling so much as a drop of coffee on them and tried his best not to get them snagged on the one sharp part of the doorway into his office

One day he came home, nearly in tears

You were folding up laundry but you dropped everything and came rushing over, thinking the absolute worst but instead he simply pushed something into your hands and said "I'm so sorry"

Turns out, he took off his vest when he came in to play a song with the kindergartners, something he now does daily as part of his role as music teacher

He didn't notice one of the kids grabbing it and wandering off with it

It was covered in paint, one of the Gibsons were cut out and the yarn was beginning to unravel, despite clear attempts to keep it from doing so

It was ruined

You hush Dewey as you pull him close and reassure him it's ok, you can make him another one

It took a while to settle him, he treasured everything you made him and he allowed one to get ruined

But once you assured him it was fine and you knew it was an accident, you ended up spooning in the couch as you mentally start planning the new sweater

A month passed when he found a wrapped up parcel on his desk

He was running late, didn't have time to grab a coffee and accidentally grabbed his vest with a massive hole in the back rather than one of your handcrafted ones

Still, he made it to the classroom before any students arrived, so he quickly opened it up and a huge smile plastered its way onto his face

A new sweater vest that was near identicle to his ruined one, a bit cleaner and better designed than the old one

You'd also made him a pair of socks, something you'd been experimenting with, with the AC/DC logos on the side

He found the note at the bottom 'Hope you have a good day. I love you. Y/N. P.S. These are not allowed near the kindergartners ❤'

He quickly changed into the sweater, feeling so much better than he did 5 minutes ago

The socks became his lucky socks and he'd wear them to his gigs, stating that it was like you were up there with him

He shushed you when you pointed out that it meant he was technically stepping on you, telling you "you know what I mean" before giving you a kiss

He'd give you requests for scarves, beanies, the lot. Socks were for bed or performances only, apparently, but everything else was worn whenever

You even made beanies and scarves for members of the band who wanted them, each having the School of Rock logo on it plus the kid's name

Dewey loves wearing and telling everyone about the stuff you make because he thinks it's absolutely incredible you're able to create something like this

And he treasures everything you make him

Most importantly, he's there to listen when you rant that the yarn isn't working like it should, or just about crafting problems in general, and be an ear as you problem solve an issue and is there to celebrate the victories when it finally works

Gets really good at yarn shopping too, picks up the brands you prefer and learns to read the packaging labels

Just

He loves the fact you can create something just like he can

#school of rock musical headcanons #school of rock headcanons #school of rock the musical #school of rock musical #school of rock #dewey finn headcanons #dewey finn/reader #dewey finn #dewey finn x reader #ama writes #amas stuff

[assless-chapstick]

Hi Noble, I am in a bad place right now just feeling sad and low. Wanted to ask you for some Charthur ranch life headcannons? Your writing always cheers me up and distracts me when I'm sad. No pressure if you don't want to, just the act of writing this helped a little already 💕

Aw feller, I’m sorry to hear that you ain’t feelin so hot. Times is rough all over, and some times it feels a little difficult to keep on pushing, don’t it? Hopefully I can whip up something that might help cheer you up.

I been thinking a lot lately about what Arthur and Charles do around the ranch, especially in the winter time. The spring, summer, n autumn are more busy for them than the winter is, I imagine. In the spring Arthur spends a couple weeks our at the different ranches in the area, helping out with calving and foaling and what not. He’s real good with animals, and hes got a much smaller property than some of the other ranchers in the area, so he don’t mind helping out none. He trades his services for like, meat n stuff from his neighbours.

Charles goes away hunting on a big fur trip in the autumn, most years. He and Arthur of course hunt together during the summer, but in the fall Charles goes away for a couple weeks to get a bunch of furs, spends the winter tanning them. Winter is really for things like that, building furniture, etc… things he can do in his workshop.

I also think Arthur spends a lot of time in the garden during the summer. It’s a huge garden, too, with rows and rows of corn, potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. Any given day from May til September, Arthur’s out there weeding and watering and checking for pests. He likes the sun, ain’t really able to get used to living indoors.

Sometimes, he works the garden shirtless, on really hot days. Every spring, Charles teases Arthur about how white he is, and every summer he rinses Arthur’s back with cold water after he (inevitably) gets his first sunburn. After that, Arthur always gets tan and golden brown with the sun, and his hair gets all sun bleached and he looks so healthy that Charles just has to kiss him when he finds him between the rows of corn.

A couple summers in, Arthur plants beets, cuz they’re hardy and do well in the soil. He learns that winter that Charles hates beets – Arthur’d canned a whole bunch, and over dinner one night Charles asks how many cans they have left.

Arthur is like, “aw hell, I don’t know, maybe eight or nine? Why?” and Charles is just like “no reason.” And goes back to eating… the beets…. But Arthur can read him so well, knows by the set of his shoulders that Charles is disappointed, and he can’t help but laugh, cuz it’s so damn cute. Charles never complains about food or cooking (except to tease Arthur) so for him to actually dislike a food is just so novel, and they’ve been together for years and Arthur is delighted that there are still things he doesn’t know about Charles.

So Arthur kisses him and steals his plate and finishes the beets… they have them much less often after that, and Arthur plants turnips instead the following year. And he trades some of the beets away to Mrs Shevchenko (who’s daughter is 21 and engaged to be married but still makes big moony eyes over Arthur, who is pushing 40, at mass every Sunday) in exchange for some of her pickles, because the garlic and dill she uses is just the best….

Oh! And during the summer, the boys both like to stroll through the strawberry patch to eat the ripe ones… and Charles will sometimes pull a carrot from the garden and rinse it n eat it right there as he watches Arthur try and wrangle the goats so he can sheer them… (can you shear goats?)

So I think they spend much of the year outside, gardening, caring for the animals (along with the goats they’ve got like 6 horses and some chickens and a few dogs that roam around and of course, Cheater the cat), hunting and fishing…

The winter is harder on Arthur, I think, because he likes to be busy and can’t stand to be inside all day long. I think in the winter, he paints, just to have something to do with his hands; he don’t like being stuck inside all day. He’s a pretty garbage painter, though…. Charles buys him some pastels and charcoal, and he does much better with those. His pastel portraits are beautiful, though he mostly does wildlife and florals.

They both try to take up knitting and mending, and are both pretty horrible with it… Arthur does a lot of the mending because he’s marginally better, but it’s still Pretty Bad.

They spend a lot of evening in the winter by the fire, reading to one another or playing cards, or dominos… Arthur will lie between Charles’s legs as Charles massages his shoulders, might hum something for him …

They don’t really celebrate Christmas, I don’t think. Neither of them did it growing up, and they’re not religious – Arthur only goes to mass on Sundays because to not do so would draw suspicion. So they don’t celebrate Christmas…. But the lesbians, Sue and Louise-Anne, do, and they always invite Charles and Arthur over for Christmas dinner. They mother the boys, a little (one of the women has an estranged son but we don’t talk about him), and give them socks or jumpers for Christmas… the first year the boys didn’t get them anything (they didn’t know!!) and they felt awful…. Now they get ladies yarn or furs or furniture that Charles made in his workshop (Arthur does a beautiful job on carving the details and adding inlays)

All in all, it’s a peaceful existence, and they keep busy. I think, on nights like this where it’s cold and snowy and the sun sets early, they make love under the guise of getting warm… there ain’t much to do once the sun goes down, save for curl up in bed n kiss slow and lazy til they’re grinding up against one another and Charles is cooing in Arthur’s ear about what a pretty little housewife he makes and how soft his tits feel now that he’s got his winter weight on…

I hope that cheered you up a lil bit, mister!! Happy trails!!

#kiyanaw au

[thomasblanky-moved]

day 2: tears wiped away

@theterrorrarepairweek

rating: g characters: collins, goodsir word count: 954 read on ao3

buy me a coffee!

healing was a long, slow process.

not that henry had ever expected things to come quickly; he had thought his broken mind like any other wound, mending over the course of a fortnight or a handful of weeks, at most. but instead his stay at rosebank stretched on for months, swinging between tentative peace and deep, dark despair. 

the goodsirs had been kind to him, harry and his sister and all their brothers. they’d let him stay here, at their home in anstruther- though soon the house was empty again save jane and harry and henry- and barely bat an eye at housing and feeding him. henry tried to make himself as little of a nuisance as possible: he split wood and washed dishes and did his own laundry and mending, running errands for miss jane and doing odd jobs about town when he could. she wouldn’t take the money that he made to try and pay her back for her kindness, so he hid it amongst the mail every once in a while in unnamed envelopes.

and harry, oh, harry, who had always been gentle with him, and understanding, even when the world was falling apart around them. that place had exacted a price on him, too, had taken something from him and twisted him into something else, but harry had kept the good parts of himself as other men buckled and crumbled under the weight of it all.

he had held him in the dark and listened to him cry, had wiped away his tears, and then he had given him a home.

it was of course a given, then, that henry loved him. anything else would have been unthinkable.

henry did not expect anything of harry. he had already given up so much of himself- he knew the deaths weighed on him, that he counted some as personal failures- that henry couldn’t possibly ask him for more. and he wouldn’t have wanted to, even if he could, because henry knew that he was not a thing to be wanted- that he was too strange, gone wrong in the head, too broken- and he’d not burden harry with his feelings.

but that didn’t mean that he didn’t still feel them.

there was something achingly exquisite about living in the goodsir household, and that was that he saw harry every day. It was a double edged sword; spending time with him calmed something in henry, fulfilled some sort of bone-deep longing, but it also reminded him at every turn of the things he could not do, and he found himself on multiple occasions reaching for harry only to drop his hand at the last moment.

it was good, though, to have something to himself, something small that he could hold close, because it had been so, so long since he’d felt warm- he’d been afraid that the ice had stayed in his bones just like the lead, a terrible reminder of years he’d give anything to forget. and henry was content like this, happy to be at peace, to be useful, to be near.

much of him recovers, in those months in anstruther, mind and body; not perfect, he’ll never be what he was before, but better. his joints still ache, sometimes, especially in the cold, and especially in his hands. he settles himself by the stove for most of the winter, and he apologizes to miss jane for lapsing in his chores, but she waves him off in a way that would have been brusque if not for her kind smile.

“don’t worry your head about it, now, mister henry,” she tells him, “we’ll get along just fine.”

so, he finds himself a blanket- the biggest he could get his hands on- and sits by the warmth of the stove and tries to learn how to knit.

the others occasionally came to keep him company. jane sat with him in the evening and sewed or instructed him on how to properly darn socks or scarves; polly came and curled herself in his lap, snug and purring so loudly he could feel it; harry would pull up a chair or sit cross-legged on the floor and read by the dim, flickering light until he was squinting. that was perhaps one of henry’s most favorite times, just the two of them sitting in quiet contentment, together.

it was under those circumstances that it happened, then, because of course.

harry had been on the floor pouring over some new paper sent by way of edinburgh, his reading glasses slipping down his nose, and henry had been bent over his knitting, desperately trying to salvage the mitten he’d been working on. and then suddenly harry had been very close, leaning up and braced with his hands pressed just above henry’s knees, their mouths pressed together in a dry, functional, and quite frankly terrible kiss.

but it freezes henry regardless, his entire body going very, very still, and when harry pulls away, he looks worried, almost panicked. He stumbles over his words, apologies, excuses, but henry doesn’t hear them, not really, he just –

“harry.” he must know, suddenly, needs desperately to know more than he’s ever needed anything else in his entire life. “did you mean it?”

he reaches out and this time he doesn’t shy away, his fingertips lightly skimming harry’s cheek, and harry sighs a little and leans into his palm, eyes dropping shut. he says, “of course.”

something in henry’s chest seems to burst, then, warm and bright and

wonderful,

and he smiles- it feels like a lifetime since he had last smiled. but harry had kissed him, and he had meant it, and in the end that was all that really mattered anymore.

#the terror #the terror fic #theterrorrarepairweek #harry goodsir #henry collins

[panlight]

Since we see so little of it, how do you think the other couples beside B/E give gifts? Who gets flowers? Who gets jewelry? Who take vacations? How do the other Cullens show their love?

I think Emmett/Rosalie are the most stereotypical of the gift-givers because Rosalie is sort of “trapped” in that mindset given how/when she was frozen. She was dreaming of this big magical wedding with all the lace and hearts and flowers stuff. So I think she responds to that stuff–the flowers, the jewelry. The down-on-one-knee proposals once a decade or so. She finds comfort and familiarity in those human ideas of romance and Emmett’s happy to oblige. Sometimes he tries to think outside the box and it’s 50/50 as to whether it goes over well, so he usually sticks to the tried-and-true.  Emmett on the other hand is a simple man, and Rosalie’s gifts to him are usually either sexy (lingerie, etc) or “bro stuff” like video games and sports and adventures (scuba diving to look for a pirate ship). I think she’s the more creative, generally. I think, in keeping with Jasper and Alice’s mystical vibe, they aren’t necessarily big gift-givers. It’s also complicated with Alice’s power–Jasper has a hard time surprising her. He thinks of something and she’s all “THANKS I LOVE IT” and so it takes some of the fun out. Their whole deal seems to be on this supernatural plane that doesn’t have a lot to do with physical things like presents. I think Jasper probably does do flowers sometimes but probably more like something he picked while hunting vs the elaborate, expensive bouquets Emmett gets for Rosalie. Alice buys him clothes but apparently she buys everyone clothes lol. She’ll buy him things she’s “seen” he likes or wants but it’s her emotional climate and her complete acceptance of him, dark past and all, that are the greatest ‘gifts.’ I stand by thinking Carlisle’s gifts are thoughtful, and sometimes that can spill over to “really expensive” but it doesn’t always. It could be buying Esme this crumbling old house because of the pleasure she will get fixing it up. It could be getting her a bouquet with flowers whose names spell our her name, or have significance in the language of flowers, rather than the expensive bouquets.  Esme totally buys (knits?) him scarves, and books, and art, but I think more than anything it’s just the little things she does to care for him that really move him. He was pretty much alone for 250 years, being a doctor who took care of others, and then he took care of Edward, and it was only when Esme came along that there was someone who showed him that kind of care. So he loves the scarves and books and stuff but her “gifts” are also like, “Let me fix your tie” and  “I mended those socks” and “Your eyes are getting dark, you should hunt before your throat hurts too much.” 

#carlisle and esme #emmett and rosalie #alice and jasper

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot “Cruising Main Street” (Rated PG13)

After a huge snow storm, Sebastian takes advantage of the vacant, iced-over roads to go skating down Main Street with his boyfriend. (1185 words)

Notes: This one-shot gives you more clues to the main story line … which will go up. I promise xD Fluff and light angst.

Part 28 of Outside Edge

Read on AO3.

“This is crazy! This is crazy! This is crazy!” Kurt chants through anxiously chattering teeth as Sebastian pulls the SUV in front of CVS and parks.

“It’s not that crazy.” Sebastian turns the tires towards the curb and engages the emergency brake, but he doesn’t kill the engine to keep the heater running.

“We’re going to get in trouble,” Kurt laments, climbing over the center console and into the back seat.

“I’m not sure this is actually illegal,” Sebastian says, following his boyfriend.

Kurt folds his arms across his chest as Sebastian leans over his lap to untie his boots. “You stole your uncle’s SUV.”

“Borrowed,” Sebastian stresses, setting Kurt’s boot aside and replacing it with a hockey skate. “I borrowed it. I have my learner’s permit. Plus I’m an excellent driver.”

“I think I know two jack rabbits and a squirrel that might disagree with you,” Kurt mentions as Sebastian removes his other boot.

“Hey! That wasn’t my fault. The roads are slippery. I lost traction.” Sebastian tugs up Kurt’s socks, tucking his pant legs inside. “Besides, you’d think they’d know to get the hell outta the way of a moving vehicle.”

“Speaking of which, we’re going to get hit by a car.”

“No, we’re not. No one’s out here, babe.” Sebastian stops fiddling with Kurt’s socks to wipe down a fogged up window and take a look around. Beneath the orange glow of the street lamps, both boys can see nothing but snow. No cars. No people. Just a veil of flakes drifting down from the sky, pushed into swirls by the frigid wind. “It’s three in the morning after one of the worst storms we’ve had in years. You’d have to be insane to be out here.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Kurt mutters. “We’re going to hit soft spots.”

“I don’t know. It’s still comin’ down pretty good. I really don’t think we’ll find too many.” Sebastian squints to see past the rapidly reforming fog and assess the thickness of the ice covering the asphalt. “If we steer clear of the manhole covers, we should be fine. But that’s why I brought my beat-up old Bauers. So you don’t nick your expensive competition blades.”

“It’s not my blades I’m worried about.”

Sebastian turns away from the window steadily re-clouding from the heat inside the vehicle and throws Kurt a pointed look. Kurt rolls his eyes.

“Okay, yeah, I am, but right now, I’m more worried about my head.”

“I brought helmets if you want.” Sebastian grabs one off the seat behind him – a bright red snowboarding helmet he keeps with his hockey gear for just such an occasion - and holds it up. Kurt considers it, weighing the pros and cons of stuffing it on his head over his wool hat for the safety of his noggin against why he’s even considering doing this at all!?

“Maybe …” He peeks past Sebastian’s shoulder to get a glimpse out the window. “But what I want to know is why is this even necessary?”

Sebastian smirks. “To keep your brain from getting scrambled. Duh!” He puts the helmet down and returns to the task of getting skates on Kurt’s feet.

“No. I mean, why is skating down Main Street necessary?”

“Because it’s fun! Come on! Live a little!” Sebastian slides Kurt’s reluctant left foot into its skate. “I can’t believe you’ve never done this before!”

“Well, believe it, buddy. My parents and I aren’t super big fans of needlessly putting our lives in danger.”

“Me and the guys from Elite used to do this all the time.” Sebastian tightens Kurt’s laces. “Right down Main Street after every snow storm.”

“Do you … do you think we’ll run into them out here?”

“Nah. Doesn’t matter if we do anyhow. We’ll keep our distance.” Sebastian goes silent. Kurt watches him. He’s effortlessly tying Kurt’s skates the way Kurt likes them – loose through the length of his foot and tight at his ankles – but his mind is definitely somewhere else.

“Do you miss it?” Kurt swallows hard, not entirely sure what answer he’s hoping to hear. “Do you miss them?”

Sebastian finishes the knot on Kurt’s right skate, then rests his palm on the toe cap with a heavy sigh. “Yeah,” he admits, moving on to the left skate. “Sometimes. I mean, we were all sold on that whole band of brothers mentality. And we were brothers … sort of. We grew up together. We did everything together. They were my best friends all through elementary school, and middle school …”

“But you gave them up … for me,” Kurt says quietly.

“For me, too. I gave them up so I could be a better person, have someone worthwhile in my life who actually cares about me, not what they could get by knowing me.” Sebastian finishes tying Kurt’s skates and sits up, coming face to face with his highly skeptical boyfriend. “You don’t look like you believe me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, lowering his gaze to the dingy, striped-white laces on his borrowed skates. “It’s just not always easy to believe that being with me is better than being with your old friends. You guys always seemed so close. I rarely ever saw you apart. You seemed like you said – brothers. That must have been hard to give up.”

“Well, as it turned out, my old friends were humongous jerks,” Sebastian says, spitting out the word jerks. “I mean, if they cared about me at all, they’d be here right now, wouldn’t they? They would have mended fences and all that shit? Accepted the fact that you’re in my life, and things are different now?”

“I … I guess,” Kurt says, folding his hands in his lap and idly pushing at his cuticles. Sebastian slides in close and wraps his arms around him.

“But you’re here,” Sebastian whispers. “Even after all of it, you stayed. So yeah, you are better. So much better.” He leans his forehead against the soft ribbing of Kurt’s knitted cap and lays delicate, barely-there kisses against his cheek. It’s hard for Kurt to understand, Sebastian knows. Kurt has had to sacrifice so much for his friends, distance himself from them so that they wouldn’t become targets for the same bullying he endured, but aside from his parents, he’s never had anyone return the favor. He doesn’t get that quality matters to Sebastian, not quantity. Perhaps that’s Sebastian’s own fault considering how overindulged he is, how often he had flaunted it while cutting Kurt down. “You know, if you don’t want to go skating, that’s fine. I know it’s kind of risky. We can go back home and hang out. Make hot cocoa or something.”

“The biggest risk I’ve taken is sitting right here in this SUV with me, and it’s worked out so far. I don’t mind taking another one. Just … try not to let me die? If at all possible. I’d really appreciate it.”

“All you have to do is hold on tight,” Sebastian says, closing in slowly on Kurt’s mouth. “I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

#kurtbastian #hummelholidays

[zombierunfiction]

Season 2 Side Mission 3: Whack-A-Mole

A few days later, Charlotte was mending some of Sam and her own clothes in the mess hall with Jody sitting across from her.  Since Charlotte was rubbish at knitting, she found sewing was a better talent.  So when ever possible the two of them would sew up any clothes that were falling apart.  Mostly torn knees, split seems and sometimes the occational snapped button.  Currenly Jody was darning some socks while Charlotte was mending Sam's red hoodie that had gotten a rip in the armpit, which seemed to happen a bit.  

"So how are things going for you two?  You and Sam I mean?"  Jody asked.

"Things are good.  Better than at the beginning."  Charlotte said softly.

"Yeah I heard about your ex being in New Canton."  Jody said as Charlotte nodded.

"Amir was very accepting of it.  I think he knew we weren't meant for each other." Charlotte said.

Jody nods as she closed off another sock.  "So how is he in the sack?"

Charlotte stabbed her finger making her squeak and put her finger in her mouth.  Jody started to laugh hard making the red head glare at her.  "Snut mup"  Charlotte said muffled.

"What was that?" Jody asked inbetween giggles.

Charlotte took her finger out seeing the finger wasn't bleeding.  "I said shut up."

"Oh come on Char... I told you how it was with Simon."  Jody said off handedly.

"That was your choice and besides it's very private."  Charlotte said as she continued to sew up the hoodie.

Jody smiled slightly.  "Is he atleast good?  I've always thought he would be awkward and rather shy."

Charlotte blushes slightly thinking about the night before.  Sam had come back from a late night chewing out by Janine who kept laying into him about cleaning up the coms shack and the proper protocal of how to handle a run.  He had come into her room in a foul mood and was rather agressive last night, not that she minded of course.  "Sam knows what he is doing."

Jody smirks.  "Good to know."

Charlotte shook her head looking down at the hoodie focusing on mending it.  The door to the mess hall opened letting Simon in.  "Ah look at two of our best runners doing domestic things.  Next we will see you two cooking up our meals."

Charlotte and Jody gave Simon a pursed look before Charlotte spoke up.  "Simon I like you.  Don't make me break your leg."  

Simon held up his hands in defence.  "Hey no need for violence Charlotte just making a joke."

"Now that reminds me we need to talk about your jokes Simon."  Charlotte said.

"Well that will have to wait until later.  Sam sent me here to get you.  According to him, he has an important mission that can't wait."  Simon said as Charlotte nods putting the needle into the hoodie.  

"If I don't get back before your finished just put this stuff on my bed."  Charlotte said as Jody nodded and moved onto a pair of pants.

Charlotte got up rubbing the back of her head.  She decided to let her short hair be free for a bit since it kept her neck warm to not pull it back.  She put on her headset and grabbed a pack when Sam came over the headset.

"Ugh, great.  Just great. Runner Three, Runner Five, you're going to need to report to the armory before you head out today."  Sam said as Charlotte grins

"Ooh, giving us toys, Sam?  What's the occasion?"  Charlotte asked as Simon and her ran to the armory.

Sam sighed heavily.  "Well, according to the eastern cameras, another whole block of flats came down last night, along one of our best routes into the city.  You know, the one that leads to that big fancy shopping center?  Only the things is, the collapse didn't so much take out the zoms in the area as it did-"

"Put a seething mass of half-buried, extra-irritable undead smack in the middle of our favorite path?" Simon said as Charlotte put in the combination for the armory then stepped inside with simon.

"Yeah, that.  And since the hospital's not exactly a safe place for you runners these days, that crazy three-level pharmacy they put in there is one of our best sources of med kit. We lost that, it's back to tearing up the bed sheets for bandages again, and... well, Doctor Myers said something about leeches, but I think she was joking."  Sam said before he stopped.   "I hope she was joking."  He whispered.

Charlotte smirked shutting the door.  "Don't worry I don't think she meant it for real.  Besides I don't think leeches are that easy to find in Great Britian."

"Anyway, now that we've got weapons to spare, we're sending you over to pick off as many of them as you can.  You'll want something lightweight, probably.  Baseball bat, hockey stick, that sort of thing."  Sam said as Simon picked up a wooden bat giving a few swings.

"Ah, perfect timing.  I was just worrying that my swing with the old baseball bat was getting a bit rusty."  Simon said.

"Yeah, should have known you'd be excited."  Sam sighed heavily.

Charlotte picked up a duel sharpened axe then tested the weight.  "Relax Sam.  If you have to do a mission you might as well enjoy it as much as you can."  She put the axe into her pack as they walk out of the armory.

"Besides I've got to get Charlotte here started on an official Abel Kill Count sooner and later, right?  And I've got a high score to beat!"  Simon said happily.

"Oh no, not that again!"  Sam sighed heavily.  "If this is anything like that time with you and Four in that playground, I swear I'm going to -"  He took a slow breath.  "You know what?  Just... get to the gates."  He said as Charlotte and Simon left the armory, making sure to lock it back up.  They ran towards the gate as it raised up letting them out.

"Any word on what happened to the buildings this time, Sam.  Last I remember, there were still people camping out that way off and on."  Simon asked as the wind blew around them rather roughily.

"Cameras didn't catch it.  Janine thinks it might have been a gas leak, which..."  Sam stopped sighing heavily.  "Oh, here's the thing I don't understand.  Who turns the oven on during the zombie apocalypse?  I mean seriously, what's going through their heads?  'Oh no, I've been bitten.  Best idea is to cook up a frozen pizza, that'll take the edge off  Probably not even going to want it by the time it's ready if it hasn't got brains on it.'"  Sam mocked before there was a long pause.

Simon groaned softly.  "I really wish you hadn't mentioned pizza.  You probably don't know this, Charlotte, but there used to be this great little place on the outskirts of the city.  Made a killer slice back in the day.  Bet that's all rubble, too."

"Oh... did they do the kind with the pineapple?"  Sam asked softly.

Simon groaned deeply.  "Ugh, you wouldn't be a pineapple pizza type, would you?"

"Hey.  Pineapple on pizza is not that bad."  Charlotte contested.

Simon shook his head as they continued to run.  "We're getting, uh, close yet, Sam?"

"Yep, yeah, just keep following that road you're on into town.  You'll be coming up to that abandoned nursery school soon.  Ugh, yeah, maybe better if you don't pay so much attention to that."  Sam said.  "There's a dentist's office on the corner.  Watch for that instead.  Take a right there, and you should be able to see the zoms off in the distance.  Ugh, that's disgusting.  You might want to brace yourselves."

Charlotte and Simon followed Sam's plan before getting to the clearing making them both stop suddenly.  The building that normally sat near the road had completely collapsed with dozens of zombie's now either shambling or crawling around.  The rubble covered nearly a full block area.  There was blood smeared on the road and the rubble, while body parts were smashed underneath them.

"Wow..."  Simon breathed.  

"Yeah."  Charlotte said scanning the grounds.  

"That is a lot of..."  Simon continues.

"Yeah."  Charlotte answers again.

"Is it just me, or does the ground look like it's moving?"  Simon asks.

"Crawlers is my guess."  Charlotte said.

"This is worse than we thought.  It's rubble all the way up the block.  The building must have knocked down a couple of others on the way down.  Looks like there's at least twenty-five, twenty-six, maybe thirty half-buried zoms, right on your route.  You get a pack chasing you on a cloudy day, it'd be like a minefield down there!"  Sam said seriously.

"One grab at the ankle and... well that's why we are here."  Charlotte said as she took out her axe.  "Looks like most of them are crawlers with only a few shamblers."

"Remember, if you can reach them, they can reach you, so try not to get in too close, right?  Let's play it safe on this."  Sam said.

"Hey, you know when it rains, and all the worms come out of the ground and wriggle around on the pavement?"  Simon said with a laugh.  "It kind of looks a bit like that."

"Great."  Sam sighed.

"Or like if someone had a handful of caterpillars and sort of-"  Charlotte started making a squishing noise.  "sort of mashed them up a bit."

"Yeah alright both of you!  We get it!  There's a lot of horribly mangled zombies.  You're going to make me queasy."  Sam complained starting to sound a bit sick.

"Nah, you're fine right?  Now you are right on the caterpillars, or is it more like, uh, sausages with arms and teeth that someone dropped on the pavement on the way home from the shops, and then maybe stepped on-"  Simon continued.

"You know what?  You're really close now, probably best to just to cut the chatter all-together until you're on the final approach.  Don't want anything to surprise us because we're uh, wretching in horror.  Yeah, yeah, you two just run."  Sam said sounding rather green as Charlotte and Simon headed for the zombies.

Soon they were near them as Simon brandishes his bat while Charlotte rested her axe on her shoulder.  "Hey, Charlotte?  Did you go in for arcade games much before all this?"  Simon asked.

"When I was little yeah.  Not much as an adult why?"  Charlotte questioned.

"Now, best way to think about this is like a game of whack-a-mole.  Remember that?"  Simon questioned seeing Charlotte nod.  "Little funny things come up out of the ground and BAM!"  Simon said as he swung his bat taking out the head of a zombie.  

Charlotte started to swing her axe taking out a zom as well.  "Down comes the hammer then?  Except instead of waiting for the moles to come to us, we go to the moles."  She said as she swung again cutting the side of the head off with that swing.

"Exactly.  Any we don't catch on the first pass, we can get on the way back.  But you miss the first time, you only get half the points."  Simon said with a laugh.

"No, no, that's not true."  Sam starts.  "You don't get any points!"  He snapped.

"Oh come on Sam,  we're just having a little bit of fun out here."  Charlotte said softly.

Simon grinned swinging his bat taking out a crawlers head.  "Buried zoms get you two, unless you miss. Five for crawlers, and ten for shamblers, and uh, oh!  Thirteen, if you get a head shot.  Twenty-five and a power-up for springters, but I wouldn't recommend that until you've leveled up."  Simon grunts as he swings but misses the zombie.  "Damn!  That's a one pointer."

Charlotte ran around a tree and cut a zombie's throat hard.  "So that would be Twenty-eight points already!"  She said with a grin.

"Oh, you're kidding me, right?  Five, no one is keeping track of how many zombie points you get."  Sam said.

Charlotte smirks.  "Uh huh.  So how amyn kills did Runner Ten have before he went gray?"  She asked finding it was easier to talk about Chris now.

"Four hundred and eighty-seven."  Sam answered fast before he paused.  

"Thought so."  Charlotte said swinging her axe taking out another crawler.

"Oh, come on!  That's not the same thing!  That was just impressive."  Sam countered.

Simon ran over and swung his bat hard taking out another zombie.  "Two points!  Come on Char.  Just take a run at it!  Now, swing!"  Simon said as Charlotte ran towards one and swung her axe taking one's head clean off.  "Nice shot!  You're catching up."

"I'm seeing some movement about two blocks ahead of you.  Looks like there's at least four crawlers.  Have any arcade game tips for Runner Five you want to share, Three?"  Sam asked almost sarcasticly.

"Dibs on taking them out!"  Simon shouted running towards them.

"Yeah, right, yeah.  Thanks.  That's a surprise."  Sam said almost boredly.  "Runner five, don't worry about trying to hit any of them  Just keep running steady.  I think if you pass the crawlers at the pace you're going, that should be enough to distract them and make them head in your direction."

"While I sneak up the back and get twenty points!"  Simon said.

"Don't think I will let you beat me Simon."  Charlotte called as she continued to run holding her axe ready.

"Yeah, anyway, keep a close eye on them.  They may not have working legs-"  Sam starts before Charlotte jumps in.

"-or legs at all-"

"-but most of them can still jump at you."  Sam continued.  "That's good, though.  They're not great at landing, and it gives Three time to get in close for the kill.  Yep, okay, you'r coming up on the first one now."  Charlotte looked over seeing the first crawler heading right for her.  "Keep running... keep running..."

"Burst of speed... now!"  Simon shouts as he brings the bat down hard and smashes the zombie hard.  "Yes!  got it!  We keep going on like this, I'm going to hit a triple digit score one of these days."

"Wait, wait a minute, if a crawler's worth five points, doesn't Runner Five deserve two and a half of those?"  Sam asked as Charlotte smirked.

"Yeah Simon, I mean, I did help you."  Charlotte reenforced with a grin.

"But-"  Simon started before sighing heavily.  "Yes, fine!  Two and a half points each for me and Char.  Speaking of which, Char, kick it up a gear!"  charlotte dodged a zom on her tail and continued to run.  

After over an hour of smashing zombies along the path, Sam spoke up again.  "How's it looking?"

"Oh, nearly forty points now."  Simon said.

"I'm at thirty-four right now."  Charlotte said with a smirk.

"With the zombies?  Obviously, I did mean with the zombies."  Sam sighed heavily.

"Only forty points?"  Maxine suddenly butts in making Sam gasp.  "Simon, there's no way we're beating Janine and Runner Seven this month with that score."

"Uh, how long have you been standing there?"  Sam asked.

"Oh, Charlotte and I've almost got all of them now.  Supply route's open for business, as long as you don't mind the uh, smell."  Simon said confidently.

"Oh please.  Uh, feel free not to describe the smell."  Sam sighed heavily.

"Got any more action in the area you want us to deal with?"  Charlotte asked looking around.

"Yeah, Char and I are on a roll now, and if we can make it to fifty points, I reckon we can get our hands on one of those big prizes."  Simon continued with a grin.

Maxine laughed softly.  "I hear whoever wins the kill pool this month gets a bottle of whiskey.  Oh, that could come in handy."

"For medical reasons."  Charlotte suggests.

"Yeah, those too."  Maxine said as Sam suddenly seemed to snap.

"No, no, everyone stop it!  Three, Five, I do not want you going out and finding more zombies!  Look, look you're engaging with hostiles in the field without back up!  This is serious! This is life and death.  It's no time for jokes and messing around!"  Sam stopped then sighed heavily.  "Oh my God, I've turned into Janine."

Charlotte busted out laughing as Simon grinned.  "always thought your voice would get higher when that finally happened."

Sam groaned deeply.  "Bring it home, guys, yeah?  There's some movement about five kilometers west of you.  I'd rather we avoid it."

Charlotte and Simon began running back as Simon smirked.  "Yeah, roger that.  forty points isn't bad for a day's work, anyway right Char?"

"Thirty-six."  Sam said suddenly.

"What?"

Charlotte smirked.  "You missed four of them on your first try."

Simon gave her a look as Sam chuckled.  "Anyway, good work, both of you.  I'm sure Doctor Myers here would agree with me that having our access to crucial medical supplies and toothpaste restored matters more than some weird bet about who can kill the most zombies."

"Uh, so if you're the new Janine, does that mean you'll be posing for us in a bikini, too, now?"  Simon asked.

Sam was quiet for a moment.  "Just run on home."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

<     39     >

Season 1 Beginning

Season 2 Beginning

#zombie #zombies run #zombie run #ZombieRun #zombiesrun #run #runner 5 #runner five #runner5 #runnerfive #fanfiction #fan fiction

[hoovercj]

April 2017 Update

To remind my friends and family, I started the year by setting half a dozen goals to help guide how I spend my time so I would engage in diverse activities that each bring different value.

Improve my Danish so I can participate more fully in the country that I'm living in.

Read more books to keep my imagination active and my vocabulary strong. "If you don't use it, you lose it", and there's a lot you don't use when you're living abroad.

Sew, crochet, knit, or otherwise craft something each month to create something physical. My career (and much of my life) is based on computer screens and a good portion of the rest is spent staring at the TV, so this lets me do something different.

Watch foreign language films or tv to keep me from only binging more American series and to take time to appreciate stories told from different cultural perspectives. Also, the foreign language forces me to really pay attention and be present.

Write a programming language compiler to spend time on computer sciency things outside of my usual area and expand my comfort zone. When I accepted my job at Microsoft I told them "any team but the compiler team" because I was afraid of it. Hopefully this will help.

I'll keep my April update short so I can jump into a quarter review.

Become somewhat conversational in Danish: More of the same.

Read at least one book a month, even in months that I don’t travel: I finally finished American Gods and re-started reading a book that I'd abandoned before. I won't say what it is now, but it's also an emotional title..

Complete at least one sewing, crocheting, or knitting project per month: Last month I hinted at a project for this month..and I did it! My first sock creature! And I finished knitting two colorful panels to make a pillow case, now I just have to figure out how to join them/attach a zipper. With an inner cloth liner? Suggestions welcome. I also got about halfway through a scarf. I'll post better pictures next month when I finish it. And maybe I'll finally finish the curtains, too...

Watch a foreign language film each month: Unfortunately "The King's Speech" isn't foreign language, but it's the only foreign film I watched :-/ I did see Guardians of the Galaxy 2, though!

Complete a full marathon OR run a half-marathon under 1:40: The half marathon was challenging to say the least, but I did end up finishing in under 2 hours. I'll do my best for September, but I'm not sure 1:40 is particularly realistic.

Write my own just-for-fun programming language and virtual machine: No progress on this at the moment and I doubt I'll touch it this month either. It's only going to get harder, too, as Denmark gets sunnier...

So that was this April, but how is that in context? How did I do in the first quarter of 2017?:

Become somewhat conversational in Danish: I'm making progress in the class, but MAN is this language hard to understand. I can do OK with reading subtitles on English language shows, but it's still pretty hard to follow Danish language TV.

Read at least one book a month, even in months that I don’t travel: I've finished 5 books so far, so I'm averaging more than a book a month. More importantly, though, I'm getting a bit more diversity in genre and topic than I usually do and I hope to keep that up throughout the year.

The Daylight War, Peter V. Brett (817 pages)

The Skull Throne, Peter V. Brett (769 pages)

The Angel Wore Wings, Sandra Hill (387 pages)

Farenheit 451, Ray Bradburry (243 pages)

American Gods, Neil Gaiman (674 pages)

Complete at least one sewing, crocheting, or knitting project per month: I haven't done quite as much as I'd like in this department, but I have the supplies and the momentum to complete many more projects this year! I have the feeling that I'm just getting started.

One curtain (though I still need to add back tabs to it)

Miscellaneous clothes mending

Pillowcase panels

Sock creature

Half a scard

Watch a foreign language film each month: Wow, I'm batting about 50% on this one. I really need to double down and commit to this:

Flickering Lights

El Ministerio del Tiempo

Complete a full marathon OR run a half-marathon under 1:40: I've done a pretty good job of running consistently this year, and I'm looking forward to the rest of the year. I'm even starting to look at running clubs in the area.

Write my own just-for-fun programming language and virtual machine: I did some great reading in the area and started putting it in practice earlier in the year, but other projects and crafts started taking more of my time. We'll see if I get back to this later, but for now I consider this goal on hold. There's still plenty of time to pick it up again later this year, though :-)

#goals #accountability #resolutions

[im-not-a-what]

The Witch Doctor on Main Street, Ch. 5

Title: The Witch Doctor on Main Street

Summary: Mr. Gold runs Storybrooke’s herbal shop. He sells remedies that some people consider miraculous, although he’s earned suspicion from florist Moe French and distrust from professionals like Dr. Whale. When Moe’s daughter Belle moves into town, she gets caught up in the rivalries and mysteries surrounding Gold’s line of work. Little do any of them know the true power of Gold’s “magic touch.” But a warlock making herbal medicine may not be the only extraordinary secret hiding in Storybrooke.

Rating: G

Genre: Friendship, drama, modern-day with magic AU

Chapter: Mystery and Medicine [1] [2] [3] [4]

AO3 link

As a balmy wind fluffed her skirt and hair, and Belle was forced to push the spirited tresses out of her face, her eye was drawn across the street. The sign from Mr. Gold’s shop winked with the morning sun. The morning beginning her second week in Storybrooke, and she’d yet to properly visit. Wisdom had begged her to give the Golds space after the awkward aftermath of the school fight. Her instincts had pinched and kicked her for not taking steps to offer friendship, especially after something like that.

You barely know him, wisdom reminded her. You don’t really know him at all!

That itch in her gut, the one that inspired her to run toward the first sign of something strange and exciting, gave a staunch retort: All the more reason to learn more about him. He’s your work neighbor. He could be your new boss. You better check out his shop to make sure it’s on the up and up. If the voice had a face, it would’ve winked.

Belle gave little credence to the notion that Mr. Gold was anything besides the owner of an herbal shop and the father of a smart, sensitive, loyal teenage boy. But both individuals had become fixed figures of interest since her arrival in town, and she’d resolved to get to know them bit by bit. Well, she’d held off for a whole week. That was plenty of restraint. Perhaps too much.

All that said, action had to wait a little longer. She still had a library to help run. So in she went, leaving the playful breeze and the twinkling shop sign behind.

Michael Prentice had gradually ceded the physical duties of library maintenance to Belle throughout the week. Today, he remained nestled in the staff office organizing paperwork. Since the library had plenty of quiet troughs in attendance, Belle gladly occupied herself with not just shelving books and refining the online catalogue, but familiarizing herself with the library’s layout. She wanted to know it as well as herself. It would facilitate directing visitors to any desired section and subsection. She wanted that knowledge for her own leisurely browsing, too. She also wanted to know why the library had an elevator. Yes, there was a second floor; it housed a loft that Michael once occupied, but he’d moved out when he could afford his own house. Now it was an empty cluster of rooms right under the clock tower—a beacon of cosmic orderliness. The library kept knowledge, the clock kept time. A cozy partnership.

But there was a third facet of this building Belle could not reach and fit like a puzzle piece into the library’s arrangement. The elevator had a button for ‘2’, the floor with the apartment, and a button for ‘B’, surely the basement. When she hit it, though, the button stayed unlit. The elevator failed to budge. Her agitated gray cells insisted that another entrance to the basement existed. She hunted along the walls of the library for a door to a staircase heading below ground. None turned up. One stairwell granted access to the upper levels, none down. That was a bit barmy, wasn’t it?

The mystery nearly distracted her from the self-appointed visit to the herbal shop until lunchtime came. On her way to the staff office to ask Michael about the basement, she checked her wristwatch. It was almost 12:30. If she wanted to make the trip to both Gold’s shop and Granny’s diner, she had to head out now!

After a short, indecisive dance between the staff office and the library entrance, Belle hustled out the door and tucked away the basement question.

She had enough sense, despite her haste, to check both ways before crossing the street. Her heart giddily jumped at the OPEN sign and the sight through the window of the herbal shop’s door. It was a shadowy space, illuminated more by shards of sunlight than the two table lamps and the one overhead light. Half the windows had closed blinds. As soon as she opened the door, a bell rang above her and the mixed aromas of herbs, scented wax, yarn, and something faint, smoky and acrid seeped into her nose. A little hesitation reined her first steps thanks to the absence of the shop owner. The OPEN sign was facing out, so Belle deemed it acceptable to go in. Maybe Mr. Gold had popped out for lunch. Maybe she should’ve gone to Granny’s first, after all.

She seized the private opportunity to imbibe the setting. Even in minimal light, she could observe the full shelves. One side was designated for the kinds of bottles someone would see at a pharmacy. She recognized maybe a third of the brands. In fact, most of the bottles didn’t have a brand name or symbol at all. The labels looked professional, though. She selected a brown bottle at random and turned it a complete 360. Its label had a golden shine with black, engraved printing. The list of ingredients was meticulously honest (one would hope so), so the only mystery was where it came from. Then Belle noticed in the upper left-hand corner, almost hiding thanks to its slightly darker shade of gold, a small silhouette of a spinning wheel. She turned to the table and shelves displaying knitting and crochet kits, along with scarves, hats, socks. A closer inspection of the table and shelves revealed sewing kits, equipped with bobbins of the most handsome-looking thread she’d ever seen. She had no expertise in thread or yarn quality, but their beauty brushed away the idea of knitting and mending clothes as menial activities. They were like a set of paints and brushes waiting for someone to pick them up and make art.

Distant footsteps overlaid her own high-heel taps as she returned to the room’s center. The steps came from behind a curtain at the back of the showroom. The russet, paisley fabric fluttered, then was pushed aside. Hence emerged the previously elusive Mr. Gold.

“Miss French,” he drawled in what she hazily guessed to be a Scottish accent, “I didn’t expect it to be you.”

For a panicked moment, Belle felt like an intruder. A silly response to entering a store. She blamed his dark suit, the casual calm with which he moved into the room, and the trace of surprise in his face and voice. They impressed on her the sense that this was his special domain, more personal to him than his own home, and that her visit had not been anticipated. Again, quite silly. He’d offered her a job. Had he doubted her interest? Maybe she’d waited too long to talk to him.

“No?” Belle bucked up against bashfulness. “I hope you don’t feel I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Not at all. I imagine you’ve been preoccupied. How’ve you been settling in?”

“Quite well. The library has been slow. That’s made getting the hang of it easy.” The basement question poked its head from the “ask later” pocket of her mind. Belle pushed it back—as if Mr. Gold could answer it. “How’s Neal?”

“He’s enjoying a little spell of grounding.” Gold’s lips pulled up in a wry slant.

“Oh dear. Is he suffering horribly? Waxing your car? Scrubbing the shop floors?”

“Scrubbing, no. I’m picking him up in a couple hours so he can sweep and dust.”

Belle laughed sympathetically. “Poor boy.”

Gold shook his head. “He practically begged for a punishment. He berated himself over the fight.”

Her face kindly scrunched as she reflected with compassionate interest. “If he was protecting his friend, I can understand why he felt compelled to act. But I shouldn’t be advocating violence. At least, not where teenage boys are concerned.”

He shrugged, his smile warmer even in the dim light. “You can advocate it if you wish. Neal will do what he sees as right. That’s how he is.”

Belle’s smile pushed up her cheeks so that her eyes sweetly squinted. “You’re quite lucky.”

“That I am.” Gold carefully slid out from behind the counter, cane in hand. “Is that why you’re here? To congratulate me? Or are you here about the job?”

“I could do both.” Belle rushed another glimpse around the shop. “You’re sure you need someone to clean? It looks well kept.”

“That’s because Neal already started his punishment. Just for a week. After that, he’ll be back to spending quality time with friends instead of his old man.”

“So, if I work for you, I’d take over Neal’s temporary duties.”

“Essentially. Have you made a decision?”

It felt like a “looking a gift horse in the mouth” moment. There was no guarantee she’d find another job in short order. Moreover, working for Mr. Gold could help her forge a stronger relationship with her mysterious rescuer and his endearing son. By presumed extension, she’d also get to know more people in town, such as Gold’s clients and acquaintances. Sure, Magdalene Vincent looked imposing, and Lily wasn’t an extraverted butterfly of a girl. Those were feeble reasons not to try befriending them as well.

The one condition that barred an immediate acceptance was informed consent. Belle wanted to know as much as could be reasonably expected about the man and what kind of boss he would be.

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “I’d need an idea of what’s in the shop, since I might move things around while I’m cleaning. I don’t want to misplace any merchandise.”

A narrow, knowing edge in his gaze, Gold stepped closer. “Is that all? Or did your father tell you some tall tales about my wares?”

Belle puckered her lips. The question came out slick, almost joking, yet with a sardonic aftertaste. “He hasn’t told me much about anyone or their wares. He might think working as a cleaner is beneath me after all the money we sank into my education. When I last mentioned it, he got terse.”

The suggestion behind Gold’s question brought up a worthy concern. Belle held her spot while minding how much space there was between her and him. “Is there something I should know about you and my father?”

“Only that your father doesn’t like me, which hasn’t elevated my opinion of him.”

“Why would he tell ‘tall tales’ about your shop?”

Gold waved his hand toward the shelves upon shelves of medicinal jars and bottles. “This is not exactly your convention apothecary. You’ll meet more people who deem my business suspect. Medical professionals, mostly. If that’s why you’re hesitant about the job, I understand.”

Belle, put at transient ease, drifted to the shelves and retrieved the bottle--iron supplements—she’d examined earlier. The same bottle where she noticed the spinning wheel label. “I can see why people would prefer buying from the pharmacy. The pharmacy has to sell FDA-approved products.” After another eyeful of the bottle, she looked at Gold. “What is your policy on refunds?”

“I offer them, of course, if the purchase has unexpected negative side-effects. However, if you ask my regular clients about their experiences, you’ll hear little dissatisfaction. Among my detractors who’ve never set foot in here, it’s a different story.”

“Oh? I hope I’ll know who’s a trustworthy source.” Straight away she scolded herself. Not the best attitude to have when talking to a potential employer. It wasn’t going to be part of her cleaning duties to understand his health products. But working for him would mean condoning his business practices, right? She had to keep her own accountability in mind.

Gold scoffed. “Don’t expect many to sing my praises. I have several remedies for conditions that could cause embarrassment if they became public knowledge. But clients keep coming back. If my products were faulty, I’d have gone out of business long ago.”

Belle placed the bottle in its assigned spot. Facing him, she put a consciously friendly spin on the next question. This wasn’t supposed to be an interrogation. “How long have you been in business?”

“I inherited the shop from my aunt,” he said.

“Oh! A family business!” That couldn’t assuage all her concerns. But surely the shop’s longevity partly certified its value to the community. “Will Neal inherit it someday?”

“No idea. I’d like him to. He might want to see more of the world before tying himself down.”

“I was the same way at his age. I still am a little.” She covered the somber note in the remark by leaning a hand on the lowest shelf and cocking her head in a prying and inviting manner. “Is there anything you want to ask about me?”

Gold angled his head, not as acutely or coyly. “You mentioned studying nursing before you switched to library sciences. Why the change?”

Belle folded in her lips. Her downturned eyes hid behind lowered eyelids. Then she gathered a breath of courage. “I wanted a career where I knew I would be helping people day to day, and one where I would be mentally stimulated. Nursing sounded perfect. I didn’t expect it to overwhelm me the way it did. Sleepless nights studying for exams, clinic hours that worked my nerves raw. A lot of people warned me that I had to numb myself to a point, or I’d have a nervous breakdown. I could handle the work load on a part-time basis, but the long term? I don’t think I could’ve been happy or been the best caretaker I had the potential to be. I wish it’d been different. What better way to make a real difference in people’s lives? But I couldn’t make it work. I had to make a switch for my own health.”

Every word was a scratch from sandpaper. By the end of her confession, she felt a bit sore and exposed. She even rubbed one of her arms to chase off the irritated sensation, achieving no relief. Her gaze had lifted off the floor to a shelf across the room and fixed on that while she spoke. Now, her words spent, she had to look at Mr. Gold.

He veiled any feelings with professional composure. However, Belle dared to interpret the gentle line of his mouth, the small furrow in his brow, and the glance at his shoes as signs of understanding, perhaps empathy.

“It is an immense responsibility,” he half-said, half-whispered, “having other people’s lives in your hands. It’s nothing to take lightly. You did what you had to do.”

The words didn’t coddle, which Belle appreciated. Their honesty didn’t just concern her history and career choices, either.

She looked behind and next to her at the pill bottles, lotions, soaps, candles, teas, then across the way at the knitted clothing, yarns and threads. A new light fell on them.

“You really try to help people,” she said.

Gold blinked and breathed slowly. “I do what I can.”

Belle nodded. “Then I’d like to help you help people.”

She hadn’t expected the abrupt puzzlement that seized his face. It faded quickly enough, giving room to a hesitant smile and an extended hand. “Then we have an arrangement, Miss French.”

Her own smile growing, she took his hand. “That we do, Mr. Gold.”

#ouat fic #the witch doctor on main street #rumbelle #rumbelle fic

[handofvictory]

Hi I redid Allen's questionnaire but did better this time.

What is your characters name? Does the character have a nickname?:

Allen Cooper. He lacks a nickname, though he has the title of Shadowblade.

What is your characters hair color? Eye color?:

His hair is black, and his eyes are now purple since he's become a shadow ascendent.

What kind of distinguishing facial features does your character have?:

… I’m not sure how to answer the question, honestly.

Does your character have a birthmark? Where is it? What about scars? How did he get them?:

He doesn’t have a birthmark, but boy does he have scars. He has been whipped for his crimes more than once, and in some universes that’s not all that happened to him. The scars of his beatings are large and ugly, and will never truly fade. He has scars on his hands from various incidents, many he can’t even remember. He has managed to avoid receiving any scars on his face.

He also has scars on his soul from his torture from the Legion, as well as from being thrown into the Void. He has suffered immensely and has the marks to show it.

Who are your characters friends and family? Who does he surround himself with? Who are the people your character is closest to? Who does he wish he were closest to?:

Allen's family would have to be Ellisse, Devon, and Malkhaz, whether or not he fully acknowledges any one of them. His friends would be Dar'nul and Althrich, more probably pending. Hand of Victory is in general a family to him, which he sort of accepts.

Allen honestly considers himself close to just about everyone he bonds with (due to how few he really bonds to), though to Devon moreso than others. There's a common bond between the two of them, and Devon is a father figure to him who has guided him through a lot of his problems and continues to help him to this day.

Ellisse and Malkhaz are sibling figures to him, and he has specific feelings regarding the two of them.

Ellisse he viewed as a savior for a long time, much as he knew it was unfair to her. To him, she was his chance to seek redemption, which he had no clue how to find or even how to start to look. He latched onto her and assumed that by following her, he might find change. He has since let go of that a lot thanks to serious amounts of recovery, but he still cares for her deeply as a sister.

With Malkhaz, he has chronically worried about failing him, and that fear is still there. Memories of his old teacher still haunt him, and he worries that the example he'll impart to Malkhaz will be the same one his teacher gave him. He didn't think of Mal positively initially, but he still did his best for him and tried to encourage his growth, and as a result he grew on him.

Allen doesn't actively seek relationships, but he does wish to mend his relationship to other guild members.

Where was your character born? Where has he lived since then? Where does he call home?:

He was born in some obscure kingdom I have yet to name that's based off of Latin America. Nowadays he's an adventurer, but the guild's home base counts as a consistent place he can call home.

Where does your character go when hes angry?:

Allen is chronically angry, so he doesn’t really “go” anywhere. He does try to go somewhere quiet and secluded to calm down when it gets to be too much for him, but that’s frequently unsuccessful and he becomes angrier as a result.

What is his biggest fear? Who has he told this to? Who would he never tell this to? Why?:

He fears losing all the progress he has made in his recovery and his redemption. He fears going back to the way he was, at which point he'd rather just kill himself because that is not a life he wants to live again. He hasn't said this to anyone, but the most likely one to hear about it would be Devon (followed by Dar'nul, oddly, then his two siblings maybe).

Does he have a secret?:

Not really. He doesn't tell everyone everything, but he's not really secretive either.

What makes your character laugh out loud?:

I have no clue how to describe his sense of humor but it's considerably easier to get him to laugh nowadays, even with dumb jokes.

When has your character been in love? Had a broken heart?:

He's never been in love, although he's been heartbroken by various traumatic events in his life. Losing his family twice comes to mind.

Then dig deeper by asking more unconventional questions:

What is in your characters refrigerator right now? On his bedroom floor? On his nightstand? In his garbage can?:

His room is a mess, but not a COMPLETE mess. Papers are on the floor, a book is on the nightstand, candy wrappers in the trash, along with other forms of garbage. He also has several books on the floor, and his room is completely disorganized.

Look at your characters feet. Describe what you see there. Does he wear dress shoes, gym shoes, or none at all? Is he in socks that are ratty and full of holes? Or is he wearing a pair of blue and gold slippers knitted by his grandmother?:

He wears leather boots that tend to be worn, but are still completely functional. Whenever they start losing their function, he makes new ones. His pants tend to be tucked into his boots.

When your character thinks of his childhood kitchen, what smell does he associate with it? Sauerkraut? Oatmeal cookies? Paint? Why is that smell so resonant for him?:

Allen doesn’t remember much of the kitchen from his childhood, but if he were to try hard enough, the smell of tomatoes would come to mind, and he has no clue why.

Your character is doing intense spring cleaning. What is easy for him to throw out? What is difficult for him to part with? Why?:

Allen finds it difficult to do any serious cleaning. If it isn't garbage, he finds it near impossible to throw out. He also has a difficult time motivatinf himself to clean. This is caused by his depression, but also he has spent his entire life only owning what he could carry, and so he tends to try to keep whatever he can.

Its Saturday at noon. What is your character doing? Give details. If hes eating breakfast, what exactly does he eat? If hes stretching out in his backyard to sun, what kind of blanket or towel does he lie on?:

Assuming he has nothing to do (which is not often the case), Allen is probably reading some historical fiction with some kind of food on the highest spire of either Dalaran or Silvermoon. The food is likely a candy or a sweet (coffee cake, for example). He may also have tea with him.

What is one strong memory that has stuck with your character from childhood? Why is it so powerful and lasting?:

The second time he lost his family sticks out to him, primarily because he tried to keep them together, and ended up badly beaten as a result. He remembers the aftermath, wherein his life was saved by Wolfgang. He then insisted that Allen owed him, and he suffered horribly under his tutelage for years without ever fully recovering from his loss.

Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where is he going? What does he wear? Who will he be with?:

If it's a night out, he's probably being dragged out by someone else. He himself has no ideas in mind as to where he would go, and would probably let Devon dress him up, because otherwise he would just show up in the blandest clothing imaginable.

Character Questionnaire 2 These questions are frequently used in interviews so you may want to pretend you’re interviewing your characters.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?:

"I’m not proud of what I’ve done."

What is your idea of perfect happiness?:

"General peace, I guess...?"

What is your current state of mind?:

“Tired.”

What is your favorite occupation?:

"Being a monk was... nice. I don't think I'll properly go back to it, but it was a good change of pace that I shouldn't have abandoned."

What is your most treasured possession?:

“... nothing, at the moment. I just enjoy having things, to be honest...”

What or who is the greatest love of your life?:

"I'm not answering this."

What is your favorite journey?:

“… I don’t think I could pick a favorite, I’m usually just here for the ride.”

What is your most marked characteristic?:

“Uh. I used to say it's my eyes, but I'm not sure anymore.”

When and where were you the happiest?:

“I'm not answering this.”

What is it that you most dislike?:

“... hm. I despise loud, sudden noises, and I hate [cotton] fabrics. Itches like hell.”

What is your greatest fear?:

"I don't know anymore. I think I've seen too much."

What is your greatest extravagance?:

“I suppose any time I buy myself something to eat, otherwise I try to spend only when I have to.”

{

Which living person do you most despise?:

Sigh. "I don't have the energy to hate anyone specifically. Catahecas comes closest, I suppose, but even then, I'm just too... tired to make note of him when he's not in proximity to me, or when I'm not joking about how loathesome he is to guildmates."

What is your greatest regret?:

"Everything. Just... everything. Let's leave it at that."

Which talent would you most like to have?:

“I don't think I can think of anything. Maybe be a good speaker.”

Where would you like to live?:

"I think where I currently live is fine."

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?:

Allen looks to the side and seems to become lost in thought. His expression becomes somber, and he's unresponsive for a bit. The question is never answered.

What is the quality you most like in a man?:

His cheeks darken, and he clears his throat. "Next question."

What is the quality you most like in a woman?:

His cheeks darken a little further. “Next question!"

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?:

Gestures to his entire self.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?:

"It's hard to think of one, seeing as I have a hard time actively hating people. I suppose I avoid people who would take advantage of me or my loved ones the most."

What do you most value in your friends?:

“… kindness, compassion, a willingness to listen, that sort of thing...”

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?:

"I can’t say I have one."

Whose are your heroes in real life?:

"I suppose there are people in my life who count, but I... don't really see them as heroes per se. They're extremely important to me, but not... heroes."

Which living person do you most admire?:

“Shut up.”

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?:

“I don’t see how any of them could be overrated, they’re virtues for a reason.”

On what occasions do you lie?:

"When necessary. I don't like doing it, though. I then have to go along with the lie and it becomes a chore I don't want to do. I'd rather be honest if I can."

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?:

“Any time I talk about my past. 'In my lifetime' I should really just tell myself to shut up.”

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?:

“I'm working on changing what I can, but I would make myself less judgemental.”

What are your favorite names?:

“… names for what? You need to be more specific here, because I don’t think about peoples names all too much.”

How would you like to die?:

“Painlessly. Just... painlessly."

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?:

Allen sighs. "I've never been given the choice, to tell you the truth. I don't think many people do. I think I'd rather just play the hand I'm dealt rather than imagine what could have been."

What is your motto?:

“Mottos are overrated.”