#like she has hardly any food in her part of the fridge and pantry

[edgybutnotveryedgy]

...

#sorry needed to rant a bit #i just got a new roommate and i think she might have anorexia #like she has hardly any food in her part of the fridge and pantry #shes very itty bitty too #i also notice she seems very image focused which isnt necessarilly bad #but there are symptoms for sure #like she also seems to drink a lot of caffeine #ive also noticed she has a very strong scent even though she just showered the other day #like no body odor shame #i naturally sweat a lot so i know what its like to deal with that #but its abnormally strong #im just kinda worried #my mom says that its not my place to say anything but idk #i keep noticing symptoms and since my scare from last semester ive been worried about my own health #so seeing someone who's skinnier than me potentially having problems i feel like i need to help #it doesnt hell that i generally feel protective of teenagers for whatever reason beyond my understanding #to clarify i never have had an eating disorder. i just forgot to eat/didnt have the motivation to make food last school year #but now i have my bento and i learned how to cook so i should be fine #rambles

[halogalopaghost]

TMNT Fic Masterlist

listed by order they were posted, newest fics first

Shroud

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Raphael is sure that it's his fault that Casey died. April might not be able to convince him otherwise.

Dogs Can't Have Chocolate, April

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

While April is sheltering the turtles in season one, she invites them to help themselves to her fridge. With fresh food in such abundance, they can hardly help themselves, and April gets so caught up in the joy of sharing with them that she forgets to ask—do they have any allergies?

(Don't You Worry Bout) Bad Dreams

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Raphael has nightmares too. He's just better at hiding them, and far worse at talking about it.

Giant Problem

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Leo thinks he's the last one awake late one night—until Donnie comes knocking, mysteriously upset about…something?

Skin

read on AO3

Raphael has always felt distinctly other from his siblings. As he gets older the gap grows wider, and there's only so much he can take before he cracks. (Longfic)

Not Alone

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Leatherhead, struggling with anger and a loss of control after his imprisonment under Bishop, tries to push the turtles away for their own good. Raphael, who's been there before, isn't about to let him. Post-episode: s03eo8, Hunted

Goody Two Toes

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

CrownedCrowRow's Papadile and Croctots AU: When Leatherhead goes out to restock the pantry and doesn't come home, his sons start to panic.

Kodak Moment

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

When April learns that Splinter has no family photos, she's quick to change that. If only she knew how precious those photos would become to her.

M.I.L.C.

WARNING: MUTANT MAYHEM SPOILERS

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

The turtles have been captured and wake up hurt, scared, and attached to a strange machine. The worst part is that they aren't alone.

Oh Shoot

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Out for a late night run, Leonardo happens upon a squadron of Foot ninja and brings home a souvenir: an arrow buried in the back of his leg. Instead of waking someone up to help him with the awkwardly-placed wound, Leo decides to take care of it by himself. What's a little self-surgery in the early hours of the morning?

Occam's Bedtime

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Agent Bishop knew entirely too much about the turtles for someone who had not previously met them, and Donatello wants to know how. The simplest answer is usually the correct one, and Donnie thinks he's found it. The only problem is that it's the middle of the night, and he still hasn't slept since escaping from that underground lab.

Train Wreck of Thought

read on AO3

Mikey thinks it's super unfair that he should have to meditate even after he discovers that he has ADD. His sensei, unfortunately, thinks otherwise. He's given an assignment to experiment and apply his creativity to meditation until he figures it out. And when he does figure it out, naturally, he causes a whole slew of trouble. (Longfic)

Maternal Instincts

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Raphael has promised to help Mrs. Morrison move some furniture, and the fact that he got his shell kicked the night before is irrelevant as far as he's concerned. Leo has a little something to say about it, but brothers are easily brushed off. A maternal figure like Mrs. Morrison, on the other hand, commands a bit more respect.

Robes

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Splinter has been wearing the same kimono for eighteen years. It's survived rain, fire, flood, and turtle teething, but all good clothes must come to an end. When he tears the sleeve of his kimono wide open, he must confront the reality that the garment must be retired. His sons, however, have other ideas.

The Height of Comedy

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

During a weekend getaway at the Jones family farm, the turtles (and Casey) get into a friendly spat around the kitchen table that makes Leo feel a little self-conscious.

Near-Sighted

read on AO3 | podfic on AO3 | read on tumblr

Raphael has a dark, terrible secret from his friends: he needs glasses to read. Casey catches him wearing them, then doesn't come around for an entire week, leaving Raphael to struggle to understand. Casey isn't so shallow to stop being friends with him for being a little bit of a nerd...is he?

Spilt Milk

read on AO3 | read on tumblr (with post and art that inspired it)

Based off of a headcanon from AmevelloBlue and art from Holographicmars: Leo isn't always the oldest brother. Sometimes he just can't be—and when he needs a big brother, someone to lean on, Mikey is there for him.

Bag o' Tricks

read on AO3

Donnie carries a big canvas duffel bag, and like Mary Poppins' carpet bag, it always seems to have just what he needs. Pigeon puppet? Check. Explosives? Check. But what other wonders does his bag contain, and exactly how many times has it gotten him out of trouble? A series of one-shots answering that very question.

The Long Sleep

read on AO3 | read part 1 on tumblr

Every year, Splinter watches his sons grow lethargic as the weather turns cold. They fall asleep one by one, not to wake again until spring. But as the turtles enter their fourth Long Sleep, Raphael...never gets sleepy. Splinter must quickly learn how to help his son through this transition that he doesn't understand, and even harder—he must learn to entertain a lone four year old.

Anger and Management

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Sending Leo away to Japan is harder than Raph expected it to be, and it brings up some questions regarding what Splinter has done to help Raphael with his anger issues. Mikey does what he can to comfort his brother in all the turmoil.

The Afterward

read on AO3

Donnie's family have managed to get a cure for his double-mutation brought on by Bishop's outbreak virus, but he isn't out of the woods yet. The detransformation process is stalling, and now it's all the boys can do to keep Donatello alive long enough to figure out why. (Longfic)

One, Two, Three, Four (Turtles)

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Most animals establish within their communities a sort of pecking order—an established hierarchy of which individual is most in charge, and which is the least. Among wolf packs, this leader is called the alpha. Among brothers, he is simply the eldest. With four turtles of indeterminate ages, Splinter makes an executive decision or four.

Curiosity Killed The Cat (But Raphael Brought It Back)

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Raphael keeps disappearing on a schedule. Everyone has their theories on where he is—Mikey thinks it's a girl, Leo thinks he and Casey must have gotten into something, and Donnie thinks it's none of their business. When they tail him one night (out of concern, of course, and not burning curiosity), they're unprepared to learn the truth of his routine absences.

Turtle Power

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Seeing Shredder's four-armed robotic body in Exodus sends Donnie reeling right before the toughest battle he's ever fought. It feels like everything is going wrong in slow motion up until the power core overloads--and then time stops altogether.

Quiet Times

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Now with ADORABLE art!!

While Splinter is trying to steal a moment of peace one afternoon, Michelangelo takes advantage of his distracted brothers and steals a moment of alone time with his father.

Tattooed

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

What if the marks that the Triceratons put on the turtles' skin had been permanent? A little conversation between brothers regarding tattoos, accomplishment, and whether or not it's allowed to attack oneself for science.

Things Left Unsaid

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

While working on the Turtle Tunneller to get ready for their final showdown with The Shredder, Leo approaches Donnie with something to say. Set during the episode Same As It Never Was, future!Leo talking with Donatello.

Doctor On Call

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Four times that Donnie has to play doctor for his family, and one where they have to doctor him.

As It Never Will Be

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

The first thing Donatello does when they're returned to their lair, only minutes after the Ultimate Draco scattered them to the far-flung corners of the multiverse, is sit down and have a panic attack. His brothers try to reach him in the coming days, but in the end, it's only Mikey who is able to break the seal.

Killer

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Mikey and Raph compete to see who can one-hit KO more Foot ninja in one battle. Leo and Donnie are just glad that one of their brothers' wagers is working out in their favor—until Mikey's scream rings out across the rooftops.

Blame It On The ADD Babey

read on AO3 | read on tumblr

Donatello gets worried when he sees Mikey on the WebDoc page, and after his brother's blessing, decides to finish Mikey's medical research for him. This ends...well.

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2003 #tmnt fanfic #masterlist #the ghost writes #turtleposting

[lubdubsworld]

City Lights . ( Namjoon x OC)

Pairing : OC x Kim Namjoon.

Genre : Angst. Romance.

Rating 18 + 

Word Count : 2900

Warnings :  Mature Themes , Explicit Sexual Content . Slow burn. Like slower than a snail.

Summary :

Widowed and destitute, Son Yang Mi leaves the comfort of her small , secluded  fishing village and travels to the intimidating city of Seoul with her young son. She has a plan, one that involves finding a job, getting her son into a good school and building a life for herself.

Now, three years later she has a job , working as a live in house keeper for the Kim family, specifically for the son,  Kim Namjoon, a famous rapper and producer. 

Its a job that puts a roof over her head and she’ll do anything to keep it. 

But fate has other plans.

Chapter 1 ~

Akogare (ah-koh-ga-reh)Often translated directly as a sort of frustrated “yearning”, “desire”, or “longing” .

Seoul in summer was a sight to behold. I blinked back against the bright sunlight, staring out into the stunning skyline of the city as the sun rose over it , and although it was just a little past seven in the morning, the air was warm and invigorating. The mid July sun shone down with no mercy, and there was no trace of the rain that had lashed city just the previous night.

It had been three whole years but the relief that came from breathing fresh air, untainted by the damp musk of fishing trowels and sweaty men, was still unrivalled.

I shook off the feather duster in my hand, moving to carefully clean the wicker woven chairs on the artificial lawn in the balcony. Dusting the entire condo down was a mind numbing exercise in patience, so i tried to get it out of the way, early in the morning when my son was still asleep.

At six years old, Junsu was a bright , happy child. Summer vacation meant days sleeping in and evenings spent frolicking with the other kids in the building and he was content with being alone in our small shared room, reading or playing with his toys while I went about the day’s work.

I glanced at the clock, grimacing.

It was almost eight . And although Mr. Kim wasn’t due back home for another twelve hours, I felt a little jittery and nervous.

Kim Namjoon , renowned rapper, producer, writer , poet and what not. The apartment was his but he was usually on tour, traveling all over the world to promote his book and to perform in sold out stadiums. For an A list celebrity, he was surprisingly humble.

For the past three years, him and his model fiancée  Lee Mina had spent a total of maybe seven months in the condo. They were a sweet couple, or so I’d always thought , a bit formal with each other but clearly in love . Mr. Kim was a kind, soft spoken young man and I’d never heard him raise his voice unless he was in the company of his very dear friends.

Just a little over a week ago , both of them  had left Korea for the States , the tabloids screaming about a luxurious destination wedding in the Caribbean and I had been asked to take a few weeks off . The newly weds wouldn’t be back for quite a while and they would let me know when I had to come back to the condo.

I’d been toying with the idea of visiting my in laws in Gwangyog, maybe even dropping by to see some old friends there but yesterday , Mr. Kim’s mother had given me a call letting me know her son was coming home. 

[ 

The conversation went something like this :

Yang Mi, I hope you haven’t left yet?

No, Ma'am, I haven’t.

Joon-ah is going to be back tomorrow.

Oh, is Ms Lee arriving as well?

No, Just him He’s going to be alone.

Yes, Ma'am.

Please don’t mention anything about Mina or the wedding.

No ma'am of course not.

I’ll drop by later . Cook him something warm and filling. And make sure the house is cleaned well.

Yes, Ma’ am.

]

And that was that.

~~~~~~

It took the better part of the day to finish cleaning and setting up the house . I washed the window slats, changed the sheets, arranged the books that had been left scattered all over his bedroom. The walk-in closet was littered with a bunch of his clothes and I made sure his gym bag was stocked with fresh towels, spare clothes and his favorite head and wrist bands. 

For someone so careful and calculated, he was really quite a messy man. 

i did his laundry, making sure he had ample clothes at least for another two weeks, creasing the handkerchiefs and carefully removing lint from his jackets. 

I also carefully sorted out the feminine clothing from the laundry and from the cupboard, folding them neatly and placing them in the lowest shelf of the closet, where he wouldn’t find them. It wasn’t hard, hiding traces of his fiancee from the condo, because it had never really been her home. other than a few spare pieces of underwear and a couple of t shirts and skirts, there weren’t many articles of clothing belonging to Ms. Lee. 

But I still got rid of the bobby pins and hair ties, the spare lip gloss and mascara.

Junsu spent the entire day in our room, reading and drawing, only venturing out every few hours to grab a snack. I left him with his drawing tab ( a gift from Mr. Kim for his 5th birthday )  and his favorite book, asking the security guard at the end of the hallway to keep an eye on the door, while i went out to buy groceries.

Lots of meat, no sea food, healthy snacks and high protein fiber bars. I stocked up on sauces and bought a fresh batch of eggs, oranges and grapes . Mrs. Kim had sent a large amount of kimchi a few weeks ago and that was still in the pantry.

i stopped for a second, staring around at the almost deserted store. Most of the other housekeepers shopped at the bigger, more exclusive store on the other side of the residential complex. But Mr. Kim had a very selective palette, which meant that I had to be very particular about the brands i bought.

When i came back home at around six, Junsu was on the floor in the living space and i felt my heart jump in panic.

“Baby!! I’ve told you not to come out here when I’m not home!” I protested bleakly and he pouted.

“I need to show you my gift for Mr. Kim!!” He said softly. I smiled moving to put away the groceries and glancing at the clock. It was a little past six. I had to call Yungyu.

“Did you draw him something ? “ I asked curiously, checking to see if the beer shelf was stocked. probably should have done that before going out for the groceries, I thought regretfully.

“Yeah! Look!!” Junsu held his tab out and my heart dropped.

For a six year old, Junsu drew very well. And there was really no mistaking the very obvious wedding scene on the screen.

Oh, Good God.

“ That looks amazing honey.” I said gently. “ But, I heard that Ms Lee isn’t coming over this time..”

Junsu frowned.

“Why?”

“Well, I’m not sure. But remember how we spoke about saying the right things? When something upsets someone, we do not bring it up.” I reminded him gently. My son hesitated but nodded.

“Okay. I’m sorry. “ He said softly.

“No baby, its not your fault. It’s just that we want Mr. Kim to be happy right? We don’t wanna upset him...”

He smiled at that.

“When he’s happy, his dimples come out.” He said with a giggle. I laughed.

“yes they do... So let’s try and get those dimples out as often as we can alright? Why don’t you show him that picture you drew of yeontan the other day? He’ll really like that....”

“Okay...but i need to go color it!” Junsu yelled, already running back into our room. I watched him go before reaching for the phone and dialing, Yungyu, the chauffeur.

“Are you on the way here? ” i said briskly.

“Just starting from home...” Yungyu muttered, “ I’m supposed to be on vacation now! Why is he coming back so soon?” 

“Just hurry up !! We can’t keep him waiting!!” I said sharply, before hanging up. 

I made a quick check of all the rooms, filling up water bottles for his gym routine in the morning and stashing them in the fridge before moving to get dinner started. 

i set the water on boil for the stew, before moving to peel cucumbers for the salad. I chopped the cucumber , along with some fresh cherry tomatoes . I watched the water boil, thinly slicing an onion and adding it to the bowl as well. The dressing was pretty simple,  soy sauce, rice vinegar, honey and sesame oil . I sprinkled some sesame seeds on the bowl, used the salad tongs to give the whole thing a nice toss and set it aside. 

I braised the chicken first , peeling and chopping potatoes and carrots to add to the stew . In a few minutes, the rich smell of lightly spiced chicken and garlic and perilla  leaves began filling the kitchen and I turned on the rice cooker as well. 

The door bell rang at six forty and i opened the door to reveal Yungyu. 

I grabbed the keys to the Palisade, handing them over to him.

“Did you hear?” He whispered urgently.

I frowned.

“What?”

“They say Mr. Kim called off the wedding!” He whispered, wide eyed. 

I glared at him.

“Who told you that?” i demanded...

“Seojoon from the gate said-”

“Why don’t you ask Seojoon from the gate to mind his own damn business?” I snapped. 

Yungyu looked suitably chastised. i felt a little bad. Yungyu was still young and curiosity was hardly a sin. 

“His flight lands at eight exactly. Hurry okay?” I said with a smile, ruffling his hair.

He brightened, peering over my shoulder into the house.

“Where’s the little one?” He asked curiously.

“ Painting something for Mr. Kim... Go ahead, hurry up.” I shooed him away, locking the door behind him. I fixed a plate of food for Junsu and sent him to eat, before moving to check on the stew. +

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~` 

By the time eight thirty rolled around I had the table set and ready. I washed my face quickly in the small bath attached to our room , making sure I was dressed well. Junsu wasn’t allowed in the main house unless Mr. Kim specifically asked for him and my son usually stayed in. 

Junsu and I stayed in a bedroom , not large by any means but big enough for a queen sized bed, a table and chair for Junsu and small dresser where I kept a comb and a tube of night cream. I stared at my face, licking my lips as I smoothed my hair out. 

I glanced at the bed. 

Junsu was asleep , having dozed off while coloring his picture and I carefully extracted the tab from under his fingers, moving him around to lay on the soft pillows. I tucked him in gently, brushing the hair off his face. 

“In peace , I will lie down to sleep, for You alone will let me rest in safety.” I whispered gently against his forehead, kissing the soft skin. I felt my lips wobble , a debilitating wave of affection flooding me as the sweet scent of my baby, filled my senses.

 I would die for you, I thought fiercely, kissing him again. 

The sound of the front door opening made me jump. 

Swearing, i smoothed the fabric of my skirt, running to the kitchen. 

“Thank you for picking me up Yungyu, I’m sorry you had to cut short on your vacation.” Mr. Kim’s deep voice filled the hallway and I quickly grabbed a glass, filling it with water and placing it on the dinner tray.

“Not a problem, Sir. “ Yungyu’s cheerful voice responded.

“How are you going home?” Mr. Kim asked. 

“I’ll take the bus.”

A pause and then, 

“Here’s some cash. Get a cab.” 

I could hear the relief in Yungyu’s voice as he let out a , “ Thank you sir.” 

I fixed his plate carefully, the bowl of rice, the bowl of chicken stew, and the salad neatly arranged next to the napkin and the chopsticks. I heard him move across the condo, the sound of his suitcases as he wrestled them towards his bedroom and I frowned. Yungyu should’ve have brought those in for him. 

I finished reheating all of the food and carefully carried the dinner tray to the bedroom. 

Mr. Kim’s bedroom was right at the end of the hallway and the door was open. The full length mirror on the opposite wall showed him sitting on the small couch in his room, legs spread and elbows resting on his knees as he ran his fingers through his hair. 

I raised my hand, ready to knock on the wood. 

“Fuck!” He shouted, kicking out at the coffee table with enough force to send the furniture skidding half way across the room. 

I froze in the hallways stunned. 

“You’re such a fucking fool , Namjoon !!” He muttered angrily and I swallowed, turning on my heel and quickly walking back to the kitchen. 

Maybe I ought to wait till he asked for dinner.

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

He didn’t ask for dinner. 

I stayed sitting on the floor of the kitchen, waiting and lightly dozing as I heard him talk to his parents on the phone. I heard him open the liquor cabinet in his room, the sound of ice sloshing against glass, the sound of whiskey being poured carefully and i sighed. 

I had to get to bed. It was already a little past eleven. 

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

Sometime in the night, I woke up sweating.... 

Wondering what woke me up, I blinked groggily, glancing at Junsu. He was still sound asleep. 

Sighing, I climbed out of the bed, carefully making my way to Mr. Kim’s room, peering in carefully. 

He was asleep on the sofa.

I stared at the way his long legs stretched over the armrest, his lean hips twisted to accommodate his broad shoulders on the couch and I winced. He was definitely going to regret that in the morning. 

I stared at the half empty bottle of whiskey on the table and sighed, moving to take off his shoes carefully. He didn’t stir. 

I grabbed a pillow from the bed, carefully lifting his head and slipping it under. I placed a comforter over his shoulders, pulling it down to cover his legs. 

Force of habit almost made me brush his hair off his forehead but I stopped myself. 

The clock on the wall read three fifty am. God, I was going to feel terrible tomorrow. I carefully tip toed out, shutting the door behind me

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

I picked the comforter from the floor, carefully folding it and placing it on the bed, before grabbing the empty bottle of whiskey and glass . i could hear the shower running. The curtains were still drawn in and I tugged on the strings to get them to open. Sunlight spilled in through the floor length windows. The bed wasn’t slept in, so I opened the closet to grab a couple of towels, laying them on the bed for him. 

The bathroom door opened and i quickly straightened, wanting to race out of the room but it was too late. Thankfully he was dressed,  a pair of loose sweats and a loose t shirt . He was running a towel through his hair and his face brightened at the sight of me. 

“Yang Mi! You’re here....” He said cheerfully. 

“Good morning sir.” I said softly, offering him a small smile. 

He smiled brightly, hair damp and dimples deep. The white t shirt he had on was almost fully soaked through and he shook his head, sending stray water droplets all over the place, a few landing on my cheeks. 

“I didn’t see you last night...” He said casually, moving to drop the wet towel in the hamper, grabbing one of the fresh ones I’d laid on the bed. 

“I thought you would like your privacy sir, you looked exhausted.” 

He smiled.

“ Thank you for the blanket and the pillow by the way. And the shoes.” 

I bowed quickly.

“I’ll get your breakfast done, sir.” I bowed again before quickly getting out. 

I moved to the kitchen grabbing the oranges I’d got the previous day . Mr. Kim wasn’t fond of traditional korean dishes in the morning. He preferred freshly squeezed juice and toast, sometimes with an omelet perhaps. 

I fixed his breakfast quickly, setting it all in the tray . He was still moving around in the bedroom and I heard him drag his worktable to the windows, which meant he was going to stay in the bedroom. 

Pouring his coffee into a cup, I carefully picked up the breakfast tray , moving to his room slowly. 

I used my foot to knock on the door.

After a pause of a few seconds, 

“Come in Yang Mi!”

I carefully moved to the small table in front of the couch, placing the tray right in front of him. The scent of his body wash, green apple and strawberries, hit me hard. 

“Where’s Junsu?” He asked casually.

“Still asleep sir. It’s Summer so school’s out.” I smiled, grabbing his phone from the table to make space for his tray. 

The phone buzzed just as I was about to place it back down and I blinked.

 Mina calling.......

 I swallowed, not sure what to do, placing the phone down quickly.

“Uh..you have ...” I waved vaguely at the device before bowing again and moving back. 

“close the door on your way out, Yang Mi...” He said gently and I quickly obeyed. 

I moved to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee for myself. I stayed leaning over the counter and even through the locked door, I could hear him . 

“Just don’t call me Mina...i don’t want to talk about this!!!” 

I swallowed, glancing out of the window again. It was a bright, clear morning. 

A second later, the door to his bedroom slammed open and he stormed out. I watched him from my spot in the kitchen, his fists clenched as he rushed out to the front door.

The door shut behind him and I exhaled. 

Once I as done with my coffee, I moved to his room to clear the breakfast tray. His phone was still on the table.

It began ringing again just as I left the room. 

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

"Mrs. Kim.” i said respectfully, bowing . She gave me a short smile.

“Where’s Namjoon? I’ve been calling him for the past hour.” She pushed past me into the house and I bit my lips.

“He went out about an hour ago. He left his phone behind.” I explained.

She stopped, sighing. 

“Fine, I’ll wait for him. “ She moved to sit on the couch, glancing around the room. 

“Should I get you something ma'am?” I asked softly and she smiled.

“Get me a glass of lemonade, Yangmi.” She said brusquely and i nodded, running to the kitchen. 

“Did Mina come over?” She called out as I got the lemons out of the cooler.

“No ma'am.” i replied.

“Did she call?” 

  I remembered the phone ringing, how upset it had made Namjoon, how he had stormed out.

“I don’t know ma'am!” I said softly. 

She nodded.

“Okay. You can leave.” She said quietly. i bowed and went back into the kitchen. 

I peered out of the window as I fixed her a glass , and my eyes fell on a familiar figure, coming back in through the front gate. Even from this distance there was no mistaking the long legs and messy blonde hair. 

I bit my lips, mind racing.

 Mrs Kim and her son had a volatile relationship, to say the least. 

And something told me that Mr. Kim was probably not in the right frame of mind to argue with his mother, now. The man was upset but apparently, neither his mother nor his ex fiancée understood that. instead of giving him space they were hounding him. 

I hesitated for a second  before making a quick decision. 

I grabbed the tray with her lemonade and moved to her quickly.

“Thank you.” She said sharply. “ Turn on the Air Conditioner for me, will you?” 

I fumbled with the remote, grabbing his phone from the table , turning it on before moving to the front door and rushing out. 

I almost ran into him as he came out of the elevator , and i jerked back stumbling a bit to stop myself from crashing into his chest. He let out a , ‘ Whoa, “  his hands reaching out to grip my elbows. 

“Careful. What’s wrong?” He asked gently and I swallowed.

“Your mother’s here.” I said quickly, “ Sir.” 

“Oh, fuck.” He groaned. I swallowed.

“You can leave.” I blurted out. “It’s Tuesday. She has her charity work meeting at ten. Its almost nine. She won’t stay long....” 

His eyes met mine, lips parting in surprise. 

“I really can’t meet her now.” He said apologetically.

I nodded.

“Of course, I understand , sir. Just be back in an hour , she’ll be go-”

The elevator buzzed , the doors nearly closing over my shoulders and I flinched. He swore and stuck his arm out to keep it open. 

I stared at him before holding his phone out.

“Here you go sir. “ 

He chuckled taking it from me and shaking his head.

“i feel like a kid, sneaking away from my mom.” His eyes reached mine, twinkling, “ Who would’ve thought the quiet, timid Yang Mi would be my partner in crime. “ 

I didn’t reply, just smiled. 

And then he hesitated. “ Is Junsu awake?”

I blinked.

“Uh...yes sir,...he’s playing in the park downstairs with the other kids.”

“Great... Would you mind if i take him out for ice cream?”

I stared at him. 

“Oh..uh...of course not. Sure.. I mean.. he’ll love that... Sir. Thank you.. You don’t have to -”

“Consider it thank you for helping me with my mother.” He smiled again and i found myself staring at his dimples again. i swallowed. 

“in that case, he loves butter scotch.” I smiled. 

The dimples appeared and i bit my lips. 

“Thank you Yang Mi.” He said slowly. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

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

Author’s Note : Finally a hyungline fic !!! ugh... I’ve been wanting to write a Namjoon fic for ages and I really hope you guys will like this one :’( Feedback is much appreciated. 

#namjoon smut #namjoon au #namjoon hot #namjoon fics #namjoon x reader #namjoon fic #bts smut #bts fanfics #bts au #bts fics #houseofddaeng

[kitkat1003]

Tower Tales

2: The world doesn't want them. If Scratchy was a competent therapist, he might ask "How does that make you feel?"

Or: Wakko Almost Died, and they’ve got issues about it

@asilcorner I finally learned how to write Dot lol

Also this is a sequel pls read the first here

Yakko doesn't know anger.

Not well. He doesn't lose his temper often, doesn't find himself raging over little things, but this.

This makes him furious.

It settles in his chest and burns and he wants to scream, but there's no private place to do it. Wakko and Dot would hear, and the last thing he needs is their concern. They're in the same boat, they feel the same as him, he knows they're hurting too.

The world abandoned them, left them for dead, and they're just kids. They don't know what to do here.

Yakko has managed, in the few months-3 and half, 3 and half months and it feels like an eternity- they've been trapped here, to figure out how to make things, objects, beds. Wakko makes them better, actually, and Yakko is proud, but a part of him wonders if he's even useful, then.

He has his words, he supposes. He can soothe and snark and crack jokes with ease, lifting the heavy air that seems to swallow them whole any time they look towards the bolted shut door.

Yakko already has plans. He can figure them a way out of here. They can make a door, or use heat to melt the metal, or any sort of avenue in that regard. He just needs to get the ability. And, once they're out, they can wreak havoc. He's sure a parent would have told him that Revenge isn't a worthy pursuit, but he doesn't have a parent, does he?

And any facsimile thereof was fine with getting rid of them, so who needs parents anyway?

They've made themselves a bed-at first, they'd considered a bunk, but the idea of not having each other close enough to touch makes them all more uncomfortable than they're willing to admit, so they decide on a King Size bed instead.

God, Yakko missed blankets and a mattress.

At night, he slips out from beneath the covers, ruffling Wakko's hair and planting a kiss on Dot's forehead. He heads to the farthest end of the tower from the bed and runs a hand down his face and sighs.

It's funny to cry comically loud, but Yakko doesn't want to wake up his sibs, so he learns to be quiet as hot, angry, hurt tears fall down his face. He wants to rage and scream, he wants to tear the world to pieces word by word, but that is isn't funny. So he swallows it down like a bitter pill and learns how painful it can be to be mature.

He swears, when he gets them out of here, it'll be for good. His family deserves that much, at least.

He doesn't think he deserves it, though. Not that he'll say. He let the world trap the 3 of them in here, he let this happen. Why does he deserve to see the sun again?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wakko doesn't feel the fear of almost dying until a few days after he almost does.

They have a food stash now. Yakko is insistent, as Wakko learns how to make food appear, that they have extra just in case. What if Wakko loses the ability, what if he's too tired, too weak. What if Yakko and Dot aren't there to help?

The last excuse is so weak that Wakko hardly acknowledges it, because there's no way Dot or Yakko wouldn't be there for him.

Unless they got tired of him. A toon that needs to eat? Pathetic right?

Wakko knows what he's doing, anyway. He can make other types of food now, instead of just pie. He doesn't need to be babied, doesn't need to be take care of like he's too young to take care of himself.  

He expects Dot to temper Yakko's mother-henning, but she's uncharacteristically silent on the matter.  She even starts following him around, practically dragging him to get food when she thinks he hasn’t eaten enough in a day.

Wakko feels the fear of almost dying in the night, when he's supposed to be falling asleep. He stares up at the cold metal walls and ceiling and imagines closing his eyes and never opening them. He doesn't remember a lot from that day, remembers waking up to his limbs twitching and jerking without him being able to stop them, flashes of consciousness, Dot and Yakko screaming. He doesn't have a grasp on the timeline, everything fuzzy and unclear, and it adds to the fear. He woke up to the taste of banana cream on his tongue, exhausted and somehow blessedly full, and before he could even say a word he was hugged so tight it hurt.

The explanation he was given makes him wonder.  How could he be sure to be safe again?  What if they hadn’t figured it out?

What would they have done with his body?  Would they have moved it to a small spot towards the edge of the tower, backs turned to it day after day as they waited and tried to escape?  If they had escaped, would Plotz have been delighted to know that the most physically troublesome of the trio was truly out of his hair?

At least Dot and Yakko can talk their way out of things.  Wakko makes messes and has no words to clean them up.  It’s kind of pathetic, how dumb and tongue tied he can be, and now he’s not even physically normal, for a toon.  Dot and Yakko must think him terribly annoying to take care of.

He imagines himself, still as the grave, the first toon to die of starvation.  What a legacy.  Dying with only his siblings around him, in a small water tower he was imprisoned in.  Imprisoned in because he was a nuisance.  And he hardly even talked.  He got yelled at for eating random stuff, but he was hungry.  And clearly it was for a reason, considering he almost died because he couldn’t eat because they locked him in here with his siblings to rot, and-

He doesn’t realize he’s trembling until he feels Yakko shift, next to him, disturbed by his movements.  Wakko hops out of bed, and heads to their kitchenette.  It’s small, but it’s one of the first things they knew they’d need when turning the tower into a home.  They moved the food stash in there, in a pantry that says “For Emergencies” on it.  He contemplates going through it and leaving it empty, but Yakko already looks like he’s going to get gray hairs.  Wakko won’t add to that.  He pulls out the milk and pours it into a glass before setting it in the microwave.  He starts the timer for a minute and then grabs a sandwich from the mini fridge as he puts the milk jug away.

Good food and drink are always a remedy for terror, right?

When he’s done absolutely demolishing the kitchen, picking the shelves clean of anything edible, he stumbles back to bed, content to ignore his thoughts for a night.

It seems Yakko got up too, at some time.  The blanket is ruffled in a specific way.

It’s funny how, despite them getting up at similar times, they never seem to catch each other.  Wakko thinks, as he falls asleep, that’s probably why they never talk about it at all.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dot is cute.  She knows this.  She knew it from the moment she was drawn, that she would be adorable, the absolute most cutest toon in the world, with no contenders to take her spot.

But evidently, being cute doesn’t do much in the world she was made in, because she’s in the same spot as her brother’s, locked in a tower for forever.

She’d started doubting that the whole ‘Lock the Warner Siblings in the Water Tower’ thing was a joke far earlier than Yakko had.  Yakko hadn’t wanted to believe the world could be so mean, but she’s a pretty girl actress in Hollywood.  She knows exactly how disgusting the world can be, just in her first few weeks in it.  She’d entertained the idea for a week or so, of it being a joke, but as a month and a half passed she gave up, just a little.

But it wasn’t enough to soften the blow of knowing that Wakko could die without anyone caring besides Yakko and herself.

Yakko had been asleep when it started, but she’d been practicing ballet dances when Wakko’s body began to twitch and jerk without reason, a startled gasp escaping from his lips before he went terrifyingly silent.  She’d ran to Wakko’s side, screaming for him, and then for Yakko, because Wakko was so pale he was light gray and he looked so weak.

And she’d seen his hunger, hadn’t she?  Waved it off as if he were just complaining, when he had a genuine problem.  But Yakko thought of the solution, Yakko saved him, and she’d only watched.

Some sister she was.

Yakko institutes changes immediately afterwards, throwing himself into learning how to make objects that they can use to make the Tower a place to live instead of an empty room, and despite the fact that she doesn’t like being told what to do she says nothing, because she’ll do anything to keep that deep terror from gripping her again.

She doesn’t realize it, but she’s being clingy.  She hovers.  She follows Wakko and frowns when he doesn’t eat for too long-in her opinion.  He says he’ll eat when he’s hungry, but that’s not enough.  He needs to eat before he’s hungry, so that way he’ll never be hungry, and then he’ll never be that sick again.

And then she can stop waking up crying, dreaming of a world where Wakko isn’t there at all, just a still body on the metal floor, and Yakko is yelling at her for minimizing, because she made it seem less than it was, so it’s her fault, and Wakko is dead and it’s her fault and the corpse turns to dust and he’s gone and it’s her fault-

She’s dragging him to the kitchen one day, because he hadn’t eaten for four hours, and her heartbeat is a rapid fire pace in her chest, and he pulls away from her.

“I’m not hungry, Dot.  I’ll eat in a bit, promise. What’s your deal?” Wakko is so rarely annoyed at her or Yakko enough to make a fuss, but he clearly is now, and the fear that tightens her chest whirls her around and makes her shout.

“I’m not watching you die again!” She shouts back, and Yakko’s head whips in her direction from the chair he’s sitting in, and Wakko looks stunned.  She’s trembling, she realizes, and her vision is blurry from tears.  

Wakko is so, so gentle as he comes close, reaching up to wipe her tears from her eyes.

“I-uh-sorry, Dot, I didn’t mean-,” She pushes his hands away,  The last she needs is an apology from him because he almost died, as if that was his fault.

“No, no, don’t-I just,” She buries her face in her hands.  “It was so scary-and-and you act like it doesn’t matter!” She shouts, fists clenched, and Wakko takes a step back.

“It does-I just-food is hard to get down when I’m not hungry-and,” Yakko places a hand on her shoulder, from behind, and the action makes her jolt and quiets Wakko.  She watches him fidgets with the long sleeves of his sweater, anxious, and she hates herself for making him feel so unsure.

“When he’s hungry, it’s his body telling him he needs food, sis,” Yakko’s voice is very soft, and he kneels down to her eye level, talking to her plainly with his eyes looking into hers.  “Eating before that time could make him feel sick, and he could throw up what he eats, which would at the very least be unsanitary,” He chuckles to himself a little, and she smiles at the quip, before he continues.  “That’s probably why he isn’t eating 24/7 right now.  Plus, he was slowly starving himself before then because we didn’t know better,” he says we, and she wonders if he knows that she blames herself solely, and is saying that to make her feel better, “so his body isn’t used to having food around.  He’ll get his appetite back up.  Promise,” Everything he says makes sense, but she’s still terrified.

“But-,” What if that’s not enough?  What if he eats too late?  What if it happens again?

“I’ve been making sure he’s eating enough,” Yakko continues, cutting her rebuttal off. “3 meals a day at least.  I make him breakfast in the morning, when you’re still asleep.  I know how much he’s eating, and I’ll make sure it never gets like that again.  So, if you’re still worried, just trust me with this, okay?” He smiles, and when he phrases it like that, she can do nothing but agree.

“Okay,” She manages to get out, and Yakko pulls her into a hug.  She cries into his shoulder, hiding her face because crying isn’t cute, and he rubs her back, whispering comforting words into her ear.

When he lets go, Wakko pulls her in, and his sweater is very soft.  She buries herself into it, and he doesn’t complain about the snot and tears she’s likely getting on it.

“Sorry for worrying you,” he says.  “I’ll try to eat more.”

She feels so silly, and so very small, and so very dumb, making her brothers worry like this.

“Don’t make yourself sick,” She lets out a wet giggle, wiping her eyes as Wakko lets her go.

Yakko cooks dinner, and makes her one of her favorites.  She watches Wakko eat three times the amount she does, and she feels satisfied.

That night, she doesn’t sleep for a long time.  She has too many thoughts in her head.  She turns, and she sees Wakko and Yakko, sleeping soundly.  Wakko looks healthy, but she can’t forget how he looked then.

She can’t let herself fall apart over this.  Yakko worries enough, and Wakko almost died.  The last thing they need is an overemotional sister breaking down all the time.

Maybe that’s why the world let her get locked up.  She’s cute, but it doesn’t matter if she’s too over the top.  An emotional woman is an unattractive one.  There’s nothing cute about crying, after all.

She resolves herself to be better, and the next morning she wakes up to have breakfast with her brothers, and doesn’t let her smile slip an inch.

#animaniacs #animaniacs 2020 #yakko warner #wakko warner #dot warner #kitkat1003 #yakko wakko and dot #Kitkat learns how to write Dot more at 11 #period typical sexism #women shouldn't be emotional or theyre not attractive right? #what a time lol

[cyhyr]

Summer of Whump Day 25: Isolation

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: G

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi & Umino Iruka, pre-relationship

WC: ~2000

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: Depression. Self-isolation.

A/N: This is sad, but it's also oddly sweet in the end?

~

Naruto leaves to train with Jiraiya and Iruka is happy for him, he really is. He’s happy that he’s with one of the strongest shinobi of their time, that Jiraiya-sama is going to keep them moving and keep Naruto safe from the Akatsuki. He’s happy that Naruto made time to see him before they left, and that he promised to write as much as Jiraiya deems it to be safe.

Really, he’s happy.

That doesn’t mean that he’s not…

Upset? No, that’s not right.

Within two weeks, Iruka stops going out after work. He packs up his bag and locks up his classroom, and when the other teachers wave him down and ask if he’d like to join them for drinks he says something like, “I appreciate the offer, but I have a lot of grading. Maybe next time?” And then next time comes around and he shakes them off again. After five or six attempts, his co-workers stop asking. Iruka’s not sure if he’s relieved or not.

Anko tries to invite herself over, but Iruka denies her entry, stating that he hasn’t cleaned.

“What? That’s never stopped us hanging out before! C’mon, Ruka, I’ve got beer and bad movies! It’s Friday night!”

But, no, he really hasn’t cleaned in… How long has it been since Naruto left? He closes the door, begging off that he just doesn’t feel up to it tonight. “Maybe next week?”

Anko tries again for the next three weeks. Iruka changes the wards and locks after she breaks in when he denies her the fourth time. She doesn’t try again after that.

And then the Academy goes on a month-long break. He sees Izumo and Kotetsu at the Desk, where he assists four afternoons each week. They talk over him and try to pull him into their conversations, but he does his work and then goes home without exchanging a word with either of them. He gets enough socialization from yelling at the shinobi who think that because he’s… low… means his standards for accepting mission reports have also dropped.

They haven’t. That news gets around quickly enough.

Tsunade-sama asks if he’d like to take on extra shifts or duties. He tells her he doesn’t have the time. It’s not wrong; but also, it’s not time he’s missing, not really. She looks at him oddly, but accepts his answer. Shizune gives him a folder of paperwork to peruse at home, just in case he changes his mind?

(She lied. The “paperwork” is informational pamphlets on empty nest syndrome, depression, and self-isolating. Iruka burns them all. He doesn’t leave himself in a room with just the two of them again.)

He’s only working enough to keep the lights on and put rice in the pantry. The rest of his time is spent curled up on his bed, staring into the abyss of his bedroom. Over the next week he uses up every other bit of food in his home, even the emergency ration bars in his closet. Anything to not have to leave the house unnecessarily and see everyone’s pity.

He’s not…

He’s happy for Naruto.

He’s not even related to Naruto. He can’t have empty nest syndrome because Naruto never lived with him!

Iruka absolutely doesn’t cry himself to sleep. Because he’s happy, damnit.

~

Iruka stops going to work. He can hardly make himself get out of bed anymore. He uses the toilet and makes a pot of rice once every other day, eating it cold between fresh pots. Tea is too much work, even though a niggling part of him that sounds like Sandaime-sama says that fresh, hot tea would do wonders for his mood. Instead he’s drinking only water from the tap and barely remembering to wash his cup afterwards.

Izumo and Kotetsu come over and knock repetitively on both his front door and his bedroom window. Iruka stays in bed and ignores them. He can’t take their pity anymore.

He wants desperately to be with his friends, but more than that he wants to want to be with them.

There’s laundry all over his bedroom floor, and he’s not sure how that happened because he’s been wearing the same uniform for—days? Weeks? The apartment is a mess, but how because he stays in bed all day except to eat or use the toilet.

His body aches.

He stares at a picture taken of him and Naruto after his back injury had healed. It has a place of honor on his nightstand, next to his perpetually empty rice bowl and glass of room-temperature water.

Maybe… maybe, in the solitude of his own home, he can admit that he’s a little bit sad that Naruto’s gone.

~

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember waking up.

He exists in an odd between-state; the worst part is that he exists.

Every breath hurts. Naruto’s smile lights up his room from his nightstand, but it’s the only beacon he has left.

The knocking starts up again an hour before he’s supposed to report to the Desk. It continues, again, six hours later. Both times, he tunes it out. He’s not ready.

~

Kakashi clutches the letter in his hand and looks up at the apartment complex. Naruto had been gone just over a month and already sent a letter trying to hide how much he misses everyone. But in his very last post-script, he asked Kakashi to do something…

Please check in on Iruka-sensei for me. He’s really good at hiding how he’s feeling, even if it includes hiding himself away.

And, well, Naruto can’t have known about the tiny crush Kakashi’s been harboring for Iruka since he stood up to him at the chūnin exam nominations almost a year ago. But he can do this for his student.

So he steps up to Iruka’s door and knocks. And instead of the door he knocked on opening, the neighbor’s does.

“What’s all this again—oh, you’re new,” the woman says.

“Ah, yes, I suppose,” Kakashi stammers. “I’ve been off on a mission and just got back. Do you know if he’s home?”

She scoffs. “He doesn’t leave anymore.”

Shit.

“His friends stopped trying to get him to open the door three days ago. Blessed silence, for once.”

“My apologies, for disturbing you,” he says. He places a hand on the door and gently tugs at the wards. They’re strong—stronger than what a chūnin schoolteacher should bother having, but not strong enough that he can’t break through. “I’ll be only a minute longer.”

“See that you are,” the woman shuffles back inside. “It’s been wonderful since Umino stopped bringing the Fox around. No screeching.”

Kakashi wills himself to ignore her and turn back to Iruka’s door. The neighbor’s door clicks shut, and so he pulls up his hitai-ate and looks at the wards with the sharingan. It takes him a careful three minutes of chakra manipulation to undo them, but soon the wards fall and Kakashi turns the handle.

Unlocked.

The apartment is… cluttered? It could use a quick clean-up, definitely. There’s this layer of dust on many of the hard surfaces, and the floors could use a mop. But at first glance, it doesn’t look like some homes he’s stepped into holding depressed people.

A quick look in the kitchen shows much more evidence of Iruka hiding something. Dishes overflow the sink, the stove top has burned grains of rice stuck in places, and an overwhelming bland smell permeates the air. He steps in quickly and checks the fridge, sighing. There’s a few condiment bottles, but other than that there was only a container of rice in the middle shelf.

He’s torturing himself. Kakashi wonders if he’s aware of this.

There are three doors at the end of a short hallway outside of the living room. One, on the right, is a bathroom. The other, the left one, he can tell is the “spare” room Naruto claims is his—there’s a ramen poster pinned to the door, and while he remembers that Iruka is also very fond of ramen, he feels he can say with surety that Iruka wouldn’t decorate with ramen-themed posters.

This leaves the center door at the very end. He knocks twice before opening the door slowly.

Here is where the depression has settled, clearly.

Here is where Iruka is laid out on his side, curled slightly towards his nightstand. His hair is down, streaming across his pillow in clumps. There are clothes all over the floor; Kakashi wonders if any of them are clean. Probably not; he’ll assume not. There are ration bar wrappers near the bedside and empty dishes scattered around.

He’s torn. Should he clean up and then rouse Iruka; or talk to Iruka and then ask if he wants help cleaning up?

Kakashi tries to remember what he was like after losing… but it’s not the same, is it? It’s never the same. Every loss, every kind of loss, hits differently.

He steps over dirty clothes and kicks aside food wrappers. He kneels down beside Iruka’s nightstand and pushes aside a clump of hair that had fallen over his face. Iruka’s eyes are red-rimmed, sunken, and worst of all, cold.

“Naruto sent me,” he starts with, hoping it will get a reaction. It doesn’t. He follows Iruka’s gaze to a picture of the two of them, taken a week or so after Naruto became genin. How had he never noticed that Iruka and Naruto have the same wide smile? Naruto must have picked it up from Iruka.

“He was worried that you would hide away how you’re feeling,” Kakashi continues. “I suppose he was right to worry.”

No response.

“You can’t keep isolating yourself, sensei,” he says. “It’s not healthy.”

An answer, finally, comes softly. “Okay.”

Kakashi narrows his eye. “Okay?”

Iruka shrugs.

“Iruka, do you even know what day it is?”

Iruka shrugs again.

Kakashi carefully reaches out to touch him. Iruka flinches at the contact, but allows it. He pleads, “You need to go outside.”

“People stare,” he mutters. “Don’t want their pity.”

“I’ll keep them from looking at you,” Kakashi says.

“How?”

“I can be fairly intimidating when I want to be.” Kakashi puts his hand on top of Iruka’s. His skin is dry and cracked on his fingertips. “Will you come with me?” he asks.

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

Iruka blushes. “I... I don’t have anything clean to wear.”

Kakashi smiles. “That’s an easy fix. We’ll make a plan and do it later, after the laundry is done.”

“I don’t have the energy to—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he waves his other hand. “Why don’t you go clean up?”

Iruka squeezes his eyes shut tight and his shoulders shake minutely. “I think my hair’s a loss,” he sniffs. “I’d have to cut it off and I—”

“Iruka, please,” Kakashi interrupts. He leans in and presses his masked lips to the back of Iruka’s hand. “No more excuses. Please, try for me? For Naruto? He’d hate to see you like this. I hate to see you like this. If you need your hair cut, I’ll cut it. If you need fresh clothes, I’ll wash them. If you need groceries, I’ll buy them. I want to help you. Please let me help you.”

Iruka doesn’t open his eyes for a long time, but he also doesn’t pull away. Kakashi waits. And when the nod comes, small and hesitantly, he can’t help but kiss Iruka’s hand again.

“I’m sorry,” Iruka whispers. “I shouldn’t—it’s—I’m being such a burden and I’m sorry.”

“You’re worth it,” Kakashi shakes his head. “Whatever burden you are, I’m willing to carry it if it comes with you.”

Iruka blushes. “That’s… don’t use your Icha Icha lines on me, please.”

“It’s not a line,” Kakashi says. “Come on, you need a shower, a shave, and some real food—not just rice. I’ll start a load of laundry while you’re cleaning up, and order in.”

“What about outside…?”

“We’ll do that tomorrow.”

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump25 #isolation #fanfic #umino iruka #hatake kakashi #kakairu #my writing

[haro-whumps]

Box Boy Meeting Mama

(CW: slavery, dehumanization, creepy + intimate whumper, implied noncon, videorecording, possessive behaviors)

Tag list:  @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr 

Part 1

“Mama! Mama!” Ren called to the open front door, bouncing down the steps excitedly.

Their mother was a stunningly tall woman, with heavy brown hair that waved like a product model and a solid, masculine build. Her shoulders were broad, her wrists thick, and she had a jawline that could only be drawn using squares. Although her skin was free of wrinkle or blemish, she could never be described as youthful, her presence heavy and sharp in any room she entered. Her color palette was almost exclusively red, with some black and rare gold, and anytime someone told her that a woman of her size shouldn’t wear high heels, she bought herself a taller pair.

“Hello duckling,” she greeted with a bright smile, hugging her child, the only person in the world who would ever describe her as warm or loving.

“Soren!” they called over their shoulder, only half-stepping away from their mother, “Heel! Position 1!”

Soren had been told he’d be meeting Ren’s mama that morning, and had been dressed up for it, wearing what could only be called a toga and gold sandals that stretched up to his knees. He rushed to them and stood with his feet slightly parted, arms at his sides, spine straight.

“Oh there he is,” she said curiously, eyeing him over as though to judge if his presence lived up to the rumors. He stood close to Ren, nervous around the looming woman, with her sharp eyes and strong arms. Ren was his owner, so of course they could do whatever damage they wanted to him, but they knew that to a whumpee, their mama cut a much more intimidating figure. She could do as much damage with a closed fist as Ren might with a belt. Maybe more.

“You’re right, the short hair really isn’t suiting him,” she commented at length, lifting a lock of Soren’s hair, which now skimmed his shoulders. The products were doing their job. She tilted his chin and her eyes lingered on the birthmark. “But you are a cute little thing, aren’t you pet?”

“Thank you, um, m-ma’am?” he said hesitantly, body tense, and Ren giggled.

“Aw,” Ren’s mama said with a knowing click of her tongue. “Did you call my child ‘ma’am’ and get scolded for it?” she asked with a small chuckle shaking her impressive shoulders.

“Uh--um, well,” Soren stammered, which was too cute, so Ren took pity on him and kissed his pretty temple.

“He’s been perfect, lately; hasn’t messed up since, have you angel?”

“No, Exalted,” he said, obviously relieved that Ren had stepped in.

“Oh, Exalted!” Ren’s mama crooned, “I like that, that’s so classy!”

“Thanks!” Ren said cheerfully, beaming up at her. “The other option is ‘Honored One,’ which I think has a similar ring to it.”

“Good choices, good choices,” she agreed. “Well, off to Sunday brunch?”

“Mm!” Ren hummed. They gave Soren a quick kiss to his cheek, petting his hair in a smooth, swift gesture. “Behave yourself while I’m out, Soren. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Have, have fun,” Soren said, glancing between them and their mama, timid around her, but that was fine. If Soren wanted to see Ren as the only safe thing in all the world, that was a-okay by them.

They climbed into the passenger seat of their mama’s red luxury car, one of the smaller ones today, and arranged their skirts around their legs. Best part of skirts: Ren looked phenomenal in them and they showed off their calves. Worst part of skirts: maneuvering in them.

“He really is,” Mama murmured as she started the car with her thumbprint, “That’s your sweet little Soren.”

“I know!” Ren said with a laugh, “I can still hardly believe it sometimes!”

“Well, he seems healthy and whole, at least.”

“Mama! Of course he is!”

She snorted and pinched their cheek, eyes still on the road. “I didn’t say I ever thought you wouldn’t take care of him, dumpling. But you know how those whumpee-vendors can get, sometimes. Every couple of months, it seems like there’s some new scandal that everyone just needs to flood the news streams with.”

Ren sighed knowingly, very put upon. “It’s true. I mean, really, you’d think we’d be past the whole ‘Oh hey let’s lose our shit over this’ phase of whumpees, right? They knew the risks when they signed themselves over, and it’s not like they’re actually people anymore.”

Mama hummed. “Do we want to go for cheese and pasta or are we thinking seafood today?”

“I could go for somewhere with refried beans and pork, if you’re up for it,” Ren stated.

“Oo, fancy today.” Mama threw on her turn signal. “Guaca Maya’s always a safe bet.”

“So, did I not, express, to Soren, enough, that I loved him and liked taking care of him when we were younger? Like, why didn’t he come crawling back to me?”

“Duckling,” Mama crooned, like when they were acting just a little unreasonable about how life wasn’t fair.

“It’s been bothering me since I found him, Mama. I would have forgiven him! He had to have known that, right?”

“Honey, sometimes poor people just… behave in strange ways. They’re not rational.” She gave their thigh a sympathetic squeeze. “The more you try to make sense of them, the more frustrated you’ll get.”

Ren sighed and stroked their brow, probably messing up their eyebrows but ah, such was life. “I know, I know. It doesn’t matter, I have him now,” they said, flaring out their fingers.

“And so cute, too; he’s so nervous!”

Ren giggled. “Oh, oh! Once we get seated I’ll show you; remember how I told you I was buying all those cameras?”

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” she said, parking the car. 

They were seated at one of the better tables, the waitress accidentally calling Mama “sir” before she noticed the mixup, and after they’d ordered their food Ren pulled out their phone and tapped through the application, searching for their boy.

“Ha, there he is,” Ren said, holding out the phone screen so Mama could look. “He really likes that balcony.”

“Good thing, too, his freckles are so pretty when they’re dense,” Mama commented, taking the phone in that way the previous generation had, instead of just looking while Ren held it. Soren was seated on a patio chair, plush but waterproof, and was dozing in the late morning sun. 

“I’m glad I got him the two in one sunscreen and lotion,” Ren remarked, staring gleefully down at the screen, chin in their palm. Even though it would be fun to poke and prod at the burns, they thought privately. Such things were not meant to be shared with their mama; she would scold them for casual violence. 

“You’re such a clever kid,” Mama said proudly, handing the phone back, “Always the most prepared out of all your peers, I don’t know where you got it from.”

“Statistically speaking, probably you,” Ren said, and they both laughed. Brunch went by pleasantly, the two of them catching up on the events of the week. Mama knew a good portion of Ren’s week, since they had kept on delightedly texting her throughout, but it was always fun to eat and chat. Mama enjoyed flaunting her wealth as much as Ren did, and tipped equal to the bill, then drove Ren home.

“Same time next week,” she said before they got out of the car, “But not the week after--”

“--because you’ll be overseas, so we’ll have to videochat,” Ren confirmed, leaning across the consol so she could kiss their cheek affectionately.

“You got it. Alright darling, have a good one.”

“Bye Mama!” Ren called brightly as they got out, and returned inside. Brunch with Mama always left them feeling pleased and calm, and knowing that they were returning to Soren left them positively bouncing, skirt flaring out around their knees. They went to the kitchen to put their leftovers in the fridge,

and their mood turned on a dime.

“What are you doing with those scissors!?” they bellowed, crossing the kitchen in an instant, catching him by the wrist so hard he dropped the blades, their nails pressing bleeding crescents into his skin.

“E-Exalted, I--”

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” they yelled, slamming that fragile arm into the pantry door, grabbing him by the front of his toga and lifting, furious, spots swarming their vision.

“Nothing! Please!”

“The hell does nothing need scissors for?” they shouted, their face so close to his that spit flew onto it. “Do you seriously think you can just--”

“Thread! There’s a loose thread!” Soren wailed, free hand desperately pressed against Ren’s chest. They stopped, breathing hard, rage still curling in them but paused, just for a moment. Soren hiccupped on his little sobs and shakily moved his hand to point at the strap of his toga. “T-*hic* There’s a l-loose thread, Honored One,” he said, lifting it so they could see. Thin, unnoticed when the clothing was delivered, hardly even visible without someone pointing it out. “I, I was snipping it. I would never hurt you, Exalted, Ren, please, I would never, I’m not a fighter, I wouldn’t hurt you, please,” his fingers curled in the front of their blouse, “please, never, never. I wouldn’t, Honored One, please believe me, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t.”

Ren released his wrist, their fingers trailing down his skin and leaving bloody marks. They took a deep breath, and let it out, releasing his toga and lifting their hands to his face, cupping his cheeks. “Oh, baby,” they murmured, trying to calm their heartbeat. “Oh Soren,” they said, pressing up against him, his back flush against the pantry door, their face pressed into his hair. His gorgeous hair, that he wasn’t going to cut. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. His first concern was that Ren thought he would hurt them, use the scissors to fight; cutting his hair was so far from his mind it never crossed it. 

They stood there, pressed up against his quietly crying body, for an indeterminate amount of time. They pulled back when they were calm enough, and silently took the thread between their fingers. They leaned down and bit it, snapping it easily, and then kissed Soren’s birthmark.

“Go ahead and clean up the mess you made,” Ren said, glancing at their leftovers, which were now spilled across the kitchen tile. “I’ll go get some disinfectant for your wrist.”

“Thank you,” he said, high and quiet and Ren felt okay enough to smile at him. They kissed his pretty lips, thumbing at the tear tracks, half-dried, and left the kitchen. But not without first grabbing the scissors, taking the blades with them.

Next

#whump #slavery #dehumanization #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #possessive behavior #videotaping #videorecording #pet #slave #lost temper #bbu #box boy #ren #soren #mama #mine #writing

[stusbunker]

Known: Two Halves, Three Hearts

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: MOC!Dean x Female OC, x Demon!Reader, Claire Novak, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley

Summary: CC learns to navigate more of the Winchesters’ associates. Meanwhile, Dean crosses the line to end Cain’s reign of terror. He finds her vulnerable, will she let him sate himself in every way imaginable? Can he run from what he is becoming? Is she enough to keep the evil at bay? Crowley finds our Reader and offers a path to redemption, if she can trust what he’s selling.

Warnings: Post murder haze, torture, period sex, blood, blood play, stabbing, dub!con smut, subtle mention of past sexual assault, disassociation, humiliation, and loss of sense of self.

Series Masterlist

*^*^*^*

December 11, 2014

The Bunker

           It was nearly dawn when Chloe felt the air tighten against the Impala’s entry into the garage. Something was wrong; Sam was driving. Dean sat in the passenger seat and in the back, Castiel beside a blonde who had cried out a week’s worth of mascara and eyeliner. Dean was bleeding, but that wasn’t what was wrong. He stared ahead, lost and empty, covered in others’ blood. It was human, every last drop, CC could tell just by the smell. An ability she would have appreciated if it didn’t lead to the implications on Dean’s clothing.

           Other than the upset teenager, no one else seemed to have been touched by the fray. Sam rapped on the hood, giving CC his best ‘I can’t explain this away’ eyes. He was worried mute. CC finally moved toward the car, both Sam and she eventually earning swats as Dean came to, silently protesting their help.

           “How many?” CC whispered against his retreating form.

           “Look, they were loan sharks and they were going to use Claire-,” Sam started.

           “How many people did he kill?”

           “Four.” Castiel cut in, glimpsing back to the girl in the backseat.

           CC’s stomach pitched, a phantom whiff of manure and dust drifted past her nose and into her thoughts. She didn’t allow herself to focus on the reality of Dean’s crimes, instead she moved the conversation along. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

           “She won’t stay here. I was going to take her to a motel in town. Chloe, I’m sorry, CC, would you be willing to accompany me?”

           Sam huffed. “Is that really a good idea, Cas?”

           “I just thought that, maybe an older female might be able to get through to her.” Cas looked wrecked, his vessel wearing his worry like a neon sign. He felt more human to CC than he ever had.

           “I’m not babysitting.” CC stared between Sam and Cas and back again. Her annoyance and concern reciprocated in one form or another. She should be checking on Dean, not playing Big Brother Big Sister to Castiel’s ward. Dean didn’t want to see her; he had made that painfully clear. CC fiddled with her knife as the girl’s ghostly eyes challenged them from the backseat. “I’m not ready to leave the wards, not yet. But, if you guys need a minute, I can get some food in her? Keep her out of your hair for a—”

           “Thank you,” Sam mouthed to CC as he and Cas nearly ran out of the garage and the blast radius all she could do was reply with a single finger. CC walked around the hood of the Impala, hands tucked in her back pockets as she watched the girl glare and roll her eyes.

           “What do you want?”

           “I want to go back to bed, but since that’s not happening. Coffee?” CC gave Claire five seconds before walking away, nodding over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Claire followed CC dejectedly, hunger trumped petulance apparently, if barely.

           “So, who are you anyway?”

           “You can call me CC.” She almost smiled over her shoulder, dropping down into the sunken kitchen.

           “Which one of them is your–?”

“My what?” CC pushed the automatic drip setting from delayed brew to ON and started rifling through the pantry for English muffins once Claire made up her mind to join her.

           “Dean, huh? Figures. Well, your man’s a murderer, if you didn’t know.”

           CC didn’t really look up at the girl while she started preparing their hasty meal, but it was evident that her bitterness was far from fading. CC slammed the toaster lever in place and leered down at Claire, who was sitting on the kitchen table with her feet on the seat of a chair. “Alright, Miss Teen Bitch. First off, you are in their home, so I’d watch who you call what. Secondly, yeah, I did know. Pretty much every hunter has the bad kind of blood on their hands, that includes me.”

           The creak of the muffins’ release broke the silence. There was more eye rolling and tongue tisking, but eventually Claire began to listen for the answer to her more pointed questions.

           “What are you even doing with him?”

           CC shrugged, “I could ask the same about you and the angel.”

           “Gross.” Claire recoiled. “Besides, they came after me! I just swiped his wallet for some spare cash. They should have just let me go! If they had—- Fuck! You know what? Screw you lady. You’re on their side. You’re not gonna listen to me.”

           “Hey, cool it, alright?” Claire threw her fists down at her sides and folded them over her stomach. CC could see she needed to keep prodding because Claire was so close to the next hurdle. “Let’s get things straight. This isn’t a black white, us vs. you scenario. They thought you were in danger and did what they thought was best for you; to keep you safe. Sucks not being able to make the call on your own life, don’t it?” CC waited for Claire to acknowledge the helplessness they shared.

“Yeah, well, I might be Dean’s whatever. But I know all too well about Winchester intentions. For the record, me and Castiel? Not friends.”

           “He’s wearing my dad’s face. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

           CC dropped onto the bench below Claire, handing her a plate. “Just a little weirder than living in an underground bunker with the guys that sent your closest friend to Hell?”

           Claire nibbled on the toasted olive branch, tearing it to pieces before finally relaxing. She was scared and desperate, it came off in every gesture of her defensive attitude. CC started to wonder just what was going to happen with the kid now that she had been brought in.

           “I hate them, all of them. I hate them for what they did.”

           CC’s mouth twisted in sad empathy at the girl, knowing that the grief she wasn’t processing was much more palatable as rage. It was like looking into a fun house mirror of her past: overdone make up and culturally rebellious hair style. All just more things to help in the lie to herself about how empty she felt.

“What?! I do.”

“I know.” CC rolled back up to her feet, nodding toward the fridge. “Let’s see what else there is to eat. There’s one thing that’ll piss Dean off more than messing with his car and that’s eating the last of his pie.”

“Okay?” Claire huffed out an unamused agreement, a reluctant warmth shone from her eyes.

*^*^*^*

February 2015

Dean had gone cold turkey. He stopped drinking, stopping lurking outside CC’s room at night, and started eating egg white omelets, apparently. Fat lot of good it did. The Oz Case with Charlie gave him whiplash, seeing his friend spilt into parts as if she was just the sum of her emotions rubbed him the wrong way. Breaking her arm was something he was never going to be able to forgive himself for; his knuckles still scabbed over from decimating her porcelain face. Her dogged determination and forgiveness still got him in the throat. Ever present, CC had stood, unflinching as the boys and Charlie had their goodbyes.

Now as Sam casually mentioned Tina from the Hansel and Gretel run in, something akin to jealousy flashed in her steely eyes. Something he had no desire to press her on nor any hope that it could lead to getting her back. She had helped out with Claire, had researched the hell out of the Bunker’s stacks alongside them through it all, and she had all but admitted the demon was the one moaning his name, the one that used her body to make his every nerve sing. If that wasn’t enough to drive him to drink again, nothing was.

*^*^*^*

February 16, 2015

A festering cavern, Hell

           Blinding daylight burst from an unseen door to your left. Once your eyes adjusted a figure appeared, breaking through the shafts of light, like a key in a lock. His footfalls were leisurely, the clipping beat of his obscenely expensive shoes barely gaining ground. Crowley walked into your isolated prison like a birder on a Sunday stroll.

           “Oh good, you’re conscious.” His big eyes teetered on compassion as his words fell in a nice noncommittal little heap. You wanted to reply; the empty air loomed as your mouth tried to form words. You couldn’t remember how long it had been since you had used your voice. Your tongue thick and coarse in your throat as it strove to remember language. Crowley squinted, but waited as you grew frustrated with yourself. You sighed, nodding in exasperation before he could mock you for it. You weren’t certain he was real, but the thought of a visitor, even one seeking twisted entertainment, was better than another decade alone. Eventually you decided that you couldn’t have made him up; you had better imagination than that.

           “I wasn’t aware we still used places like these. These rubbish heaps were from the initial days of Hell. The time when the fallen Angels fought for control and some unseen judicial system weighed the disloyal and usurpers’ crimes. You got off lightly, by the old standards. It takes a lot of energy to maintain this kind of torment; it simply isn’t worth the output for a single demon here or there. Then again, we all must answer for our crimes; no matter how seemingly noble the reasoning. Rebels against an outdated hierarchy—”

           He continued to drone on, though your exhausted mind could hardly keep up and when it did; you found yourself unaffected by his rallying attempts. You were too downtrodden to feel any comradery with the man who held the keys to your cage. To all the cages. Hate was a delicious main course that followed the apathetic appetizer. You began to wade out to the swells of emotion. Things that hadn’t reached you in years carving through you until you were ready to swim in the rage as he spoke, eyes beetle black and bulging as he spat his points.

           Finally, you fissured as the sound erupted from your mouth, a frustrated wail that shut the King up well and good.

“What do you want?!” you demanded between staccato breaths. You glared down at him, his human form was nearly a head shorter than you, but the inches of debris locking your ankles in place nearly evened the field of vision. You hoped the words you used made sense; because he was taking his time answering.

           “I need someone to do a little digging on a certain individual. Someone who owes me and who won’t go gossiping to the demon next door.” Crowley tongue worked his cheek. “In short, I am offering you a one-way ticket back, what do you say?”

           “Who?” The confusion began to clear as the delirious hum of hope rang in your ears.

           “Can’t tell you here. Now–” Crowley looked over his shoulder and raised his fist in the air. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more accommodating, shall we?”

           Before you could even nod, he snapped his fingers, freeing you from the slop and stench.

*^*^*^

Tale End of Executioner’s Song

Dean has killed Cain

Dean comes up from the dark with rasping breaths. His tendons are locked into place and his wrist is screaming from strain, a frequency he has yet to process. He doesn’t remember telling his feet to move, but his legs have carried him this far: away from the evidence and back down to those waiting on him. All pretense shrivels as he hears Sammy’s voice close by, persistent but muddled. Then Crowley’s, asking for his arm, no, the blade. Right, it isn’t a part of him after all. He should really let go, he isn’t sure what part of him is making these decisions, but grateful it doesn’t seem to be as hard as it feels.

Dean turns the weapon handle out and passes it to Cas. His eyes have focused enough to see the disbelief on the demon’s face at the gesture. Dean isn’t here to suffer fools; however helpful they had become. He reveals his deceits, unblinking as Crowley disappears. Sam catches him then, before his legs finally catch up to the path that got them there and Dean wonders what God sees in man.

The fog of battle clung to his mind, the Mark dulled, but never silenced. His blood flowed hot and vibrant, pumping through his veins in and out of his heart, that very human organ thumping in his gnawing chest. Dean moved as if he was tailing himself, looking down on his movements from some unimaginable higher ground until he slid into the Impala and drove away. Everything was reflex, instinct, autopilot. The moment the driver’s side door creaked open, he smelled it. Blood, faint and intoxicating. That hot beat inside of him pounded deeper.

He threw his duffel to the foot of his bed and shrugged out of his jacket. The Mark peered beneath the rolled cuff of his flannel, a garish pink against the dark fabric. Somehow, Dean found himself in the kitchen and despite the caffeine and the cheerleading from Sam, he felt hollowed out. Dean’s vision tunneled as he dodged out of further conversation to march down the hall. Finally, he could seek what had been calling to him.

CC froze over the washing machine as he loomed in the doorway. Her eyes closed as she felt him scent her, she didn’t turn an inch in his direction. Her bare legs, plump and smooth, beneath her tiny pajama shorts were just enough exposed skin to do some real damage. She fell back, heavy on to her heels. “How was it?”

“Final,” Dean said after stopping to consider an appropriate description for an assassination.

Chloe finally saw him, torn between shadow and shame. “I was scared you’d—"

“Yeah, well. I did.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hulking as he considered her concern.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” CC swallowed more air, the fear and electricity making her lightheaded. She moved to rest her hand on her knife handle, but it slid over the missing weapon. Her oversized sweatshirt sleeve covering her hand as it dangled in unfulfilled habit.

“How you doin’ Cease?”

“What?”

“How are you?” Dean said each word with a step forward, head bowing as he watched her straighten to face him.

“Uh, pretty crabby, but okay, I guess.”

Dean hummed, eyes squinting as she nervously looked to the door and back to space between their feet. “Anything I can help you out with?”

She blushed, a warmth twisting around her eyes and an awkward smile pulled at her cheeks as she centered her ponytail, giving her itching hands something to hold on to. “Dean?”

“Chloe?” Dean’s eyes darkened, the dangerous smirk pulling far enough back to let the overhead lights glint on his impossible teeth. He was gaunt and sallow; yet power continued to radiate from all over him.

“How are you looking at me like that,” she whispered in disbelief, pulling her top lower over her wide hips. “I am disgusting right now.”

“Yeah, well, compared to my butchered mug; you’re as tantalizing as ever, Cease. Besides, I could use a distraction or two, however dirty they might be.” Dean’s voice dropped another octave, an invisible fist clenched inside her. She groaned, letting her head fall in indecision. Dean closed the distance between them, big hands taking her shoulders firmly as he leaned down, earning a grin as she found his eyes suddenly playful beneath lush lashes.

“Seriously, I’m gross.”

“Not to me you’re not,” Dean purred, wide thumb stroking her strong cheek bone. “Let me make you less crabby.” CC’s head rolled to the side; her nose nuzzled into his comforting stubble.

At long last, she caved, her spiced skin slipping beneath his cracked lips as they danced over her collar bone. Dean’s entire body hummed with a need nearly as wide as the void inside him. They collided, grabbing and shoving until Dean started to wonder who was truly strongest. Then CC nipped below his ear and he tossed her on top of the washing machine she had set to HOT. She pinched her knees together, twisting side saddle on the hissing appliance, lips parting as Dean’s tongue took its time riling her up from the inside out.

Dean’s hands widened, tips and palms digging into her fleshy thighs, begging access until he demanded it. She groaned into his mouth before pulling back, her uncertainty crumbled beneath his singular focus. She tasted the iron from his split lip, a bit of coffee and something unimaginable. Even bad decisions need to be made to prove their consequence. Chloe grabbed Dean’s forearms and pushed him back, his gaze slow to move up from his target.

“Shower room?” she asked hopping back down on her bare feet.

Dean barely shook his head, nose buried in her hair. Her arms threaded around his waist as his thumb cocked up her face, his fingers threading into the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

“My room? It’s farthest from Sam’s?” Dean answered with clashing teeth and a fistful of Chloe’s ass.

There was a threatening rhythm to their efforts, hefty pauses ending only after the other started to teeter; to break. They had gotten to CC’s room, clothes shoved and forgotten along the way to the bed. Dean grasped the nape of her neck, his arm locked as he stared through her, eyes unfocused and mouth open against a horror she couldn’t see. She tried to pull him closer, to sit back and take him with her, but he was frozen. She slid her palm under his elbow and pushed up, her other arm braced across his chest to keep him back, in case his reaction was less than friendly.

His jaw worked over all the words that wouldn’t form, eyes dropping closed as he came back from the brink, grip softening as his forehead fell to her shoulder. CC couldn’t stop from shaking as the moment passed, Dean’s mouth finding her pulse point more than conversational again. All that hovered over them: fear, power, destiny and damnation, fueled them until they were desperate and starving, knowing that the other was just as empty. Just as wanton. Dean’s hands pulled her thighs apart and his teeth ran the edge of the faded cotton. The iron sang through his nose as it mixed with her arousal; a signature cocktail he couldn’t refuse.

CC swallowed as his fingers dragged down the last barrier between his mouth and her coated folds. No sound could reach her as she battled the disgust and desire, Dean’s tongue threaded through her lips, nipping and sucking them swollen. He moved in to circle her clit; the heat of her shame began to burn away as yearning eclipsed all custom and ceremony. CC’s head fell back, and when she closed her eyes knots of wood looked back.

Suddenly she was suspended from her every nerve, tucked away from feeling Dean shove three fingers inside her mess. In a bubble of warmth and muffled sound, CC drifted. It was calm and quiet there, a place without resistance or time. She began to wonder if this is what Death felt like, if the veil could manifest itself to tease her. To coax her immortality from her by sheer tranquility. There was something pulling at the back of her thoughts, something she was forgetting, something that demanded her opposition even, but CC couldn’t be bothered to think on that. Not quite yet.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s lost her, he just keeps finger fucking her until the thinning blood is snaking down his arm. His lips pull at her, thirst crazed and blind. The beat inside his head overtakes her pulse, heavy and languid, building. Her breath catches and he feels the gentle trickle, a silent compliment for his efforts. Her body pulls while he pushes, deeper, solid, unmoving as the shuttering of her walls loosen outward in waves.

Dean pulls his hand back and admires it in the light, rust rimmed nails and ruddied knuckles as the skin cools beneath the liquid as it dries and cracks. It’s not enough. His eyes search the desk and dresser, knowing it must be here, somewhere. He isn’t thinking, he is only moving. The battered leather sheath lays across her boots, handle smooth and solid as he grips it in his right hand. It’s smaller than he thought, but the spellworked blade dazzles as Dean pulls it from its case.

She hasn’t moved safe for her chest rising and eyes scrunched against the ceiling. Dean should know that isn’t a good sign, but either he doesn’t register it, or he doesn’t care. He moves to her side, where he can feel her curves against him, her lungs expand as he lets his weight fall against her. Her head lulls to the side and a soft whimper passes her lips as he slides home, blood thick and gritty along every inch of him. Dean almost cums at the sight of the gore he pulls out of CC’s channel. He pushes back in, shoving her knees obscenely against the comforter, letting every ripple of her thighs and ass urge him on.

CC feels the first slice between her breasts. Like a tuft of hair caught in a necklace she is pulled from her weightlessness and placed back in reality. The sweat stings her skin as it opens, her granddad’s knife dangles above her as Dean catches her eye. He thrusts into her with clenched teeth, eyes dark and muscles constricting as he shifts lower. Her legs lock around his waist as he stands, still buried inside her. She tries to sit, but his free hand pushes her back down, rough palm burning against the mangled flesh.

He grunts and gasps, and CC finally sees it, the terror in his eyes. He’s frozen once more. The knife is shaking in his hand, a not so invisible force extending over his forearm. CC needs to do something; Dean’s panicking as his body moves without him. She rolls her hips and threads her fingers around his wrist. Dean’s eyes go wide as she sinks the metal beneath her ribs. She shushes him, nodding and rocking into his body. Dean looks away and moves again, entering her doubly as the Mark takes her offering to free him. She tries to keep breathing, to stay conscious and keep watch on Dean.

Her hand slips up from his wrist and over the cursed brand in his white skin. She focuses on it, stomping on the tendrils of control with her mind; it remains immobile and unnerving. She feels the darkness pulling at her, trying to put her under, to stow her away. Dean’s face falls to her neck, he pulls the knife from her side, leaving jarring pain shooting through her as the wound registers. Dean cries out, clutching her head to his, arms tight and knife falling.

CC thrashes against him, breaking through with a fist through his near headlock; they roll back, clinging to each other like a life raft. His scruff prickles her throat and CC coughs, breaking the stalemate. They pull apart, limbs and groins untangling in guilt riddled silence. Dean clears his throat and sits up, hand hovering over her wounds. He’s mesmerized and apologetic, biting back any sorry when CC inhales against the pain. She waves him off and pops up onto her elbows. Her eyes take in the damage and she frowns in consideration before closing her eyes.

“Cease?” Dean whines a worry as her skin starts to glow.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine, just, uh, just gimme a sec.” CC wills the walls of her organs to fuse, her muscles knit together, and the skin zips closed and clean before Dean’s eyes. She pants from effort and falls back to the bed, a gentle smile twisting on her face before she opens her eyes. Dean’s are like saucers, his slack jawed expression made worse by the patches of blood and slick crusted in his scruff. All CC can think is how his mix of scary and stoned is causing her heart to catch in her throat.

“Hey?” CC whispers, slipping her hand over his, despite the nausea that was creeping back up. “You good?”

Dean lets her question sit unanswered, floating in the space between his guilty hands and her enabling eyes. The world seemed to tilt before he falls into the damp darkness of unconsciousness.

^*^*^*^

Dean woke to the sound of his own screams, his fist jutting up into some unseen enemy. He swung against her as CC tried to pull him back, her hand cool on his left bicep. He smelled soap and felt damp pillows; he couldn’t remember showering. Finally, the room righted itself and he could piece together what little furniture she had accumulated since they’d been brought back to the Bunker. Since the demon inside her had helped Sam cure him. He spotted her empty boots and the images of her knife in his grip flashed in his mind’s eye; his stomach twisted against the memories he forced himself to swallow.

           CC let him work through it, she was sore and exhausted and couldn’t find the words that would bring him back from the brick wall he kept running himself into. His recoil from her every touch set up her haunches as it was, maybe she should have dragged him to his own bed after all. Having him here felt like they were hiding, but the only person she felt any guilt for was no longer in this phase of existence.

He whispered a desperate ‘fuck’ into the early morning quiet. Finding his undershirt; he ducked into the neck before turning to face CC. Whatever he was hoping to find in her face, it wasn’t there. Her tired eyes were set deep atop her full cheeks, her uncertainty and caution bordering on annoyance.

“What?” Her voice warbled.

“Forget it.” Dean closed his eyes as her hand snaked over the sheets to cage his in. “I’m sorry I woke you up, I’ma head back to my room, let you get some rest.”

“Dean? You don’t have to—” She didn’t even try to sell it.

“I know, but, I just keep going through the thing with Cain and, you need to recuperate now, so.” Dean shrugged, left a peck on her forehead and threw on the rest of his clothes before either said another word. Once he was free to the safety of the empty hallway Dean shivered, his bare feet and wet head oddly comforting in the confines of his body and bones.

CC watched him leave, quick and painlessly. There was so much lacking between them that it didn’t even register as a rejection; they were simply saying what they thought the other wanted to hear. They were quite the lop-sided pair: the cursed hunter and Heaven’s bastard’s mistake. Both broken, in very different directions.

*^*^*^*

Next Chapter: The Mark

#known series #moc!dean #dean winchester fanfic #dark fic #dean x female vessel oc #dean x reader #dean x demon!reader #moc!dean x reader #dub!con #dean winchester smut #spn fanfic series #spn dark fanfic #blood #period sex #stabbing #the tense change was left in to promote immediency #i dont think thats a word #oops not sorry

[justlookfrightened]

The Morning After, Part III

AN: This got way longer than the first two parts (because I have no self-control). It also alternates POV. 

Now posted to AO3 

Not beta’d, so yell if I need to fix something.

Read Part I and Part II

Bitty sung the praises of almond milk to his eight students in the community center cooking class. Today’s lesson was chicken pot pie. Bitty’s set-up had twice the amount of chicken, for added protein when he fed it to Jack later.

“The almond milk makes the sauce really creamy, with hardly any calories, at least compared to using cream,” he said. “So let’s start by browning our vegetables. The mushrooms are gonna take the longest, so let’s add those.”

He watched as his students -- two pairs of women and two male-female couples -- found their dishes of cremini mushrooms and added them to the hot pans. Then they added carrots and celery, seasonings and a little flour.

“Now, y’all can add other vegetables if you like,” Bitty said, as he stirred the contents of his own pan. “I know some use potatoes, although I find that a bit heavy. We’re going with some pretty basic seasonings here too, so feel free to experiment. Now we add the almond milk, a little at a time, and scrape up the brown bits. Once it starts to thicken, you’re going to add the cooked chicken, the onions, the peas and some thyme. Or you could use tarragon.”

He added his ingredients, then said, “Now take those pie plates you got ready and pour the filling in. Once you’ve done that, go to the fridge and get the disk of pastry dough that has your name on it. We’re not doing anything fancy here -- just roll it in a circle big enough to drape over your pie. We’re going to use some egg wash to seal it to the edges of the pan like so.”

He watched the class do as he said, while he left his own filling in the Dutch oven.

“All right, everyone ready? Let’s pop those in the ovens for about 25 minutes, which should give us enough time to clean up, talk about variations, and answer any questions.”

When the scraps were cleared away, the prep dishes washed, the shelf-stable supplies returned to the cooking classroom pantry, Bitty passed out sheets with the original recipe he used, plus ideas for different vegetables and seasonings.

“All right, any questions?”

Jean raised her hand.

“Why didn’t you finish your pie off?” she asked. “You usually finish all the steps so we know what it should look like.”

“This is a dish that you should eat right away, while it’s still hot,” Bitty said. “All of you can take your pies as soon as they come out, and they should be about ready to cut into when you walk into your kitchen if it takes you 15 or 20 minutes to get home. And I know all y’all have been taking what we make to have for dinner after classes, so I figured it would work out. I’ll take the filling I made and save it for when I have someone to share it with. The filling can keep in the fridge for about three days, or in the freezer for a couple of months. But you want to put the crust on just before it goes in the oven so it doesn’t get soggy.”

Jean’s sister Judy raised her hand.

“Yes, Judy?”

“So you don’t have anyone to eat with? That’s just sad. We could eat here with you if you want.”

“Aww, thanks,” Bitty said. “But I have things to do tonight. It’s just that I live alone. I was counting on making this for a friend later anyway. But you’re sweet to think of me.”

“A friend?” Jean asked. “What kind of a friend?”

“The kind I said I would make dinner for, because, in case you hadn’t noticed, I like to cook, and some people think I’m good at it,” Bitty said, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

This class had only two weeks left, and the students in it had gotten to know Bitty well enough to know he didn’t have a boyfriend. Jean and Judy in particular had taken an interest -- maybe because they were looking for boyfriends as well.

As soon as the students left, Bitty fastened the lid on his Dutch oven full of filling with a couple of bungee cords. He got his own pie dough from the cooler, along with his bag of salad ingredients and fruit. He’d left a loaf of bread in his car. Then he changed into a clean blue button down with a red bow tie.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what Jack thought of this … whatever it was. But for Bitty, it wasn’t a booty call. Friends with benefits … maybe that was the best way to think of it for now, even though he and Jack had hardly been friends until earlier this week. But Bitty wanted it to be a date, so he was going to dress like it.

Most first dates didn’t include an open invitation to breakfast. Even if Bitty had done the inviting … inviting himself to make breakfast in Jack’s apartment. His mama,he thought, would not be pleased.

But cooking was what he could do to impress. It wasn’t like he had the kind of money it would take to wine and dine a professional athlete. Paying for dinner at a five-star restaurant? Not gonna happen, not unless he saved up for weeks.

Satisfied that he was as ready as he would ever be, Bitty texted Jack.

Heading your way. I’ll be there in about 20.

The return text came before he got to his car.

Looking forward to it. Anything I can get ready for you?

Bitty texted back, Nope. I think I have everything. Just make sure the counters and oven are clear.

********************************************

Jack glanced around the kitchen after he got Bitty’s text. The counters were clean, and Jack knew the oven was empty. He’d left it that way after he heated up some frozen chicken tenders for lunch.

Jack went back into the bedroom to look in the mirror again. He hoped he looked okay. He would have loved to ask Tater, or even Marty, what to wear to host a date in his home. He didn’t feel like athletic pants and a T-shirt -- what he usually wore around the house -- would be enough, but clearly a suit would be equally inappropriate. He didn’t have a whole lot in between, but he could cobble together something with dress pants from a suit and a button-down, or go less formal with a pair of the tailored jeans Tater insisted he buy and maybe a polo shirt. But that felt too casual.

He decided to split the difference, wearing  the jeans with a dark T-shirt and a pale grey button-down, left unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up. His mother said the color brought out his eyes.

Then he glanced at the bed, made with the soft gray sheets he liked. The ones his mother bought him. In the color she said brought out his eyes. Oh. Well, he wasn’t going to think about that. And if Bitty noticed that his shirt matched his sheets -- at least he’d be in a position to notice the sheets. Jack could take a little chirping if it meant Bitty was in his bed.

Not that Jack would be angry if Bitty didn’t stay. Jack wanted him to, very much, but he had to make sure Bitty didn’t feel pressured to sleep with him. He thought they were on the same page -- they had been the time before -- but Bitty was allowed to change his mind. Crisse, how did people do this? This was why Jack’s sexual encounters for the last few years had been few and far between, and brief, no-strings hookups at that. It had been ages since he tried to do this with someone he wanted to keep seeing.

He hoped Bitty knew what he was doing.

At least Bitty seemed to know what he was doing with food. He hadn’t told Jack what he would make for dinner, but he had asked for general outlines of Jack’s nutrition plan and said he could make something that would fit.

Jack’s phone buzzed and he picked it up. It was the doorman announcing Bitty’s arrival.

“Send him up,” Jack said, and went to open the door to the apartment.

When Bitty stepped off the elevator, Jack’s first thought was that he was glad he’d gone for button-down instead of just a polo shirt, since Bitty had a tie (a bow tie!) on. His next thought was to dart forward to try to relieve Bitty of some of what he was carrying: tote bags in each hand, with a messenger bag slung over his back.

“It’s alright,” Bitty said, making his way towards Jack’s open door. “I’m balanced this way.”

Bitty went straight to the kitchen and put the tote bags on the counter before pulling the strap of the messenger bag over his head.

“Should I put this in the bedroom?” he asked.

********************************************

Bitty wondered if he had been too forward as soon as the words left his mouth. What if this was just dinner? Sure, they’d talked (flirted) about breakfast, but maybe Jack didn’t mean it. Jack had a game tomorrow night. Maybe he didn’t want Bitty to stay. Bitty could live with that, even if it wasn’t his preference.

The relieved smile that broke across Jack’s face reassured Bitty, and when Jack reached for the bag and said, “I’ll take it. I’ll be right back to help,” Bitty couldn’t help returning the grin.

Bitty watched him head down the hall then turned back to the kitchen, setting the oven to preheat and pulling the food and his dishes from the bags.

The way those jeans hugged Jack's backside … It was shaping up to be a very good night.

When Jack came back, Bitty handed him the pie plate and said, “I know you have cooking spray around here somewhere.”

He scattered flour over the countertop and unwrapped his disk of pastry dough. He floured the rolling pin and started rolling the dough out, applying even pressure, moving from the center to the edges, occasionally loosening the crust when it started to stick to the surface.

“Pour the filling in the pie pan,” Bitty instructed Jack, “and put the Dutch oven in the sink. Then can you get me an egg from the fridge?”

Bitty watched Jack as he moved around the kitchen. He looked comfortable, Bitty thought, like he could feed himself competently, even if he didn’t seem to know how to make his meals more flavorful.

Bitty draped the crust over the top of the pie plate and brushed on the egg wash before sliding the pan into the oven.

As soon as the door closed, Bitty moved to clean the flour off the counter.

“I can do that,” Jack said, suddenly behind Bitty. “It seems like you’re doing all the work.”

“I did say I’d make you dinner,” Bitty said, turning to face Jack.

“I want to help,” Jack said.

“Fine,” Bitty said, patting Jack lightly on the chest. Lord, that chest. It was huge, and hard -- a testament to Jack’s workout regimen. “I’ll put the salad together while you wash the prep dishes. Less to clean after dinner, then.”

Bitty noticed the way Jack’s cheeks flushed at that. Bitty was looking forward to after dinner, too.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, until Bitty asked Jack where he wanted to eat.

“We could set the table,” he said. “Of just eat in front of the TV.”

“Let’s eat at the table,” Jack said. “Like a real date.”

********************************************

Of course it was like a real date, Jack chided himself, because of the simple fact that it was a real date.

Bitty didn’t chirp him about that, just nodding and saying, “That will be nice. Where are the plates?”

“I’ll set the table,” Jack said.

As soon as they sat down, Bitty said, “I think I promised to tell you all about my brief hockey career.”

“Not that brief,” Jack said. “You went to the Frozen Four when you were a senior.”

“You looked me up?”

“After you said you played in college,” Jack said. “I knew you went to Samwell, and I remembered watching one of those games. My mother went there, so when Marty had your game on one night when we were on a roadie, I watched. I went back and found it again. You were really fast.”

“Still am pretty fast, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty said.

“Your goalie -- Chow -- he’s in Seattle now?”

“As their backup,” Bitty said. “He was already under contract then.”

“Anyone else go pro? You had a couple of really good D-men,” Jack said.

“One of them is in the AHL,” Bitty said. “But most people were there for the education, not the hockey scouts.”

Jack didn’t say that when he’d watched the game a couple of years ago, he’d noticed Bitty -- not by name, just as the small, speedy center -- but immediately discounted him because of his size. There wasn’t any real chance that number 15 would become an NHL teammate or competitor, so Jack had focused on other players. When he’d found video of the game today, he’d watched Bitty the whole time. Jack realized he’d been wrong -- Bitty could have played pro. He might not have the size most NHL players had, but he was that good.

“Did you ever think of going pro?” Jack asked.

“Me?” Bitty said. “Lord, no. I mean, I’m not that small -- I’m average-sized -- but all you professional hockey players are like two of me. And gay too? No one would want me.”

“You were out then?”

Bitty nodded. “That’s one of the main reasons I picked Samwell. I had to get out of Georgia if it killed me. Even if the thought of being checked terrified me. Still does, honestly, so as much as I loved hockey, it was never a long-term plan.”

While Bitty was talking, Jack took a bite of his chicken pot pie. “This is delicious,” he said.

“Tell me about you,” Bitty said.

“Hockey was always my long-term plan,” Jack deadpanned.

“I believe you,” Bitty said. “Didn’t your dad play, too?”

“You could say that,” Jack said.

“Must have been a lot of pressure on you.”

Jack nodded. “It wasn’t always easy for me, even though a lot of people thought it should be,” he said. “And I’ve had anxiety since I was a teenager, too, so I had a lot of trouble around the time I was supposed to be drafted.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bitty said. “I didn’t really follow hockey at all until I was almost in college. But you ended up in the league anyway?”

“I got drafted the next year,” Jack said. “I’ve been in Providence ever since.”

********************************************

Bitty took a swallow of his water and considered how to ask his next question. He understood why Jack wasn’t out, understood it in his very bones. But Jack had flirted with him in the coffee shop, wasn’t upset that his building concierge found Eric in his apartment, invited him to come back the first day he was home.

“I don’t want to kill the mood,” he said, laying his hand next to Jack’s on the table. “Or put any pressure on you, so there’s no wrong answer here. But does anyone know that you’re … not straight?”

“Bisexual,” Jack filled in. “And a few people know. My parents, my therapist -- you know, the people you can’t really lie to.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Bitty said. “I didn’t come out to my parents until after I left Georgia.”

“Anyway, besides them, the Falconers’ AGM knows,” Jack continued. “And my ex. But that was from back before I came into the league.”

“Only one ex?”

“Only one relationship with a guy,” Jack said. “I’ve had a few one-night things over the years, but, well, they usually didn’t know who I was.”

Jack looked embarrassed, and that hadn’t been Bitty’s intent at all.

“At least you didn’t get your first hand job in a frat house bathroom with a hundred people drinking and dancing about six feet away,” Bitty said, hoping that would alleviate Jack’s self-consciousness.

“I did skip that college life,” Jack said. 

“It probably wasn’t everything you’re imagining,” Bitty said. “At least, not for me. Believe me, that wasn’t a frequent occurrence. I’ve only had one real boyfriend. I moved down here to be with him after I graduated, but it didn’t last.”

Bitty shrugged. “I always hoped there was something better coming along.”

“You probably have lots of guys after you, though.”

“And it’s amazing how few of them I want to spend time with,” Bitty said. ”I guess I’m just picky.”

***********************

“I guess I’m lucky then,” Jack said, moving his hand over Bitty’s. Here they were, holding hands. Should it be this much of a thrill?.

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Bitty said. “Well, maybe the luck of the gene pool. You’re one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever seen.”

Bitty took a moment to take another bite, and said, “And it turns out you’re secretly pretty wonderful after all. I mean, I’ve known what you look like for more ‘n a year, but I wouldn’t have gone home with you if I didn’t like you.”

Jack was aware of the compliment, aware he should say something nice about Bitty, or at least say thank you, but he was fixated on the way Bitty’s cheeks pinked when he got flustered. It had started when he said Jack was beautiful and only deepened when Bitty acknowledged that liked him.

“I like you too,” Jack finally said, giving Bitty’s hand a squeeze before he released it. “And if you like me, I am lucky.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, then Bitty said, “Can I ask what this is that we’re doing? If you can’t be out? Because I really can’t go back in the closet. Even if I wanted to, pretty much everyone who knows me here in Providence knows I’m gay.”

“Even if you could, I wouldn’t ask that,” Jack said. “And I don’t think it would be fair to ask you not to see anyone else --”

“It’s not like I’ve been seeing anyone else,” Bitty said. “Is that what we’re doing? Seeing each other? Dating? Or do you see this as a more casual thing?”

“I don’t think I know how to do casual,” Jack said. “I mean, I’ve had a couple of casual relationships with women, but I didn’t really care about them. The relationships, I mean. Not the women. They were great, and they deserved to move on and find someone who would fall in love with them.”

“What about the guy, the one you called your ex?”

“I thought it was just physical. We were kids -- literally teenagers -- and I didn’t think it meant anything until it ended,” Jack said. “He was … he was really hurt, for a long time. I didn’t feel anything for a while -- wait, have you Googled me?”

“Um, no?” Bitty said. “Should I have?”

“It might make it easier,” Jack said. “When I was 18, I overdosed on anxiety meds, helped along by a beer or six. I missed the draft that year, and even though I survived, I thought my life was over. That was also when things ended with my ex.”

“Wow,” Bitty said. “It must have been so tough to come back and play. You’re incredibly brave, you know that?”

“Not really,” Jack said. “I just didn’t have a plan B, so I had to make plan A work, so I gave it 110 percent and I was able to persuade the Falcs to take a chance on me. And what about you? You’re brave too. You said you had to get out of Georgia, so you did, even if it meant playing a sport that scared you.”

“Not the whole sport,” Bitty said. “Just checking.”

“That’s a big part of it, bud.”

“No kidding,” Bitty said. “Two of my former captains said I was like a fainting goat. They kept saying they wanted to make a play out of me collapsing.”

Jack frowned.

“That wasn’t right,” he said. “They should have helped you.”

“They did, in their way,” Bitty said. “They helped get me used to the idea that I could get hit, and it wouldn’t hurt, much, or if it did, it wouldn’t do real damage, probably. And it would have been worse if they didn’t chirp me for it -- it would have been like this big hairy thing we couldn’t talk about, y’know?”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “Did you get professional help too?”

“Yeah, the coaches made me go,” Bitty said. “It was weird -- I felt like I couldn’t tell my parents, but I ended up talking about them a lot. Between that and Ransom and Holster’s practice sessions, I learned to tolerate it, but I never liked it. Anyway, changing the subject back, I’m getting the impression you want us to date?”

“I want to,” Jack said. “But I can’t be your boyfriend in public, at least not yet.”

What a way to kill the mood. But Bitty deserved to know what he was getting into. What he might be getting into. If he wanted.

“But you can in private?” Bitty asked. “I mean, like you could tell your family at least?”

“My family. I could tell some of my teammates probably. They’re good guys and I trust them,” Jack said. “If you wanted to tell your family, any friends you really trust …”

“You know it’s harder to keep a secret the more people know,” Bitty said. “And I understand why you need to keep it quiet. I wouldn’t want opposing teams targeting you any more than they already do.”

Jack nodded. He’d thought the same thing. But Bitty was right -- if upwards of a dozen people knew he was dating Bitty, how long would it remain a secret?

“It wouldn’t have to be a secret forever,” Jack said.

********************************************

Bitty put down his fork and looked Jack. Did he know what he’d just said? This was their second real conversation, besides a few days of flirty texts and a few months of testy exchanges on the ice. And one really good night in the bedroom just down the hall.

“LIsten to you talking about forever,” Bitty said. “Tell you what -- let’s just try this for now, just us, and anyone you think should know. Everyone already knows I’m gay, so I’m not worried about it. If I think I need to tell someone, I’ll talk to you first.”

“It might not be as easy for you as you think if I get outed,” Jack said. “The press can be vultures, and they’ll be all over you because of me.”

“And my YouTube views will go through the roof,” Bitty said. “I won’t have 210 pounds of defenseman trying to put my head through the glass.”

“I’m serious,” Jack said.

“So am I,” Bitty said. “I know there are risks here for both of us, and I know the risks are bigger for you. But I do really like you, and I’m immensely attracted to you, and I’ve been waiting for days to see if those sheets of yours are as soft as I remember.”

The cheesiness of the line was worth it for the way Jack ducked his head and blushed.

“I'm sorry,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to get so serious. Not good at casual, remember? If all you want is a bit of fun --"

Bitty shook his head. “I think I already said I'm up to give it a try, if you are.”

Bitty stood and picked up his plate.

“You cooked,” Jack said. “Let me do dishes?”

“Sure,” Bitty said. “If I can come keep you company.”

Jack winced.

“Speaking of company …”

********************************************

How had he not been able to wave Tater off for breakfast? He loved Tater, he really did, but sometimes his enthusiasm was overwhelming. And when he had mentioned breakfast with a friend to talk about the campaign to add a sheet of ice to the community rink, Tater was all over it. Whether because he didn’t really believe Jack had a friend the team didn’t already know or because he wanted to lend his (formiddable) support to the campaign, Jack wasn’t sure.

“Speaking of company, Tater will be here for breakfast, too, if that’s okay,” Jack said, cringing at the thought. It wouldn’t be okay. Who allowed a (loud, obnoxious) teammate to crash a date?

“Tater?” Bitty said.

“Mashkov. Alexei.”

“I’m aware,” Bitty said. “But does he … did you tell him ...”

“He saw me texting and asked about it, and I said I was arranging breakfast with a friend to work on the rink campaign,” Jack said. “He kind of invited himself.”

“To your apartment?”

Jack nodded. “I know. I can call him and tell him it’s off. But he was so excited to meet my figure-skater friend. Apparently his mother was a figure-skating star in Russia.”

“What time is he coming?” Bitty asked.

“8:30?” Jack said, opening the dishwasher and rinsing the plates. “I suppose I could change the time.”

“What time do you usually get up on game days?” Bitty asked, packing the rolling pin and Dutch oven back in his tote bag.

“Not too early. About 7,” Jack said, thinking that sounded better than 6:55, which was when he always got up on game days. “I usually go for a light run, but I don’t have to.”

“Well, if you don’t sneak out before I’m up, maybe we can find another way to get you some exercise, and still be presentable by the time Alexei Mashkov gets here,” Bitty said. “Lord, I can’t believe I just said that.”

Jack closed the dishwasher and turned it on before moving in front of Bitty, boxing him in against the counter.

“Are you telling me you have a thing for Mashkov?” Jack said.

Bitty looked up at him, eyes huge, bottom lip caught in his teeth, and said, “Maybe. If you don’t kiss me in the next three seconds.”

“Won’t take that long,” Jack said.

********************************************

Bitty let his body press into Jack’s when Jack leaned down to kiss him. He felt himself sigh into the kiss, twining his arms around Jack’s neck to help him reach Jack’s mouth.

Jack took his time kissing Bitty, offering a kiss that was more a promise than anything. When Bitty opened his mouth to Jack, Jack didn’t plunge in. Instead, his tongue flicked just at the inside of Bitty’s lips and the tip of his tongue, drawing Bitty’s tongue to chase his into Jack’s mouth.

When they broke apart, Jack breathed into Bitty’s hair and murmured, “You still thinking about Tater?”

“Who?” Bitty asked, and giggled. “You know I only have eyes for you.”

“I do now,” Jack said. It was almost a growl, and then he reached down to cup Bitty’s bottom through his slacks and pulling him even closer. Bitty loved the feel of Jack, the way he was big enough to surround Bitty, the solidity of him, the power that was contained in his muscles and the gentleness of his touch. The hardness of his erection pressing into Bitty’s belly was pretty impressive, too.

“Jack,” Bitty gasped. “Can we go to the bedroom?”

In response, Jack lifted him again.

Bitty laughed. “You don’t have to carry me every time.”

“Can’t have you getting lost on the way,” Jack said.

He dropped Bitty gently on the bed, then crawled next to him and brought his hand to Bitty’s bow tie.

“Can I take this off?” he said. “When you walked in with that on, I thought you were wrapped up like a present.”

Bitty tilted his head back to give Jack more room, then said, “And I thought you dressed to show off your arms and your ass. It worked.”

“And my eyes,” Jack said, working on the buttons of Bitty’s shirt. “Maman says this color brings out my eyes.”

Bitty used his fingers to tilt Jack’s chin up. “Mmm. You have beautiful eyes.”

This man. This man who had a body Sports Illustrated would love, who picked out a shirt his mother liked to impress Bitty. Bitty, of all people!

It was way too soon and would probably be way too messy, but Bitty was in love, at least a little bit.

Bitty kissed Jack and watched those gorgeous eyes fall closed.

********************************************

Jack marveled at the difference between kissing Bitty and being kissed by Bitty. They were both wonderful, near magical in the way they focused Jack’s mind on the man in front of him, and his body, and the way Jack’s body reacted to his body.

Kissing Bitty … it felt like Jack was communicating intent; intent to care for Bitty, to make him feel good (because Bitty felt so good to Jack); to learn Bitty -- all the dips and curves and tastes of him, the form and the motion and the chemical makeup of him -- so he could keep that knowledge within him. To cherish him.

Crisse, it was definitely far too early for that.

Kissing Bitty was fun, and it was amazing when Jack could draw those sounds from Bitty’s throat. 

But being kissed by Bitty … it was being wanted, even after the awkward conversations at dinner, even after being an asshole about ice time. It was affection and appreciation and generosity. Bitty wanted to give this to Jack, this moment (these moments stretching out) of being cherished, of being treasured. Not for what he could do on the ice, not for what he could buy, but because Bitty somehow saw him -- all of him. Jack knew Bitty appreciated his body -- he could feel it -- but he also listened to Jack, and understood that there was something behind the walls Jack built up to keep the world at bay.

When Bitty kissed him, Jack felt all that want and affection and care (and love? Maybe eventually?) in the press of Bittle’s lips, in the heat of his mouth and caress of his tongue.

Jack groaned and shifted them, pulling Bitty into his arms and lying with him on the bed.

The best, Jack thought, was this, when they were kissing each other, the give-and-take of pleasure upon pleasure. Jack’s hands roamed across Bitty’s back, under the loosened shirt, and over the swell of his ass, which was still lamentably clothed. He let his own head fall back as Bitty pulled down the neck of his T-shirt to kiss across his collarbone.

Bitty pulled back, panting a little, and Jack couldn’t help his grin at the way Bitty looked, hair all in disarray, lips a little swollen and red, eyes huge and warm.

“This would probably be easier,” Bitty said, “if we were wearing less clothes.”

**************************************

“Hello, hello, hello,” Tater boomed, as he pushed open the door Jack had left ajar when the doorman called to announce Tater was on his way up. “Smells so good  in here. I was going to say we should meet at restaurant, but ...”

“Yeah, Bitty cooked,” Jack said, setting the plates and bowl of muffins on the table. “He likes to do that.”

They rounded the corner to the kitchen, where Bitty was pouring an egg mixture over vegetables in a skillet.

“Bitty, this is Tater. Tater, Eric Bittle. He teaches figure skating and does some private coaching at  the rink. He also cooks.”

“Bitty,” Tater said seriously, extending hand. “You know I am not like other hockey players, yes? I like figure skaters. My mother was a famous figure skater and she made me do both. You understand? I know you figure skaters need time on the ice too, so if Jack is be difficult, you come to me, yes?”

Bitty’s face was pink and his eyes danced as he said, “I never would have taken you for a figure skater, but it’s nice to have an ally. Don’t worry, though. I think Jack and I have an understanding.

“More ice is better for everyone, eh?” Jack said from behind Tater, wishing he could place himself at Bitty’s side without noticeably pushing past his teammate.

“You must get here early to make breakfast,” Tater was saying. “You didn’t have to.”

“After years of 4 a.m. Russian calisthenics with my coach, it was nothing,” Bitty said, neatly stepping around Tater to get to the cups in the cabinet next to Jack. “Coffee?”

#omgcp #omg check please #zimbits #my fic #morning after

[ellanainthetardis]

prompt: Effie finds out that haymitch has a hidden talent ( something sooo random like playing an instrument or knowing stuff about make up or being good at a sport or motorcycles or something )

Here you go {X]

The Handyman

Effie had been staying in Twelve for about twoweeks when she heard the hammer for the first time.

She climbed out of her bed in Haymitch’s guestroom, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and grumbling under her breathabout freezing Districts, and walked to the window. Try as she might, shecouldn’t see where it was coming from. There wasn’t much rebuilding going on inthe Victors Village, people even tended to leave as soon as their old house wasfixed in town or in the Seam, and the sound couldn’t be coming from town wherethere was always a chaos of men shouting orders or warnings, hammering orsawing noises and perilous scaffoldings growing everywhere.

She shuffled down the corridor, peering intoHaymitch’s bedroom because it was still early – and even more so for him whohardly ever got up before late morning. It was empty. She stepped inside allthe same, to snatch warm woolen socks from the top of the dresser as well as apair of sweatpants that were far too big for her. She tied the knot at herwaist as tight as it would go, trying to remember during which Games she hadbought those pants for him and drawing a blank. She didn’t think he had everbothered buying clothes for himself, not since she had been there to provide agenerous amount of them when the Games had been in season, and some of hisbelongings were showing signs of wear.

She could look into that, she decided. It wouldbe something nice to surprise him with. Her budget was tight but she couldafford a couple of pants and shirts. She could always buy wool and knit thesocks and sweaters herself, it would save money and give her something to do.Yes, she could do that. It would make her feel a little less like she wasimposing and abusing Haymitch’s hospitality.

She folded the blanket she had been carryingand swapped it for the heavy blue dressing gown that had been abandoned on abare dressing table, knowing he wouldn’t mind. She kept an ear pricked for anynoise in the bathroom as she ran her hand on the slightly dusty wood of thetable.

It was a shame to see such a lovely piece offurniture go unused. Her perfumes, creams and make-up would have been right athome there.

But that was on her, wasn’t it? If she wantedto move into his room… Well, she wasn’t sure he would welcome her moving in his room but he wouldcertainly not mind her slipping in his bed for something more than clinging tohim after a nightmare. She tightened the dressing gown around her frail frame,giving a last sad look to the dressing table. She wasn’t ready for more. Notyet.

The hammering was still going on full swing. Inhis room, she could also hear the faint honking of displeased geese.

She hated the birds.

They were noisy, filthy and every time he letthem loose she was afraid one of them would bite her. He, on the other hand andwithout too much surprise on her part, doted on those awful monsters as if theywere adorable kittens. She wouldn’t have minded kittens. For that matters, shewouldn’t even have terribly minded puppies. But geese?

She approached the window and peered in thebackyard, her eyebrows shooting up when she spotted Haymitch kneeling insidethe pen, apparently busy putting wood planks together to build… Was that ageese house?

From the moment she had showed up, his smallgaggle had been kept in that pen. There had been a makeshift shelter in it aswell as water and food but it had all seemed a bit… Well. To be honest, the whole thing had been very ugly, clearlystanding together by a pure struck of luck. The makeshift shelter was completelygone now and in its place…

If she had slept through the building processand had woken up to find it already erected, she would have concluded Peeta haddone it and thought no more about it. It was actually impressive.

Haymitch was completely focused on his work.Aside from the hammer he sometimes placed down to check everything was holdingas it should, he had a measuring tape, a saw, things she didn’t know the namesof… All his tools were spread on the ground next to a metal box. He didn’t havea tool belt like most men in town liked to carry around the waist when theywere working but he didn’t seem to mind.

Effie watched him for a very long time. It was…soothing to watch him work. His moves were confident, there was no room forhesitation, and if he sometimes paused to think – rubbing his jaw or hisforehead – his indecision never lasted long and his actions only became morepurposeful.

After half an hour of what could only be calledstalking, she remembered herself and hurried downstairs to the kitchen to fix themsomething to eat.

The kitchen was in a state that had her pursingher lips. If she had liked order before, it was almost compulsive for her tokeep her environment neat nowadays.She needed everything to be clean,she needed everything to smell fresh –nothing like rot and decay, nothing like her cell – and she had more or lesstaken over the house on that front. The children always joked that they couldhave eaten on the floor in there and instead of taking offense, she took thatas a compliment.

Clearly, Haymitch had been up for hours.

There were crumbs on the table, eggs gatheredand abandoned in a basket on the counter, an uncorked bottle of moonshine nextto the sink, the pantry wasn’t closed properly, the bread box had been leftopen and an unwashed mug tainted with coffee at the bottom had been left in thesink.

She sighed, annoyed that he had never – andlikely never would – learned to pickup after himself. She started with what bothered her most and that was thecrumbs. Closing the pantry and the bread box, putting the cork back on thebottle and putting it away took only a minute. She left the mug to soak for nowand finally turned to the eggs, not quite sure what to do with them. Did heintend to sell them like he sometimes did or were they for them to eat? Heoften forgot to pick them up which ended with more goslings following himaround, mistaking him for their mother – which, admittedly, was a littlehilarious.

In the end, she put them in the fridge andturned on the coffee machine. She leaned against the sink while she waited, theview from there far much better than the one from his bedroom. She was closeenough to see the way he ran his hand on a plank before adding it to itsproject. He stroke that wood like he used to stroke her skin and it might havebeen stupid but at that very moment she was jealous of that plank because sheknew how warm and calloused his palm was, she knew how it felt to be touched,cajoled and loved by those hands.

Her lips were dry and she was so fascinated bythe idea that he actually seemed to like manual labor that she completelyforgot about her coffee. She yelped when it brimmed over and spent the nextfive minutes cleaning coffee from the otherwise gleaming counter with a pout.

She was thirty-six and she had spent ten yearshaving sex with him. One would think she would not get distracted like aridiculous schoolgirl with a crush anymore.

But one would apparently be wrong because thenext time she glanced through the window, he had taken off his shirt.

He knew she was watching, that was the onlypossible explanation for him being so stupid as to take off his shirt when hewas obviously sweaty and it was so cold. She almost knocked on the window,called whatever game he wanted to play off because she didn’t want him to besick, but then he stood up and stretched, his strong arms raised high towardthe grey sky hanging overhead and…

She took a sip of scalding coffee that didnothing for her parched mouth.

He wasn’t the most well in-shape man of his ageshe had seen. There was a small pouch of fat around his stomach and his chestwasn’t as firm as it used to be. Nothing about his body was as firm as it usedto be but damn it if his shouldersweren’t still as broad as she remembered them. He was naturally strong, thatwas his gift. And she didn’t mind the lack of abs that much. He was not fat by any reach. He was…

Attractive.

Handsome.

Hot.

Not playing fair because he knew she couldn’t resist him when he was all sweaty and naked. Not that he was entirelynaked but with the pale autumn sun falling on his broad chest it wasn’t verydifficult to imagine the rest. The strong thighs. The ass she loved to leavebite marks on just so he would remember her longer. Even his weird shaped toes…

He picked up his tools and tossed them back inthat box with deliberate slowness, making a show of it. The geese house actuallylooked really good now. It looked less like a shelter for strays and more likean actual pen. With a coat of paint, it could even be pretty.

She had a mug of steaming coffee waiting forhim on the table and she was pretending to smear butter on a toast, sitting atthe kitchen table, when he came back in. She glanced up, her eyes gliding overthe familiar swollen scar on his side, and up a tantalizing amount of tannedskin until she met his amused eyes.

“You shouldn’t be walking without a shirt inthat weather, Haymitch.” she deadpanned.

He placed the tool box on the counter – leavingdirt everywhere and making her inwardly cringe– and went to wash his hands as if nothing was amiss. She tried not to noticethe tracks his boots were leaving behind him. She tried. They were barely noticeable and she knew she was making ahuge deal over nothing.

“You seemed to like the view so much,sweetheart… Couldn’t disappoint.” he teased, turning around to lean against thecounter while he used the dishcloth to dry his hands. “Stealing my stuffagain?”

“It is cold.” she retorted petulantly.

“Yeah.” he sighed. “I’ve been putting that offfor months. With winter coming… The geese needed a proper shelter.”

She hadn’t asked but she hummed what could havepassed as an agreement. “I did not know you were such a handyman.”

“You’re the one who thinks she knows everythingabout me.” he snorted, sitting down in front of her to wrap his hands aroundhis mug of coffee.

She couldn’t help but stared at them.

She had been reminded of what those hands coulddo and now she was wondering if it would be as hard as she made it out to be tojust… let herself go. Her body wasn’twhat it used to be. It had aches and pains in different places still, shewasn’t beautiful any longer and she had scars to rival his own. She knew hewouldn’t see it that way, that all those flaws were in her own gaze and thatshe would most likely not find them in his. And she found she wanted him to look at her like somethingdesirable… But the idea of being naked in front of him, of exposing the marksof everything that had happened to her, of baring all those defects to hiseyes…

No, it was too much.

Soon, maybe, but not now.

Still… There was nothing wrong with flirting,was there? Flirting was nice. Flirting was something they had always been verygood at.

“You should get one of those tool belts.” shesuggested. “And maybe some tighter pants. Oh,and one of those white tank tops that don’t leave anything to the imaginationonce you start sweating.”

He smirked, mirth dancing in his eyes.“Enjoying your little fantasy?”

She laughed, propping her chin on her hand tobetter study him. “Why, yes actually. Do you know the window in my roomcreaks?”

“I’ll take a look at it.” he humored her.“Anything else I can help you with, ma’am?”

“Well, it depends…” she chuckled. “How skilledare you?”

He wriggled his eyebrows, leaning back in hischair. “Very skilled with my hands.”

“Perhaps I should have you build me somethingthen.” she teased. “I would not mind a few more shelves in my wardrobe.”

He shrugged. “Can do shelves.”

“Can you do trunks?” she asked. “They arealways useful.”

“Seems like a lot of work.” he pointed out,still smirking. “How are you going to repay me, Princess?”

“I would rather think about it as a reward.” she grinned. “And it is for meto know and you to find out.”

“Ominous.” he mocked.

“Maybe I will cook for once.” she suggested.

“Please, don’t.” he winced. “I can fix somestuff around the house but I cannot fix usa whole new house if you burn this one down.”

She pouted. “It was once and it was a very small fire.”

“No fire and no cooking for you.” he insisted,shaking his head. “I do the cooking, you do the cleaning. Works like that.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” she smiled, softening alittle.

If you had asked her months earlier, she wouldhave claimed the two of them living together would have been a disaster. It hadtaken some adjustment, of course, you didn’t go from being single for most ofyour adult life to living with someone in perfect harmony overnight. But theyhad found some balance after a few days of dancing around each other and now…Well, it was actually pretty good. They argued sometimes – although not a lotbecause he was wary of her panic attacks and was careful around her and she, onthe other hand, wasn’t really up to the kind of fights they used to share – butit hadn’t been as difficult as she had feared to find some sort of domesticity.

“Yeah.” he smiled back, relaxed like she hadn’tseen him in a long time – if ever. Haymitch was thriving in that new Panem. Hewas finally finding some peace, putting ghosts to rest. It was slow process,healing always was or so she had been told, but he was getting therenonetheless. “So you need to find another reward, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re so not cooking. Got a few ideas if youneed help figuring that out.” He let the innuendo hang in the air for a momentand she blushed a little, not entirely against the idea, already thinking ofways she could… repay him the way hewanted – and she wanted too – while not getting entirely naked for him. Heended the joke before she could cement the idea though, probably wary oftrapping her in something she didn’t want. “Got some shirts that could do withmending… I can sew a little but I hate it so…”

“You can sew?” she asked, now completely takenaback.

“Story for another time.” He rolled his eyes, hisface closing off in a way that told her it had to do with his past. More likelythan not either with his mother or his girlfriend. “You don’t have to but…”

“I will mend them.” she promised, happy to beable to contribute given that he was the one paying the bills and buying theirfood. “Just leave them out for me.”

“Thanks.” he mumbled and stood up to disappearin the pantry, probably to search for those sugary cereals he liked to pretendhe was buying for Katniss – the girl was lucky if she got a bowl when she cameover for breakfast because he tended to eat them all.

“Aren’t you full of surprises today…” shewhispered.

She must have talked louder than she hadintended because she distinctly heard his snort.

It was funny how well they knew each other whenit came down to the important things but how there were still some littleeveryday things left to discover… She liked that.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #post mj #book!verse #teapot #post prison effie #funny one #not established

[queenofthyme]

A week of somewhat forced but not completely unpleasant dinner dates with Harry Potter. A story by Draco L Malfoy.

Content Warning: Major character struggling with eating disorder

@ravenna1988

Read previous parts here: Part One l Part Two l Part Three

Part Four Saturday

The first thing that Draco notices when Potter opens the door is the grand staircase just beyond the entrance way. It’s almost as wide as the one in Malfoy Manor, and at least three times the width of the small much more practical staircase in his current two storey apartment.  

“Your house is bigger than mine.”

Potter grins. He’s wearing a full body apron with moving obscene words on it. Draco takes it in as Potter replies. “Jealous?”

Draco lifts his head from studying a particular animated f-word. “Surprised,” he corrects.

Potter raises his eyebrows and turns around, gesturing for Draco to follow him in. “I’ll give you a tour later if you like. But right now, I’m cooking.”

Draco continues to follow Potter through several rooms including a grand dining hall that Draco can’t imagine Potter entertaining in, before they reach the kitchen at the back of the house. Potter immediately heads over to the stovetop where he has a couple of pans seemingly stirring themselves. He steps in and starts stirring one manually.

Draco uses the opportunity to look around. The kitchen is large, clearly built for a number of house-elves to work in for their masters, not for a single wizard to be doing all the work. Especially not one rich enough to hire any number of house-elves, now that it’s against the law for them to work for free that is.

Movement catches Draco’s eye and he swivels around. A small black cat watches Draco from its position perched above the fridge. Draco looks to Harry for permission but he seems too occupied with dinner. So, Draco approaches, slowly, one arm outstretched, giving the cat plenty of time to run away if it wishes. But it doesn’t.

After a tentative sniff, Draco’s whole hand is claimed, two little paws pulling it in with just a hint of claw, enough for Draco to wince but not enough to pull away, and the cat’s tongue, like sandpaper attacks Draco’s palm. He smiles.

“Her name’s Pepper,” comes Potter’s voice behind him. Pepper and Potter. Adorable. Draco turns his head to find Potter watching him and Pepper with fondness. Although it’s obviously more directed at Pepper than Draco. “Actually, would you mind feeding her?” Potter asks, his eyes turning back to the stovetop. “There are cans in there,” he gestures to a pantry beside the fridge without looking.

Draco lets Pepper lick his hand a little longer before slowly extracting it and moving to the pantry. As soon as he opens the door, Pepper jumps from the fridge and is curling herself around his leg to get a look in. He retrieves a small can of food without bothering to look past the cat picture on the label. He spies a small bowl in the corner of the kitchen and heads for it.

“How long have you had her?” He asks as he peels back the lid, and shakes the food out into Pepper’s bowl. She’s pushing her way into eat before he’s finished and Draco accidentally gets a bit of meat on her head. He quickly brushes it off before Potter notices.

“I found her in an alleyway just down the street last year. I reported it but no one ever claimed her. I think she must have been a stray. When I took her in, she wouldn’t come near me. She wouldn’t even eat anything that – “ He pauses, and Draco looks up to Harry to find his face apologetic. Merlin, Draco wishes he hadn’t paused. Now he knows if Pansy didn’t tell Harry on the phone last night, she has definitely spoken to him since.

“But now,” Potter continues as if he hadn’t paused at a most telling moment and made everything worse. “She loves company, especially strangers, and she…she’s much better.”

Draco decides to give Potter a pass for now. He isn’t nagging him yet, although it’s probably only a matter of time. All his friends do it, and he supposes Potter is almost at friend territory. Almost. So he calls him out on something else entirely. “So, you have strangers in your house regularly, then?”

Draco is rewarded with a splutter from Potter and then an awkward: “That’s not what I…I mean…strangers to Pepper…not necessarily…not just…er…”

Potter is so easy to wind up. No wonder why it was always so fun to spar with him in high school. “Relax, Potter. I don’t mind. As long as Pepper likes me the most.”

It’s a while before Potter replies. Long enough that Pepper has finished her food and returned to Draco to play with his pant leg, clawing at him in a decidedly affectionate way, at least for a cat.

Potter turns from the stovetop, and his eyes trail to Draco’s Pepper covered ankle, while Draco’s eyes watch a flicker of sauce dribble down Potter’s apron to land on a small, flashing version of the word, dickhead.

“I think you’re safe there,” Potter finally says, and when Draco removes his gaze from Potter’s ridiculous apron it’s too find Potter looking directly at him, not Pepper. Draco feels rather dizzy all at once. Must be something to with Potter’s eyes on him. His hand finds purchase on the counter behind but he keeps his face expressionless to save Potter from reading into it too much, as he knows Pansy would.

“You should sit down,” Potter says.

And Draco thought he had hidden it so well! “I’m fine,” he says. How must he prove it to everyone? He is completely and inarguably f -

“I just mean that dinner’s almost ready.”

Oh. “Right.” Draco feels a little silly now for overreacting but he can hardly be blamed. With so many people in his life babying him constantly, he’s allowed to be a little on edge. A touch paranoid. But Potter still hasn’t actually done anything to deserve his wrath. So he best tread carefully, lest ruin another friendship. He already fucked things up quite spectacularly with Blaise.

Potter leads him back into the grand dining hall and gestures for Draco to take a seat at the very end of the table. Potter obviously doesn’t understand the significance of this. The ends of the table are reserved for the masters of the house. He is about to point this out until he remembers his silent promise to tread carefully. Lecturing Potter on pureblood table manners probably isn’t the best way to make a friend out of him. So instead he sits quietly, like a courteous guest.

In all honesty, he’s quite relieved to finally be sitting. Potter’s presence, like always, has made him ridiculously exhausted. If it wouldn’t be considered exceedingly rude, Draco would have already plonked himself on the chaise longue he saw when they passed the sitting room. Still, a chair will do. A chair at the head of the table.

Draco senses Potter talking to him from where he’s returned to the kitchen, but the sounds are too muffled for to hear fully. Instead, Draco focuses on calming his dizzy head. Really. Anyone would think he was teenager again. This is what Potter reduces him to. No wonder he’s been keeping his distance.

Vaguely aware that Potter has returned to the dining room, he tilts his head up, slowly, so as not to anger his woozy brain and lead it to further dizziness. Potter’s mouth is moving but the words themselves remain unfocused, so Draco makes up his own.

Of course, I’ve always been jealous of you, Malfoy. You’ve always had everything I’ve ever wanted, loyal friends, unlimited money and flawless taste. When I rejected your friendship in first year, it was only because I was so intimidated and enamoured by your greatness, I thought I hardly even deserved to look you in the eye. I’ve regretted it ever since. All those years I missed knowing you bring me a deep sadness that no time will ever overcome. If only I –

A plate slams down in front of Draco pulling him out of his reverie. Although, really, it’s placed down rather gently by Harry’s hand, but it might as well be a slam from the way Draco’s body reacts, jumping back so suddenly that it lifts his chair precariously onto only its back legs. Potter’s hand is lightning fast -  of course, the perfect bastard – reaching out to steady Draco’s chair and place it back on all four legs.

Everything comes back into focus at once. Potter’s hand resting on his back through the polished wooden slats that make up the chair’s back. Potter’s face in front of his. And Potter’s voice in his ear, urgent and breathy. “Are you alright?”

No. Draco’s heart is pulsing in the tips of the fingers it’s so fast. And his breath is coming out in pants. He feels uncomfortable and cold. He should be warm. But he’s cold. Freezing. But Potter doesn’t want to hear that. Potter wants to be reassured. And Draco is all too happy to oblige. “Yes, I’m fine, Potter. You know, you should consider investing in some sturdier chairs.”

Potter laughs and removes his hand, taking the only warmth Draco’s body can feel with it. He places another plate at a position adjacent to Draco and takes a seat. “If you’re so offended by my furniture, perhaps we should eat at your place next time.”

Merlin. Draco is not going to survive this night. “And what makes you so certain there will be a next time?” Draco silently congratulates himself on the delivery. He’s in that sweet spot of being teasing and aloof at the same time.

“Will there?” Potter asks, his voice showing no signs of aloofness in return. The question, along with Potter’s expression is so genuine that it throws Draco. It’s stupid and brave and completely Gryffindor.

Draco panics, unsure how to reply to such a direct request. He wants to say yes, he’d love there to be a next time, but he doesn’t have the courage. So instead: “I’m a terrible cook.”

“Maybe I can teach you?” Yes, Potter, that’s more like it. Teasing Draco can deal with it. Teasing is his territory. He can handle teasing. In fact, he can top Potter’s teasing.

“You’re awfully eager to visit my apartment, Potter. Are you sure it’s cooking you want to teach me?” Brilliant. Let’s see how Potter takes that.

“I’m not sure, Malfoy. You’re the one flirting with me this time.” Potter says, his tone feigning innocence, his expression more smirk than smile. The bastard!

“I wasn’t – “ Draco tries to defend himself but doesn’t get far.

“So was that a yes? Monday night?”

Monday? “What about tomorrow night?” Draco asks quickly. He needs to have dinner with someone on Sunday as well. He had assumed it would be Potter again. He was relying on it being Potter again.

“Sundays is pub food and drinks with Ron and Hermione,” Potter says, looking apologetic.

“Oh.” Draco suddenly realises he has completely dropped his disguise of indifference. Asking Potter to spend a third night in a row with him, and the fourth night over the course of less than a week is desperate. And sad.

“You can come if you want?” Potter offers. “Sorry, I didn’t think it would be your type of place.”

He’s right. Draco hates pubs. He makes exceptions for Pansy because she’s Pansy. But on any other occasion, he would not be caught dead in a pub. But Draco needs to draw attention away from his slip up of unconcealed desperation so he tries to make Potter sweat. “And what’s my type of place, exactly?” He asks, his tone accusatory.

It works. Potter looks guilty, uncomfortable. Caught out. It’s horrible. Great, now Draco feels guilty too.

“Somewhere they actually clean the tables between guests.” Potter finally says light-heartedly. Again. So right.

“I would hope that’s most peoples’ type of place.” Draco says with a shrug, feeling more like a jackass with each passing second. “Pansy probably wants to see me anyway.”

“So…Monday? Am I invited?” Potter asks, back to his typical direct fashion. It’s really quite unsettling.

Yes! Draco shouts internally. “I suppose so,” is what he says aloud to Potter. “Only because you begged so desperately.”

Potter chuckles to himself as he picks up a fork. Draco allows him the chuckle. He knows Potter knows he’s been concealing his own eagerness but somehow that’s still better than saying it aloud.

When Potter doesn’t say anything further and begins digging into his food, Draco realises he can’t delay looking at the plate in front of him any longer. He looks down. It’s not terrible. There’s something less offensive about it simply because it’s been made by Harry Potter. But it still doesn’t look appetising. Just a mush of -

“Draco.”

Just the way Potter says it, Draco knows what’s coming next. He jumps to the offensive immediately. He really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “It’s Draco now, is it?”

“It is your name after all.” Potter says in feigned lightness. Draco doesn’t look up, he can’t make eye contact, but he hears Potter breathe a deep sigh and then: “I know.”

“Know what, Potter?”

“I know you have an eating disorder.”

The skin at the back of Draco’s neck prickles. “I have what?”

“An eating disorder.” Potter repeats.

Draco’s fingers clench under the table. The nerve of Potter. What the hell does he know? “I don’t.”

Potter’s eyes dart to the plate in front of Draco and then back to his face. “Draco – “

“So we go on a few dates and now you think you know everything about me?” Draco asks, forgetting his previous worry of labelling their dinners together. It doesn’t matter now anyway.

“That’s-“

“Are you a doctor?”

Potter, finally, begins to look as uncomfortable as Draco feels. “What?”

“I asked if you were a doctor, Potter.” Draco repeats coldly.

“No, but – “

“Then please don’t try and diagnose me. I’m fine.” And they were having such a good time until Potter decided to ruin it.

“You’re not –“

“Here,” Draco yells, his voice unfamiliar even to him, “Will this make you happy?”

“Don’t – “

Draco’s snatches his fork from the table and attacks the food in front of him, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of Potter’s poison in quick succession. See, he wants to scream at Potter, I can eat if I want to.

Draco’s stomach stretches uncomfortably at the intrusion, and the horrible mush scratches all the way down his throat but he keeps going, ignoring Potter’s voice, ignoring everything but the food in front of him.

And when finally, he’s taken the last bite, he gives one last smug glare to Potter – although he’s not sure of Potter’s reaction because his eyes won’t focus – and storms out of the house. If Draco were thinking straight, he’d congratulate himself on a dramatic exit. But there’s a whirling sound in his ears and his brain is concentrating on simply holding Draco up. He’s dizzy and disorientated and sick. Very sick. In fact, he’s going to be sick. His body, obviously rejecting the unnecessary mush Potter drove him to eat, only feels better when every last bit is expelled from his system. He drops to the pavement, panting, his thoughts turning back to Potter. I know he had said. I know. He knows nothing. Draco is the only one who knows his own body. He’s in control. Why can nobody see that?

New parts will be released daily until the story is finished. Please subscribe on ao3 or follow me at @queenofthyme to stay up to date. <3

#draco malfoy #harry potter #drarry #eating disorder #Posting early because I'm going out tonight...surprise surprise I have a life now #AWOSFBNCUDDWHP

[delarchives-blog]

It couldn’t be real. No one could be that good of a cook. No one. Nevada looked around the kitchen, through the trash, in the pantry, anywhere that Del might be hiding the boxes of muffins that he said he was going to make. Or even just any boxes to any of the food that he must be getting as take out from somewhere when they were not looking.

While the kitchen was fully stocked from the pantry, to the fridge, and every cabinet in the house Nevada still refused to buy into it. It was all for show, or it had to be. Every meal they had, night after night, was perfect. Never burnt, plain, under cooked. The only way that could happen is if it was an actual professional making the meal. While Nevada didn’t know much about Del she was pretty sure he was not a professional chef in his down time.

She was almost completely through the kitchen with her head inside the oven looking for some sort of hiding place that Del used to make it look like it was home cooked food when she heard the someone walk into the kitchen and Del clear his throat behind her. She pulled back quickly, hitting her head on the top of the oven in the process. “Shit.” Nevada pulled herself up quickly from the floor rubbing her head. “So um.. hi.”

--

fter a weird run in with Nevada, Delaware heads straight to he grocery store with his Mother’s ingredient list in his mind he heads to the smaller, organic foods shop in town. With necessities like crystallized ginger and locally made honey, Del would rather spend the extra money on the good stuff. Especially since he’ll be baking.

He makes it home in time to fill the pantry and have about an hour spare time before he starts dinner and dessert. The entire hour is spent on a work assignment due at the end of the week he hasn’t had the chance to get around to, and by the time he’s finished his first read through, the clock reads four-thirty.

He doesn’t expect to see or smell Nevada in the kitchen. She’s rarely in the lower floors of the house, unless it’s meal time or she thinks no one else is home. When he turns the corner, he’s greeted with her backside sticking up in the air and her head and upper body in the oven. With a clear of his throat, Delaware does nothing to keep the amused tone in his voice.

“Is it time for your Slyvia Path phase already? I thought we had another twenty years or so.”

--

“You know what this is your fault.” Nevada is still rubbing her head, mostly out of instinct since the pain is already gone. “It’s just so cold in the house and I hate the cold so I was just trying to get warm.”

It was all a lie, a horrible one at that, but it was what Nevada could think of quickly. She eyes up the bags in his head. While it was clear they were filled with nothing but ingredients Nevada was certain it was just again a cover. The actually muffins were more then likely still in his car and he would go through the act of making them just to send her off at the end and run outside to get the store bought ones.

In her head it made sense, no matter how illogical the idea completely was. Nevada was going to catch him in faking it this time though. Thought part of her didn’t care how the muffins got there as long as she got them, as he said she would.

“So what all does it take to make pumpkin muffins?”

--

Want to explain yourself pup?” Delaware asks, head cocked out the side. He doesn’t buy Nevada’s excuse, not for a minute, and Delaware waits, leaning against a wall as he looks over at her. Nevada seems to distract herself with the muffins, and it actually seems like genuine curiosity. Whether that’s because she wants to learn how to cook or try to burn the house down, he doesn’t know. Either way, he won’t pass the on the opportunity for some very rare one-on-one time.

With a quick swipe of his thumb, and the rapid speed press of his fingers, he’s sending out a max text message, letting the pack know that dinner will be about forty-five minutes late. The entire pack, minus Nevada, gets the message three seconds later.

“A lot of prep work since we’re making them from scratch. Set the oven to 350 degrees and follow me.” Delaware grabs the pumpkin and eggs from the fridge and starts piling the other dry spices on the counter. With werewolf speed, the ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a specific set of spices make their way out of the pantry.

--

Nevada shrugged acting as if she had no clue what he was talking about. “I did just explain. Just to cold in here. I thought being a wolf I wasn’t suppose to be as cold, well that’s a lie.” What was clearly a lie was what she was saying. Nevada has spent the last three months with the pack and by now almost every single one of them in the house had heard her bitch over 600 times about how much she hated the summer and heat.

Turning back around Nevada closed the oven door before turning the oven to the right temperature. She moved to the bar, emptying the bags Del had placed on the counter as he grabbed for a bunch of other spices that she could hardly name herself. For all she knew they could be completely wrong for what they were making but she wouldn’t know in the slightest. She just keep her eyes on Del as he moved around.

“So what is this and what is it for?” Nevada held up the ginger. The hard yellowish colored squares didn’t look like any ginger Nevada has seen before. Maybe he really didn’t know what he was getting and thought just because it said ginger on the bag it was the right thing, even if it looked completely wrong.

“And I seriously hope you are not going to put raisins into them.”

--

Crystallized ginger. Easier to store and preferred for sweets. In my opinion at least. It’s thin, like a sheet, and you can fold it into the muffins so the taste isn’t overpowering the pumpkin flavor. It’s the secret ingredient.”

Delaware moves with wolf speed, pulling the food processor out from under the stop and lining the muffin pans on the stove. A large mixing bowl goes next to the stove with a freshly cleaned whisk resting inside of it. He gets started by gutting the pumpkin, pulling out the fleshly bits and the seeds and tossng them straight into a side dish. He could roast the seeds, later, and pumpkins with seeds in them just taste fresher.

“Raisins are disgusting,” Delaware answers with a crinkle of his nose. His hatred of raisins knows no bounds. When he was a child, his mother went through a halth food craze. She got rid of all of the sweets in the house, and refused to use chocolate in her baking. Instead, everything has raisins, and Delaware was fooled far too often. Never again.“The taste, the texture, everything about them. If anyone ever smuggles them into this house, I will dispose of them. Can you butter the muffin pan? Just a think layer on the bottoms and sides so that they don’t stick.”

--

Nevada opens up the bag looking at the ginger as he talks about it. When she reaches for a pieces it’s harder then she expected it to be. Looking it over Nevada takes a small bit off the end of one of the pieces. The taste is over powering. Not bad, but a strong, strange, tangy thing that she wasn’t expecting. Her nose scrunches up and she drops the piece on the counter that she bit off of. “I see what you mean by over powering.”

He moves around the kitchen and Nevada wonders if he would honestly put this much work into faking it but she still doesn’t believe he is a good of a cook as the food they have been eating would make him seem. She watches closely. Following his ask  to butter the muffin pan but still keeps and eye on him.

“Hey, at least you seem smart about one thing. Raisins are the scum of the earth, well under that new pack that is here. God can you just go freaky scary alpha on them and kick there ass out of town because if I have to meet another one of them I might die.”

--

“Some people use powdered ginger, but if you add just a little too much it’s all you taste. Ruined muffins.” He’s not used to Nevada’s undivided attention, nor her actually asking questions. Not that Delware has a problem with questions, he’s an open book for the pack, but Nevada just isn’t the type to ask.

“I could, but their alpha would put up a fight, and she’d probably start with the youngest pup, cornering her until she’s powerless to do anything but submit or die. You’ve never seen a rogue alpha before. She’ll spin you the sweetest tale of lies before slicing your throat, all with a smile on her face,” Delaware says pointedly as the food processor whirls. It’s important that no one crosses the line, no one turns physical, and no one gets hurt. Especially someone like Nevada whose bark is much worse than her bite.

It’s easy to make muffins with a helping hand, and with an extra pinch of this and a little less of that, the normal twenty minute prep period turns into a five minute stretch. By the time they’re finished, Delaware’s got flour in his hand and sugar on his nose, but the batter is completely ready to be poured into the buttered molds.

“Did you want to say for dinner prep, too? I think Lanta’s out patrolling today; hopefully running off that bad attitude.”

--

Nevada makes a face. “Your not talking about me are you? I would punch the bitch in her tit and run away. That is what high school teaches you now a days.” She hates to think about it, what would actually happen if this new, crazy alpha were to run into her. Nevada wouldn’t turn on her pack, never. She hated half of them, they annoyed the shit out of her most of the time, but they put up with her and she can’t say that about most people. While Nevada still is certain Del is going to kick her out one day saying she is just to much trouble, until that happens, thought she will never act nice to any of their faces, she will stand behind her pack.

She can’t help but enjoy helping Del make the muffins though. She even finds herself laughing as she looks up finding flour on Del’s face. “You missed the bowl, by a lot.” With the muffins slide into the oven Nevada grabs the mixing bowl to move it to the sink. Sticking her finger into the remaining mixture on the side she expects to have the worst taste as she licks her finger.

“You have got to be kidding me.” The words come out before she realized and her brow furrows in confusion and disbelief. It is not at all the worst thing in the world like she was expecting. Instead even just the non-baked mixture is a perfectly sweet, pumpkin, wonderfulness and it makes Nevada look at Del in complete confusion.

“Dinner prep? You mean you fake making dinner and then ordering in right? I mean just because these muffins taste great doesn’t mean I have started to believe that you actually cook everything else to be completely perfect.”

Nevada crosses her arms eye Del. She didn’t mean to just come out and call him and his cooking a lie but now that it was there she couldn’t take it back and waited for him to admit it.

--

“I’m not a baker,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, trying to wipe off whatever’s left on him. All of the ingredients in baking are light, fluffy, and Delaware doesn’t care for it. He likes thick sauces and heavy meets and hearty soups and stews. Baking feels like a chore, measuring out this and putting exactly this amount of that in there. He humors Nevada because she’s family now and why not? Fall time is his second favorite time of year.

“That’s disgusting, and unsanitary.” Delaware says with a frown on his face as she dips her fingers into the bowl. Whether her outburst is out of delight or because the muffin mix just sucks, Delaware doesn’t care. He won’t dip his clean fingers into raw eggs and unbaked ingredients. The texture alone makes his frown into a grimace as he looks her over.

“Ah, so that’s why you were in here earlier. And here I thought you were an inspiring poet.” Delaware’s eyes wrinkle is amusement as Nevada stands there with her arms crossed and her face twisted in confusion. She thought he was ordering their food? That would take much more effort than cooking it, and the pantry is always full so they’d be spending a ton of money on food.

“Do you really think I buy all of this food for appearance-sake, let it go bad and then spend even more money on enough takeout for twenty normal humans?”

--

Nevada stuck her finger in the bowl again this time making a long “yum” sound as she licked the raw mixture off her finger again. She can’t help but wanted to even annoy him now even thought they have been having a good time.

She shrugged looking around trying to find some sort of sign that what she was saying was logical. While the longer she stood there and he talked, the most illogical her idea sounded, even to herself. Yet, she stayed by it. “Hey I don’t know how you get your kicks but I am telling you no one can be that good of a cook that much of the time. I mean seriously have “you” ever burned anything or served anything less then perfect? It has to be take out.”

--

“A decade or so ago, I made the worst spaghetti sauce you could imagine. There was this weird cinnamon trend going on and I decided to try it. Big mistake.” Delaware chuckles with a shake of his head, pulling out the metal covered pan. It’s easy to get the counter set up in seconds flat with werewolf speed, and while Nevada revels in the fact that maybe, just maybe, he can cook, the entire kitchen is set up and new spices have replaced the old ones on the counter.

“Grab that spatula and come stir this,” he half-asks, half-orders, and when Nevada trudges over to the oven Delaware’s got the smallest of smiles on his face.