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dropofdrool · 10 months

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Sweet Dreams, TN - Alex Turner x Reader

Summary: during a troubled night, our girl finds comfort in Alex having a wet dream.

Warnings: mature content (read responsibly), fem!reader, masturbation - m receiving, Alex is asleep

Word count: 3.1 k

!! I really want to thank @rentskenobi for the amazing and accurate work of review she's done over this fic, girl I wouldn't have made it without you<3

~☀︎︎~

Two hours passed since her eyes had suddenly opened in the middle of the night. After that, she hadn't been able to fall asleep again. Unfortunately, she didn’t remember having had any dream. Oh, she did wish a nightmare had woken her up! All she wanted to do was cry, shake off that numbness that anchored her to the bed.

It was impossible for her to close her eyes, so she got used to the dim lighting around her. Even though the room was plunged in the night, it now appeared her no longer hidden by the dear nebulous darkness that confuses the mind and numbs the senses, but quivering, waiting to awaken.

Her ears were ringing, oversensitive because of the silence: even the slightest noise seemed to her like a roar that rumbled in her mind. She just wanted to shelter under the covers, shield herself from that hostile environment and hide next to her little Alex, peacefully asleep by her side.

It was unusual that she managed to see him asleep, since he often slipped into bed much later than her. If she wasn’t already in the land of dreams, she’d wait for him, to make love or cuddle until they fell asleep. Besides, he rarely woke her up during the night, as they both enjoyed a deep sleep. They were perfectly capable of going to bed at any time, but once asleep, it was really difficult to get them up. They had spent countless mornings in each other's arms, since neither had managed to drag the other out of bed.

Though she loved having his full attention in bed, she had always been tickled by the fantasy of seeing him fully asleep by her side. The fleeting moments when she caught him taking a nap on the sofa, surrounded by sheets with sketched lyrics or work-in-progress tracks weren't enough. She wanted to admire him properly as he lay on their bed, with his face pressed into the pillow and his body immersed in the sinuous folds of the duvet.

Just how he looked at the moment: Alex lay next to her like a kitten. His usually sharp face was now softened by the sleep, and a light snoring came from his half-closed mouth. She wished she could just bask in the sight of him, but she was feeling too bad. Since she’d fallen asleep above the covers, she didn't have the courage to slip under them and risk waking Alex up.

She put her whole self in trying to cry, longing for that sweet release. However, the tears were feeling too precious to come out and they left her only with a heaviness in her heart that she'd never felt before.

She tried to calm her breathing, and got the idea of synchronising it with Alex's deep and regular one.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Luckily, he’d fallen asleep facing her. She turned to look at him, searching for comfort in his blissful features. She longed to get closer to him, to lose herself between his warm chest and strong arms, always ready to reassure her when a nightmare of hers would wake both of them up.

Since she couldn’t touch him, she tried to better receive all the other signals his body gave her. The warmth it radiated even from a distance, his small noises and trademark smell.

Now she’d been breathing deeply, her nostrils were filled with his unique fragrance: during the night, his usual aroma of cigarettes and cologne partially vanished, leaving place to the hot scent of pure male skin, barely sweetened by the body wash from the shower he’d had before bed. The scent of him, that had her head spinning when, during sex, she’d bury her face in his shoulder and there was only him, filling all her senses.

She slowly started to calm down. Her breathing took on a new rhythm of its own, and the screeching that had been harassing her mind died away.

As if he'd realised his comfort was no longer needed, Alex rolled onto his back, facing the ceiling.

The glimmer of moonlight slipping out from the curtains kissed his profile, highlighting his sharp nose delightfully. The impulse of kissing it grew stronger, but she tamed it.

That new position exposed his body in a whole different way. Now, she was able to see how his movement had undone some buttons on the thin, soft shirt he was wearing, letting a nipple slip out. That was a very sensitive part of Alex's body she never missed to stimulate as they had sex, teasing it with her palms or squeezing it between her fingers, as he used to do with hers.

Alex moved again. His right hand, which had been resting on his stomach, ended up between his legs, over his cock. She raised her eyebrows.

She knew very well that was a common action for both men and women, meant not so much for pleasure as for the comfort that protecting that sensitive area gave. However, she’d rarely seen Alex doing such a spontaneous gesture.

At first still, the hand on his crotch slowly began to move. A gentle massage, continuous and slow-paced.

Her mind, now appeased but still cold from the just ended bad experience, didn't relate those movements to anything sexual yet. They were just basic, primitive masculine reflexes.

She thought that maybe, it was time to try and sleep. She turned her back to Alex and closed her eyes, but just as the sweet embrace of half-sleep began to envelop her, she felt the motion beside her increase, as if Alex were squirming.

She didn’t pay attention to it at first, but after a while a not so weak mumble joined his wriggling.

Her heart stopped in her throat.

Let’s calm down. It’s normal to make some noise in your sleep. Maybe he’s dreaming of talking to someone.

Oh, she did want to believe it. However, after a while it was clear he wasn’t just gasping in his sleep.

She finally decided to turn around. In front of her, she found a very different-looking Alex than how she’d left him. He still had his eyes closed and his hand on his cock, but it was clear that something was getting him so heated.

Alex swayed like the calm morning sea, arching his back slightly along with his neck, which he tilted back exposing his prominent Adam's apple.

She sat up and ran her eyes over his whole body, marvelling at how his subconscious could elicit such delicious reactions.

His movements, though they'd managed to get her attention, were still relatively small.

Toes curling into the sheets, hips swaying just like they did as he played guitar on stage.

He’d told her it was something he couldn’t control, that made him lose himself in the music and had him able to feel it within himself, so as to reproduce it better with the instrument.

Curious how his body reacts the same way to music and sexual frustration.

But if those hips movements on stage were the cause of so much screaming and clamour amongst the audience, his now intimate wriggling was a gift only to her, and the night that hid them.

Nonetheless, even then Alex sang. His whines and now proper moans were like music to her ears, careful to catch even the slightest sigh that left his luscious mouth.

It was obvious: Alex was having a wet dream.

Though this exited her, it made her a little unsure. She knew very well how much Alex loved her and she’d never had any reason to question that. However, even as his girlfriend, she still couldn’t believe that it was her who aroused him like that even in his subconscious.

Come on, Alex is almost always in my wet dreams, he is my boyfriend after all. Why shouldn't he be dreaming of me too?

However, besides her dreams about Alex, she’d have others sometimes where her fantasies came to life thanks to faceless men or women, when her own pleasure was the absolute focus.

Maybe it was the same way for him. Unfortunately, they had discussed the topic focusing much more on her than on him, since several times Alex had happened to catch her right in the middle of wet dreams.

In those cases, he had tried out a little game that turned out to be extremely exciting for both.

Gently, he liked to guide her through her dream, trying not to wake her up thanks to little, special touches.

She perceived it as a proof of his absolute dedication to her sole pleasure, since he had to tame all the desire for more he drew from touching her, so as not to wake her up.

He had turned out to be very good at this. Most of the time, she’d wake up by herself some time later, wet between her legs and pleasantly satisfied.

Sometimes, however, the intensity of the dream was too much and she’d wake up directly under Alex’s eyes, intent on touching her. Then, he’d waste no time and go down on her to finish the job, careful not to overstimulate her.

How nice it would be if, this time, it was me who gave him that little treat.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Alex let out a low moan. She nearly echoed him, covering her mouth in time as she squeezed her thighs, already pooling with moisture.

The hand that had been previously stroking his cock from over his boxers slipped inside them.

His lips parted in a small, sincere smile.

A sweet curve of his mouth, caused by the sheer pleasure he was feeling, along with the furrow of his brow and the arching of his body.

Tears of excitement filled her eyes, and she sank her face into the pillow in order to calm down. This man is just too much. When she recovered, she finally decided to touch him.

She started with light, experimental touches on the back of his neck. She scratched it with the very tips of her fingernails, and he mumbled as goosebumps covered his body.

His other nipple showed up from under his shirt. By now, all the ridiculous buttons that closed his neckline had popped open, revealing his heaving chest.

Such a tempting sight, he might deserve a little love there too. She licked her fingers and began rubbing his nipple with small, circular movements.

She feared she’d already woken him up and he wanted to shoo her hand away, as he raised his hand towards hers. Luckily, it just ended up clutching the pillow. They sighed together, one with pleasure and the other with relief.

She went on with that caress for a while: the work he was doing on his own already seemed good to her, his hips moving against his hand faster and faster.

Maybe it's time to join him inside his underwear. She traced a line down his soft body with her fingers, barely pressing on the firmest spots like his abs, until she reached down between his legs. How to help him there too? His hand wasn’t actually pumping his cock, it was more of a massage. She placed her hand over his, careful not to apply too much pressure, and began to guide his movements. Luckily, she didn't need to press: Alex's subconscious let her take the lead.

Look at him, melting just like butter. He quickly wet her hand as she palmed him and, looking at his face, she noticed a small tear of pleasure sliding down his cheek. She wanted to kiss it away, but she just wiped it away with a caress. Then, he wrinkled his nose: a strand of rebellious hair had fallen over his face, tickling him. She tucked it away before he could sneeze.

She couldn’t help but get lost in his perfect, relaxed features as she looked at him.

Alex moaned loudly as she stroked his jawline and plump, velvety lips. She cried along with him, knowing how sensitive his mouth was. As that noise escaped his lips, he titled his chin back. She took it between her thumb and index finger and nudged it back gently, to display his fair and tempting neck. As she touched him there, she felt his pulse increase with his approaching orgasm.

His moans got even more desperate, it was clear he needed to come.

She needed him to come too, as if her own relief depended on his orgasm, since she was sweating and moaning and squeezing her thighs just like him.

Now more than ever she wanted to touch all of him, squeeze that smooth flesh, so soft yet firm, cover him with her body as he came and lick off the sweat that beaded him.

He is so wet, I wonder if I could…

She reached out her middle finger just enough to tease his butthole, managing to slip there easily thanks to the moisture that had dripped down his perineum.

His entire face scrunched in pleasure, but no sound came out of his agape mouth except for a ragged breath. He exploded on their hand in a few big spurts.

As he came, a few moans escaped his lips again. Amongst them, she thought she heard something similar to a word, which gradually became clearer.

She properly moaned as she realised it was her name.

From the way his body tensed and then relaxed, she almost feared he would wake up. Now that he was very sensitive, she tried to guide him through his post-orgasm with delicacy. She listened to his breathing slow down again, thanking the heavens he had been able to enjoy that experience while still being in the land of dreams, with only a little helper from Earth.

She took her hand out of his boxers, licking it clean. Now completely relaxed and even a bit tired, she lay back, just waiting for him to wake up and see the evidence of that night.

~☀︎︎~

As soon as he woke up, Alex immediately felt in his underwear what happened.

The memory of his dream was still fresh in his mind and, although the details began to fade rapidly, what didn't go away were the sensations, the pleasure he remembered having felt. The desire to go back into that dream was almost childish, since he had his beautiful girlfriend right there beside him, ready to do even better for him.

He felt a little ashamed for wetting his underpants just like a little boy.

It wasn’t unusual for him to have wet dreams, but rarely, except for when he was younger, had he ever managed to come during one of them.

Alex really wanted to wait for his love to wake up, but he also needed to get that sticky feeling off himself.

He got out of bed and slipped into the bathroom. In the warm steam of the shower, he thought back to his dream. The face of the woman who’d given him so much pleasure wasn't clear in his mind, but he was sure she was his darling. The way she moved, knew his body by heart and her voice, that guided him through it all, were unmistakable.

As he watched the water drag the sperm away from his body, he almost thought of touching himself in the intimacy of the shower, being conscious this time. It was something that still comforted him, the familiar rhythm of his own hand guided only by his fantasies. However, he gave up. She was right in the next room and would wake up soon, he wanted to be ready for her in case she was taken by a morning desire.

That turned out to be right the case, since as he left the bathroom, covered only by a towel around his waist, he found her waiting for him, fully awake and propped up on her elbows.

"Good morning, love!" she uttered brightly. Alex dropped the towel and crawled back to her on their bed. She scratched him behind the ear, just as you would with a kitten, and he purred in the most delicious way.

"’Morning to yeh too, babeh..."

She opened her arms, inviting him, and he hurried to snuggle against her chest, enjoying the feel of his bare skin against her soft shirt.

“Tell me Alex, why would you need a shower this early in the morning?”

Alex looked at her with his big, brown eyes. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to tell her the truth. However, her calm, reassuring gaze convinced him.

“I ‘ad a dream. A wet dream.”

She smiled, with a mischievous gleam in her eye that got Alex curious. Did she hear me by any chance?

“Lovely. Was it good?”

“Oh yesss.” he hissed, dragging out the word. He closed his eyes, calling to mind the last few scraps of the dream he hadn’t forgotten yet.

She lulled him, pleased with his sleepiness.

"Did you come?" she asked. He looked at her again and smirked, asserting his response. She giggled.

"I can imagine. You were squirming so much…”

Alex leapt up quickly, facing her.

"Did I wake yeh up?!"

“Not at all, darling. Actually, I was having a terrible night. I’d woken up all of sudden a couple of hours earlier and just couldn't get back to sleep. Everything felt like it were pulsing and every noise just seemed soo loud, I just wanted to cry but not even the tears wanted to help me. It was awful… good thing you were there. You, who managed to calm me down only with your breathing. Just when I was about to go back to sleep, I heard you make some noises. Such sweet noises… I couldn't believe it. For a while I hadn’t been able to do anything but look at you, you were so beautiful. Then, I remembered how many times you’ve blessed my wet dreams, so I thought I could return the favour.”

He groaned.

“Honey, I can't say I remember well what ‘appened, but from tha' little I do… it were so good. Thank yeh so much."

“I thank you, Alex! You were so hot I was about to cry… please tell me if I catch you having a wet dream one more time, I can help you again.”

In response, Alex kissed her hard.

“Love, yeh can do everyfing yeh want to me. I'm all yehrs."

He flipped their position, so that she was on top of him.

“But now, let's make those sweet dreams come true, shall weh?”

~☀︎︎~

#alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #alex turner smut #alex turner fanfic #alex turner imagine #sleep #bad night #fantasies

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honeymelonpm · 2 years

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a small request, yandere Anakin with a reader from earth. like, he crashes here one day and finds reader when he's trying to fix his ship & goes after her to take her away with him maybe, maybe he thought reader was an angel like he thought padme was 🥺❤️

~Angel~

Characters: Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Warnings: Yandere

Summary: Anakin stumbles upon a creature he's never seen before after crash landing on Earth.

Requested by this lovely anon!

Note: Words cannot describe how sorry I am that this took so long! 🤍

You had heard the piercing whistle resound through the still night air as ribbons of fierce yellow and orange danced in the dark sky, before a deafening boom shook the ground beneath you. The sky was painted ebony, consuming any wave of light into the night, keeping the crash site hidden from your curious eyes. So instead of investigating an impossible mystery, you fell back asleep in the middle of your overly large mattress, your bare legs tangled amongst the blankets.

Cupping some water in your palms, you splashed the icy water against your face, washing away any thoughts of the previous night. Goosebumps arose all over your naked body as you bathed in the river. You loved nothing more than starting your mornings like this, soaking up the warmth of the sun and awakening yourself in the cold stream.

Relaxing against the stones beneath you, you listened to all you could hear, the steady flow of water running past, birds singing their calls amongst the trees, a distant song of electrical beeps and whistles?

Peering through the surrounding trees, you searched for any sign of company. A few twig snaps followed by a series of beeps and whirrs was enough to have you call an early end to your morning routine.

Pulling yourself up and out of the river stream, you stole the white gown that dangled from a nearby branch and pulled it over your head, letting the thin linen fall over you, soaking up small amounts of water from your skin.

"Artoo?" A deep, smooth voice resonated around you, followed by a strain of whistles.

A metallic gleam of silver danced through the trees, blinding you, before it revealed itself in front of you. A mechanical being meeting the height of your waist, it's top half rotating back and forth as it flashed a circle of blue and red light. You hadn't seen anything like it. Sure you were no stranger to robot vacuums and whatnot, but what stood before you was different in its entirety.

Head spinning, it whirred again before gliding towards you, stumbling back as it did so.

"Go away!" You choked, your bare feet retreating along the rough bark littered on the forest floor.

Despite the droid pausing in place, you continued to stagger backwards, the curve of your back bumping against a large build.

Spinning around, you came face to face with a man before you. His broad chest smothered in layers of black fabric, long chestnut hair curled around his face.

His face was blank, eyes reading you before a mischievous grin appeared.

"And what must you be?" He whispered to himself, eyes searching yours.

"E-excuse me?" You scoffed, taking a step back.

A glimmer of light twinkled in his eye at your response, "You speak my language."

Your hands clutched at the folds of linen that gathered at your waist, "I'm sorry, I must go." Not sparing another moment, you started walking away, before a firm grip took hold of your arm.

Raising your knee to your gut, you threw back your foot, heel colliding with his shin as he shouted in agony, his grip on your arm loosening.

Leaping over the plains of stone, you made haste through the dense woodland, kicking up dirt as you ran before a force tugged at your ankle, your body slamming against the ground in seconds.

You kicked your other foot in an attempt at keeping him away, turning to face him when you couldn't manage to kick at him.

The hem of his ebony robes kissed the dewy blades of grass beneath him, his arm outstretched towards you, the force around your ankle ever increasing.

Heart leaping in your chest, your throat swelled as he stalked towards you, his gaze only softening slightly as he approached you.

Your beauty captured him in a daze from afar, the dimples and ribbons of pink that you wore on your thighs, peaking out from the woven linen, the few strands of hair that refused to relax on your head, the soft contour of your collarbones, he was in awe. He had never seen a creature so perfect, and yet here you were, displayed in the sun as if it were a spotlight.

Proceeding towards you, you almost choked on your words, "No, what are you doing?!"

Towering over you, he lowered himself above you, grazing his knuckles over your temple and along your cheek, an overbearing sense of exhaustion taking over you as any inch of consciousness left your body, your figure falling limp in his hold.

Now he was closer to you than ever before, he took a moment to truly admire you. The fuzz along the back of your neck that was highlighted by the morning sun, the crescent moons that appeared on a select few of your nails, the gentle creases on your lips, you were truly a wonder, and the thought of you had his stomach fluttering.

#fanfic #yandere #anakin skywalker #x reader #anakin x reader #yandere anakin #star wars #star wars prequels #artoo detoo #r2d2 #asks #request

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freckle-face-ace · 27 days

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Portgas D Ace X CisFem Reader

Both of you were sent reeling.

You were trying to figure out how someone here knew Ace. It shouldn't be possible, but you supposed you couldn't count anything out anymore.

Ace's mouth gaped, watching in disbelief as the brunette slowly approached. His hair was smoothed back into an impressive pompadour that shadowed his attractive face. Your eyes wandered to the crescent scar that hooked from his left temple to his cheekbone. Realization washed over you, he was exactly how Ace had described him.

"Thatch." Ace breathed shakily, tears beginning to sting his garnet eyes.

The cook stopped upon hearing his name. All the thoughts pooling in his mind confirmed with the sound of Ace's voice. This wasn't a hallucination, a dream or a really impressive doppelganger. It was really Ace.

You watched, heart clenching as the men gawked at each other, tears now streaming down both of their faces. Thatch finally willed himself to move forward almost frantically hugging the raven.

A beautiful strawberry blond walked up adjusting her black framed glasses. She had an authoritative posture that led you to believe she was in management.

"Thatch? Is everything alright?" Her alto voice was thick with concern.

You realized there weren't many people in the restaurant, but all of their eyes were on your table.

Thatch stepped back looking up at the woman with the most brilliant smile you'd ever seen, "This is my brother, Ace."

Her face fell briefly before she smiled warmly, "Why don't we move you to a more private space?"

Yes please!

You were so uncomfortable with all of the new attention. The yet to be named woman motioned for you to rise and follow her. Thatch stayed close to Ace as you were ushered to a small private dining room connected to the main room by a narrow hallway. Three tables swathed in white linens formed a triangle in the center of the room. The four of you took a seat at the nearest.

"I'm Grace." The woman smiled stretching her hand toward you, "I haven't seen you around."

"F/N," You responded mirroring her expression, "I live out near the bluffs...I don't come into town often."

"Ah you're Anabelle's granddaughter." She chimed, "She was a great lady."

"T-thank you." You nodded.

"I can't believe you're here." Thatch marveled at his brother making the rest of you frown.

Grace seemed to be somewhat clued in to how they'd arrived.

"Thatch..." She said softly, placing her hand on his shoulder.

He watched her expression change to something more somber. His eyes widened, tears once again breaching his lashes.

"W-wait...not you."

Your heart broke watching pain flicker across Thatch's sweet face. Grace wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He'd been so excited to see Ace that how he got here hadn't occurred to him.

"Was it Teach?" Thatch asked quietly regaining his composure.

Ace's jaw clenched at the mention of Teach's name.

"Marines." The raven finally replied.

Thatch deflated, "What about Pops? The crew?"

"I- I don't know. There was a pretty big battle. I wasn't around for the outcome."

You flinched at his flat response.

"F/N...why don't we give them a moment." Grace rose running her hand over Thatch's back.

You glanced at Ace.

"I'll come find you." He nodded.

Grace took you down a hallway opposite the way you'd come. You entered a small but cozy office. Grace moved around the wooden desk taking a seat in the office chair folding her arms over the marked-up desktop calendar. You claimed a small armchair directly in front of her still feeling uncomfortable with the whole situation.

"How did you find him?" She asked resting her chin in her palm.

You were hesitant to respond. It was too ridiculous to say out loud and people around here already had their ideas about 'the recluse that lives on the hill'. Grace seemed to notice your discomfort.

"I found Thatch lying on the side of the road on my way to the restaurant one morning. Who knows how long he was there or just how many people had passed him by thinking he was some drunk knocked out." A warm smile played upon her full lips.

This was a pleasant memory for her it seemed.

"I'll admit his story took some convincing. I mean a pirate? Magic fruits and all that? Sounds like something you'd read in a comic book." She chuckled, "I feel bad, there was still a part of me that didn't believe him until I saw Ace."

"He uh-" You cleared your throat, "He fell from the sky."

She blinked at you, "How?"

"I'm not sure. But I saw it with my own eyes. Surrounded by flames, he just dropped right into the silt bank of my pond." You watched her waiting for a sign of disbelief.

She nodded, "Maybe that's how both of them got here."

"What do you think happens now?" You asked feeling a knot form in your stomach.

"Well, I'm not sure what they'll want to do." She started, "We could take him in at our place."

"Our?" You echoed, blushing embarrassed that your curiosity betrayed you.

"Mhm. We live together." She hummed, the look on her face telling you it was more than just that.

"Oh." Was all you could muster.

"It seems you're not keen on giving Ace up though." She used an upward inflection, but you knew it was meant to be a statement.

"I'll be fine with whatever he chooses." You shrugged the knots crawling through your gut away.

She only smiled.

The office door opened slightly as Ace entered the room alone.

"Thatch went to pack up our food." He chirped jabbing his thumb in the direction he'd just come, "Are you OK if I hang out with him tonight?"

You braved a fake smile, for whatever reason dreading being home alone, "Of course. Go spend time with your brother."

A grin broke out across the raven's face.

"We should exchange numbers then." Grace piped pulling out her phone.

After gathering your dinner, you parted ways. The drive home felt longer than usual. Once inside you tossed you untouched food in the fridge and slinked to your room flopping down on your bed. You weren't sure how many times you sighed or how long you stared at the ceiling fan before your eyes grew too heavy.

Something rattled against your night stand stirring you from the comfortable position you'd found in your sleep. You blindly slid your hand across the wooden surface, so you could snatch the device.

"Hullo?" You husked.

"F/N," Grace's flustered tone jarred you awake, "It's Ace. He's having some sort of panic attack."

You were already jamming your feet into your boots, "What's your address? I'll be right there."

#fem reader #he fell from the sky #isekai #lyndsyh24 #portgas ace x reader #whitebeard pirates #x reader #mdni #one piece #portgas d ace

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bish-plz-haha · 10 months

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Chapter 3

Harry awoke to a stream of light shining through his bedroom window. Groaning, he sat up and looked about the room. He vaguely remembered going out drinking with Ron the night before but he hadn't remembered coming home - let alone stripping naked before climbing into bed. He was grateful to find there wasn't a second body in his bed but the horrifying thought of a person he couldnt recall bringing home wandering around his house unaccompanied startled him out of bed. He quickly pulled on a pair of red checkered boxers and ran down the stairs. He searched his house to make sure no random strangers were rummaging around his cabinets looking for dirt on the boy who lived. Well, Harry's sexuality would be a scandal in and of itself anyhow, so maybe he hadn't needed to worry about someone scavenging his house for dirt on him like a vulture seeking out its dinner when a man woke up next to a very naked Harry Potter.

Harry made his way into the kitchen and brewed himself a strong coffee. He wasn't even a coffee drinker - he preferred tea over coffee any day. Well, any day besides today of which he woke into with a massive hangover headache and no hangover potion.

Ugh I need to go in the office today. Maybe I can just wait- no. No I can not because its vital I have everything correct for Monday. Harry heard the voice booming inside his head. To say he was a little more than startled was an understatement. This would be the second time Harry has heard this voice inside his head that definitely wasnt his. Harry tried - and failed - to convince himself it was late onset PTSD from his childhood. But three years is a long time for something like that to set in. Nonetheless, Harry had a strong cup of coffee in his hands, hoping the caffeine will combat the hangover. Once he finished the cup, he placed it in the sink and put some water in it. He made his way back up the stairs and to the bathroom, stripped down and turned the water on. After testing the water on the back of his hand, he hopped in. Quickly washing his hair and body, amidst other things, he finished up and turned the water off. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he made his way into his room for clean clothes. As he was pulling on a fresh pair of jeans, his head started to dully ache. He tried to ignore it but every little move he made seemed to only worsen it. He quickly went to the bathroom again and grabbed a pain reduction potion from the cabinet. He did have muggle pain killers as well but at the rate his headache was climbing, he thought it best for an instant reaction rather than 40 minutes of sitting in excruciating pain waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in.

Harry sighed in relief as the pain in his head reduced quickly until nothing was left and made his way down the stairs and to the drawing room. He took out a piece of parchment and began writing nothing more than a note. Folding it into a tiny square, he headed towards the back yard where a small owlery sat. After he had made it through Auror training with Ron, he had been gifted a barn owl by the Weasley's.

"Its not much," Molly said as she smiled at the cage she held out to him. "But after you lost Hedwig, we saw how sad you were. This one will never replace her but he will allow you to send us posts without needing us to send one first."

Harry smiled at her, looking around at the family. His family. "Thank you." He said as tears brimmed his eyes. He set the cage on the table and hugged Molly as tightly as he could manage. Everyone else, including Mr. Weasley, join in around him forming a group hug with Molly and him at the centre.

Harry whistled. The brown and white owl flew out from the stone building and landed on his shoulder. Harry smiled at him. "Hey Freddie." He said. The owl cooed and looked around the yard. "Take this to Ronald Weasley." He said, holding up the folded-square parchment. The owl pecked it out of his hand, holding it in its beak for a second before taking off into the cloudy skys. Harry walked back inside and waited for the owl to return. He set about cleaning the house. He put away some recently washed dishes and decided to fold his laundry for nothing better to do appeared. That is until about an hour and a half later when the owl returned, perched on his window, pecking at the glass for entrance.

Harry chuckled and opened the window, allowing the owl to step inside and drop the folded parchment in its beak. Harry pet the top of the owl's head and opened his bedside drawer to retrieve a treat for his owl. He place his hand out for the owl and the owl dropped the parchment to the desk below and picked up the treat. Harry grabbed the piece of paper and opened it to see Ron had written back. Harry smiled and went back to his cleaning. He had another hour before he was to meet his red haired friend for a boys night out.

"Hey Ron!" Harry said happily as Ron strode up to him. He had been outside the three broomsticks waiting for him.

"Hey mate." Ron smiled at him. "Shall we go in and order?" Harry nodded and they stepped inside the pub. Harry took in the scenery - the old wood smell of the black, the bleak and colourless set. It was almost a greyish feel. They made their way to a table in the back and set their things down before walking to the far side of the bar and ordered some drinks and food to take back to the table. Once they sat back down at their table, Ron asked, "So, how are you doing from the other day? You completely passed out." Ron took a quick sip of the beer he ordered and continued. "Did the healers ever figure out what you'd been hit with?"

Harry shook his head and responded, "no. They said that because me and Malfoy were hit as a pair. They needed to examine us both simultaneously to understand fully. But since Malfoy left right after he woke up, they placed me under observation for twenty four hours and then sent me home. From what the doctor said, they didn't find anything." Harry shrugged and took a sip from his pint before digging into his food.

Ron nodded and swallowed what he was chewing before speaking. "Yeah. That can be a bit of a bitch." Ron responded. Harry nodded again before focusing on his food. "Oh, by the way, another group of aurors had caught those wizards." They sat in a comfortable silence, the room filling with the quiet buzz of independent conversations from the people around them. "Hey," Ron spoke up after a few moments. "Did you hear about the holyhead harpies game?"

They went on for a few minutes longer about quidditch. Ron told Harry how the Harpies pushed the Falmouth Falcons out of the qualifiers - and of course Harry protested and whined about his team - then moved on to the conversation of work. "How are you doing though? I mean, I know you said you're fine but I just want to make sure." Ron questioned after some time. They had finished their food awhile ago and were on their second pints. Harry just gave him an incredulous look and took a long sip of his drink.

"Seriously Ron. I'm fine!" Harry exclaimed, not caring that he was attracting stares as the dull aching pain came back and sat front and centre between his eyes. He shut his eyes tightly and rubbed his temples with two fingers.

"Alright. If I didn't double check, Hermione would- whoa mate, you sure you're alright? You look like you did when your scar was bothering you." Ron told him then quickly added, "No offense." Ron held up his hands as Harry sent him a small meaningless glare.

"Seriously I'm fine. Ive just been getting headaches. Its probably just because I hit my head pretty damn hard against that wall the other day." Harry told him. But he wasn't confident in his statement as his vision became blurred - almost as if he took his glasses off.

"Maybe I should call up Pansy. Catch up." Harry heard. He wasn't entirely sure but it sounded like Malfoy. He twisted in his seat to check the people around him - to make sure the blonde wasn't there. His body apparently didn't like the sudden jerks of movement as he fell out of his chair and passed out on the floor of the small pub.

Harry slowly opened his eyes, bright lights hitting him immediately. He wrenched his eyes closed again. He could hear what sounded like monitor charms beeping in the distance and the smell of disinfectant filled his nose. Of course he'd be here. Cause one doesnt just pass out occasionally. He thought to himself and tried opening his eyes again. It wasn't as bad this time as he was ready for the brightness but it definitely didn't help the throbbing pain behind his eyes either.

"Ah, Auror Potter, you're awake." A woman that appeared to be in her thirties walked into the room. She checked something on a clipboard and then, taking out her wand, doing a full body scan. "Now, can you tell me what happened?" She asked, looking back down at the clipboard, quill at the ready. He assumed it was a self inking quill as there was no ink pots around.

"Um, yeah." He started, wringing his hands through the thin hospital blanket that was thrown over him. "So ever since a mission the other day where I was hit with some spell no one could figure out - I also hit my head pretty good on a wall though - I've been getting headaches. Sometimes they're small. Sometimes they are so intense I sick up. But only once before - which was when it happened - was it so intense I passed out. Which I'm assuming is why I'm here. Because last thing I remember is sitting at the three broomsticks with my friend." He told her. She wrote quickly then paused and looked him over before writing something else down quickly.

"Alright. We're gonna have a brain scan done on you just for good measure. But once that is done and you've talked to the doctor, you're free to go." She said, placing the clipboard down before walking out of the room. Harry wanted to question the type of scan that was going to be performed but rather sighed and looked around.

What the hell? Harry heard the voice in his head.

No idea. Harry thought.

Why am I talking to myself. Ugh. I have to get out more. Harry laughed to himself before the door opened and revealed a man in a lab coat.

"Hello, Auror Potter. I am Doctor Ludo. I'll take a quick scan of your head to make sure everything is alright." Harry shifted in the bed uncomfortably. The doctor chuckled. "I didn't mean it like that." He said and got his wand out of his pocket. "Alright, let's take a look." He said and cast a spell. After a few moments, the doctor pulled his wand away from Harry and placed it back in his pocket. "Everything looks normal. No damage or hemorrhaging. No growths. I dont even see any signs of a concussion. Just rest up for a few days, take a pain reduction potion every 6 hours as needed. You should be fine in a few days. If not, come back by and we will try to figure out another plan of action." He said and wrote something down for the man lying in the bed. Harry looked at the paper to realise it was a doctors note of some sort. "We will contact your employer to relay the message that you will not be permitted to work for a few days. But just to be sure, when you go back to work, give your supervisor this." He pointed to the paper Harry was currently holding. "You're free to go any time. Just make sure you get plenty of rest." Harry nodded at him and thanked him before he left him alone in the room. Harry got up from the bed and started changing and collecting his things as the door opened once again. He looked over his shoulder to see who had come in.

"Hey, mate. How ya feelin?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm not sure honestly. Tired though. But overall I feel fine I guess." Ron looked at him with with a blank stare before breaking into a smile. He shrugged, not pressing any further and waited for Harry to collect all his things.

"I'll take you home." He said after Harry had grabbed the last of his belongings from the chair in the corner.

#fanfiction #mine #fandoms in general #harry potter #hp drarry #hp fandom #hp au #hp fanfic #draco x harry #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #harry potter x draco malfoy #drarry #draco malfoy

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greyeyedmonster-18 · 2 years

Text

prompt: harry asks to take sirius's last name.

just another day of harry & sirius/remus nonsense, whatelse is new (also this is still fluff and i will not be taking comments about it at this time)

Almost sixteen or not, being in his parent's room felt decidedly naughty. Tiptoeing into the space with the massive bed and the handsome oak dresser, everything properly in its place as it always was, and Harry couldn't help but look over his shoulder every other second.

Not that he wasn't allowed to be in there or go in there.

But usually, he had to ask.

And he...definitely didn't.

Because they weren't home! They were out! They had left Harry home alone and he needed a sweatshirt to wear because all of his were dirty and he knew he was going to be cold stepping out of the shower that he really needed to take and so what if they were all dirty because Harry hadn't brought his laundry downstairs when Sirius did the washing and the consequence fit the crime.

Maybe while we're gone, you take care of that, hm?

They both did the washing by magic, though Remus had insisted years ago they also invest in muggle washing for the sole purpose of teaching Harry. And they did, Remus also insisting that once a month Harry do his own laundry, though that...didn't happen. Sirius used it every once in a while, but it was more likely that the room alone was used for the laundry. Folding and organizing and Harry should really stop being such a brat because Sirius was still doing it for him and Harry could walk into that particular room and find all his clothes cleaned and folded. But the time for apologizing was later. Maybe.

And the time for looting through a dresser to find some kind of lightweight sweatshirt was now. He went to the dresser opening the drawers, entirely unimpressed at all the sweaters folded that were...quite honestly hideous. Moony. As soft as some of them were, Harry definitely wasn't going to spend the afternoon in a chunky knit with stripes and checks and....were those flowers, really? On Remus, it didn't phase Harry. But Harry, personally, would never be caught dead wearing something from Remus's wardrobe. Even if Sirius did on occasion and somehow managed to make mustard and brown striped sweaters look cool.

Harry moved down the drawers until he got to the bottom one, opening it to something that looked a little more normal. Simple and neutral and smelled like Sirius. Fingers touched the different fabrics, trying to gauge which one was the softest, and maybe if it was taken from the middle, Sirius wouldn't notice one was missing at all and then Harry wouldn't have to explain why he was in their room in the first place and why he didn't do his washing like he was asked to do, or at this point shower, but a bright glimpse of red caught his eye. Tucked away at the very bottom, Harry pulled it out, ruining the perfect arrangement in the drawer.

A Gryffindor quidditch jersey. It was faded, and old, Harry's own jersey much more up-to-date. Harry turned it around, thinking it was his Dad's and Sirius had just kept onto it, but instead of POTTER, it read BLACK.

BLACK in bold gold letters.

Sirius's jersey.

Harry held it up to himself, trying to imagine Sirius at sixteen, who was apparently larger than Harry even then. It shouldn't have been surprising, given Sirius's build and height now. Even in his 30's, aging never phasing Black genetics. The hem of the jersey came past Harry's hips, the shoulder seems halfway down Harry's upper arm, even though he had been working out. Painstakingly so, desperate for any sort of muscle definition instead of just skin and bones. He thought he was getting there, but didn't come close to Sirius at sixteen.

It felt ridiculous.

Harry listened for a moment, Number 12 still quiet.

He looked around quickly and before he could stop himself, he pulled the jersey over his head. Just a quick look. He had done it with his Dad's, after all. Some days he played in his Dad's jersey at school, POTTER in faded lettering across his shoulders and it made him feel proud.

Harry stood in front of the full-length mirror in his parent's room, jersey hanging on Harry's smaller frame, and he felt just as proud. BLACK on his back.

He turned around, looking over his shoulder at his reflection, mesmerized by five letters.

B L A C K.

He liked the way that fit. Snugly and comfortably. Not too big, even if the jersey was.

"Harry Potter....Harry...Black. Harry...James Potter-Black." he whispered out loud, feeling foolish as he did so. The name made his insides flutter, wrapping around him the same way his godfather's arms did when Harry was feeling overwhelmed and Sirius somehow just knew. Harry could've stared at his back in that baggy jersey for hours, the black sweatshirt he had also pulled out discarded on the floor.

"Harry we're home!" echoed a voice from the entryway and Harry startled, pulling the jersey off and rushing to get the sweatshirt, closing the drawer that was left open, and running out of their room with both things in hand.

Harry kept the jersey crumpled up in the back of his dresser. For reasons. Taking it out to try on when he was alone in his bedroom, mind consumed with BLACK wondering what it would feel like to walk through the halls of Hogwarts with that level of confidence. Harry hadn't wanted something so badly in quite some time. Sleeping in a jersey that belonged to his godfather, working on summer assignments, and trying out what Harry Potter-Black looked like in dark ink at the top of his paper.

And part of Harry knew he didn't have to wonder and knew that if he just...asked Sirius what the legal process was for a last-name change, he could probably tell him. It was probably simple. But part of Harry hesitated.

You can't just take my last name, Harry. What have you done that makes you mine?

Why would I want you as mine? Officially? I already got stuck with you.

Sirius had never said either of those things to him before. The voice in Harry's head didn't even sound like Sirius. If anything they sounded like Snape, or his Aunt he had visited one time for respect and then never again, or a faint voice that would creep into his dreams and tell him nasty things.

So instead of asking, Harry waited until Sirius and Remus were occupied and walked down the long hall to Sirius's study at the back of the house. He definitely wasn't allowed in there, the same way Sirius didn't go into Harry's room and seldomly into the parlor where he studied but knew that's where a legal text would be kept. All of Sirius's text from classes organized on his bookshelf and surely Harry could find the process on his own.

He quietly twisted the handle, wincing at every click and hoping the door didn't creak when he pushed it open just enough to slip inside.

Another place that just...felt like Sirius.

As if Harry could put on that jersey and sit in his godfather's big, leather chair behind his desk and just...become a Black.

He walked to the bookcase, taking in the picture of the three of them from Christmas cards past on one of the shelves--a much smaller Harry in the middle of Sirius and Remus, taken on Christmas Eve by the Weasleys. They were happy. Harry hated the photo because one of his teeth was missing on the side of his mouth when he smiled, the last one to fall out even though Harry was nearly 10 in that photo. Harry started reading spines of textbooks, not understanding half the words and titles.

Why did you think this would be easy?

Harry sighed and continue reading, pulling out and thumbing through a few of them, wishing there was something clearly labeled HOW TO CHANGE YOUR LAST NAME WHAT PAPER DO I NEED TO SIGN CAN I DO IT MYSELF OR DO I NEED TO ASK MY GODFATHER AND IF ITS THE LATTER HOW DO YOU DO THAT.

"I thought I heard someone in here..." Sirius said, opening the door and Harry jumped, slamming the book he had closed. Sirius didn't look angry, but one of his eyebrows was raised in question.

"Er...sorry."

"What are you doing in here?"

"Uh...I...was looking for...a book."

"Well you know, I happen to have excellent knowledge about books," Sirius walked closer to Harry, gently taking the text out of his hands and putting it back into the hole in the bookcase. "Did you find what you needed?"

"No."

One word answers, that was fine.

"Do you need some help?"

"No," Harry repeated, dropping his head so he could look at the floor. Sometimes it would've been easier if Sirius had just scolded him.

You know you aren't allowed to enter my study without permission, your brooms on the ground, are we clear?

And Harry could agree and be sent on his way. An understanding parent was sometimes worse. Especially when Harry didn't understand it himself.

"Do you know what you're looking for?"

"No." Two fingers went under Harry's chin, tilting it upward towards Sirus's face.

"Is...there a reason you think you can't tell me about what you need?"

"No."

"A lot of no's today, alright."

"Sorry," Harry muttered. A feeble apology and grey eyes searched Harry's face.

"What for?"

"I know I'm...not supposed to be in here."

"Well you needed a book so..." Sirius told him, "Just ask next time, okay? I'm not angry with you."

"Can you pretend to be for a second?"

Sirius hummed, smiling a little and dropping his hand from Harry's chin to mess up his hair, "No, I don't think I can. Tough shit." Harry snorted at the slight and Sirus's smile grew, "See? It's not so bad. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Moony?"

Remus looked up from his book, the sun catching his eyes as he met Harry's gaze. There was a light breeze that day, dampening some of the summer heat, Remus sitting out in the yard of Number 12 reading. Sirius was going to be in hearings all day, leaving just the two of them. That happened a lot over summer, Sirius coming home to open cabinets in the kitchen and takeaway for dinner, Harry and Remus with sun across their cheeks and noses.

"Coming to join me?"

"I think," Harry nodded, finding a seat on the grass, not bothering with a blanket, and staring up at the blue sky, only a few clouds drifting by. Maybe it would be easier to have this conversation without having to look at Remus at all. He could talk to the clouds. Practically no one.

One of Remus's feet hit Harry gently.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything you'd like Harry."

"Can...I tell you something?"

"That too."

"I went into your room a few weeks ago, when you and Sirius went out? I...yeah."

"Oh...alright? Was that it?"

"Sort of."

"You didn't find the lacy briefs, did you?"

"What?! No. Moony."

"Only joking."

"Were you?"

"I don't know," Remus laughed, nudging Harry with his foot again, "I think both of us would prefer you ask to go in there, Harry but...if that's what you're worried about--"

"I found Sirius's old quidditch jersey. In a drawer."

"Oh. I haven't seen that in ages."

"He gave me my Dad's when I first started playing....remember?"

"I do..."

"How...how..come he didn't give me his?"

There was a long pause at the end of the question and Harry continued looking at the sky. He absolutely was not going to look at Remus, and he absolutely wasn't going to cry in case the answer was because why would he want you to have it.

"Can you look at me, love?"

"No."

"So...we're going to have a very poignant conversation with you..."

"Looking at the sky? Yep. Sounds good to me. I just...did he...why didn't he give it to me? It's not like...he uses it or anything? And...I dunno."

To Harry's surprise, Remus moved, laying down next to Harry in the grass, one of his elbows bumping into Harry's. "Sirius didn't play for very long...I don't think that jersey has particular...uh, sentimental value for him."

"So?"

"I just mean it probably didn't occur to him that you would've wanted it."

"Well I do," Harry told him indignantly.

"Is this what you wanted to talk about?"

Harry exhaled and squinted at the sky. He took off his glasses for good measure, making it extra impossible. "Do you think...he would care if I maybe wanted his last name as well?"

"Not at all," Remus said without hesitation. Not even a pause for shock at the question.

"Really?"

"Really."

"I think I do. I tried to do some...research on all the paperwork behind it or what it would even mean but couldn't find a book and..."

"Is that why you were in his study?"

"Yeah."

"You know, Sirius is pretty good at all this legal stuff and could give you a very simple explanation of the process."

"I just..."

"Your parents left you with him...and I am very lucky to be part of that, and we are very lucky that we got to keep you," Remus said slowly, "Sirius...is so proud of you every single day, Harry. No matter what you do or say or...he is so proud that you're his. So am I by that. I can't think of a single thing that he would be happier to give to you than his last name."

"Then why don't I already have it?"

"It..probably didn't occur to him that you would've wanted it."

"Well, I do."

"Look at me, please?"

Harry huffed and slowly turned his head to the side so he could see Remus's face. Bright sunlight on his freckled face, making him look younger. Remus smiled, "You need to talk to him about this, you know that, right?"

The day Harry was intending on asking Sirius had been horrible. Harry couldn't tell you why it was easier to start a row when he was overtired and on the verge of tears and wanting Sirius to hold him while he asked if he could please have Black on the back of my Quidditch jersey too? and I'm your kid, this is our family, please want me? but that was exactly what he did.

About having to pick up his room.

What's it matter? No one goes in there anyway!

Read a chapter for summer homework.

There's plenty of time left of summer, get off my case!

About potentially going to the Weasley's for dinner.

I don't want to, just let me stay here alone

Until Remus finally sent him to his room to cool off before Sirius could say a thing. Harry had been spending a lot of time in his room to cool off recently. After about an hour of stewing in his own guilt and feelings, he made his way downstairs. He gave a brief mumbled apology to Remus before leaving out the front door, Sirius apparently in the drive working on his bike.

He smiled when he saw Harry, "You're back!"

"I didn't go anywhere..." muttered Harry immediately.

Sirius put down the tool he was using, "Mmm that won't do."

"What?"

"If you're going to be out there with me, I'm going to need the attitude to be at 50% at the highest. This won't do."

"What am I at?"

"80, at least."

"That's an exceeds expectations."

"I would love a Dreadful attitude about now."

"Your scoring scale is skewed..."

"Shall I write the board and hold a meeting? I'll change it no problem. And maybe while I'm at it try to convince them to put Snogging as a subject for 5th years to take?"

Harry couldn't help but laugh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he walked closer to Sirius, "I'd pass that one."

"You'll pass more than that, I'm sure."

"Maybe."

"I'll love you all the same," Sirius told him, watching as Harry sat down on the pavement his knees drawn up. Sirius stopped what he was doing and sat across from him, Harry thinking he had spent far too much time on the ground with the two of them lately. Chairs seemed more properly 16, yet....here he was.

Pavement and Grass.

And tears stinging his eyes.

"Harry..."

"I want your last name."

"Wha--"

"I want to take your last name, with mine. I want both. I want...my Dad's and I want yours. I want that whole big long name on the back of my Quidditch jersey, every single letter Potter-Black. I want to write it on the top of my papers, I want to graduate, hopefully, assuming I pass my OWLS, and I want Dumbledore to say two names. Harry James Potter-Black, I want....I want it to be a mouthful and I'll make sure everyone says all of it all the time and if I get married I'm going to have them take Potter-Black because it's important and Potter is important but you're also important to me and I'm sorry I've been so bloody awful lately, I just...didn't know how to tell you, as always, I never know what to say and...I...didn't know if you wanted...that because....I'm not really and...I know you are but I don't know and I just--"

And Sirius leaned forward, taking Harry's face into both of his hands, one of his thumbs wiping a tear track, "I'm going to stop you right there, Harry James," he said in a soft but firm voice. The use of his middle name was enough to get Harry to look at him, "Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah."

"You are my kid, you have been for years now. What's mine, is yours. My time, my money, my energy, my everything, is yours, Harry. And...you know, Molly Weasley might tell me that I spoil you...but there is no one on this Earth more deserving of everything I have to offer than you. It would be honor for you to have my last name," Sirius said, his own eyes misting as he spoke. Harry wanted to reach up and wipe away the sadness just as Sirius did for him far too often, but he just swallowed and wrapped his hand around Sirius's wrist. "You want Potter-Black?"

"I...y-yeah. I do."

"Then let's make that happen."

"When?"

"Tomorrow if you'd like."

Harry nodded eagerly, "I'm completely free tomorrow. I don't have to clear my schedule or anything."

"Harry James Potter....Black," Sirius tested out the name, just as Harry had done in the bedroom when he had first found the jersey. The one he was definitely going to bring with him to Hogwarts. "Has a nice ring to it."

#sirius black #remus lupin #harry potter #raising harry #this probably doesnt count as fluff #i mean it kind of does #its not SAD #its...barely angst...#its fluff. ive decided #day 4 #im doing great.

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rhysiedarling · 2 years

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Give me the aux, I'm cool

Feyre Archeron x Rhysand (ACOTAR modern au)

Feyre receives an unexpectedly wholesome note from her neighbour.

Find it on Ao3

Hi guys! This is my first ever feysand fic. Please feel free to offer some feedback or drop some prompts you'd like me to do next time. I hope you like this one!

P.S. the idea for this fanfic was taken from one of Steph Bohrer's tiktoks.

Feyre wanted nothing more than to drop into bed. That is what she told herself as she fumbled with the keys to her apartment door at two in the morning.

She had been at Elain's bachelorette party all night, drinking herself half to death. Feyre still struggled with the fact that her elder sister was going to be married by the end of the month. She was happy for Elain—truly. But thinking of the love and joy her sister had found in life—and she, had not—has admittedly made her a little jealous.

Elain's love life had started blossoming when Feyre first introduced her to a good friend, Lucien Vanserra. She thought it was a good idea, bringing them both together. Lucien, no matter how many times he had denied it, was a rather lonely man. That is, of course, courtesy of Feyre's prick of an ex, Tamlin. Ever since things went south with Tamlin, Feyre had decided to flee and sever their years-long relationship, bringing Lucien along with her.

She had been absolutely broken then. She had never realised the influence Tamlin held over her life. She had been blind—so incredibly blind—to the toxicity of their relationship. She had endured years of constant heartache, guilt and shame. All in the name of love. And Tamlin had decided to wash all efforts down the drain the night he directed his rage towards her.

Lucien, ever so loyal, stayed with her post the breakup. He comforted her, listened to her rant, and generally did such a good job taking care of her. She was grateful for all he did.

To show said gratitude, she decided to introduce Lucien to her sister Elain. Things had been awkward at first but a mere few weeks later, they were both talking amicably, which will only grow into the love that they have for each other today.

So in short, she was happy for them. A little jealous, but beyond happy.

Feyre finally managed to stick the key into her door and unlocked it. She was so exhausted she had almost missed the white sheet of folded paper that fluttered down onto her feet.

Confused, she picked it up, almost tripping herself in the process. She snatched the folded note up from the floor and shut the door behind her. She fumbled for the lights in her apartment before taking off her shoes.

She made her way into her bedroom, perching herself at the edge of her bed, unfolding the note in her hands.

Just so you know, you have an excellent taste in music.

- Guy in 320

She cringed as she remembered the day Mor came over for a girls night. Her friend had not just brought a suitcase full of snacks but an entirely separate one for alcohol only. When Feyre asked her why, her only response was "the bigger the sample space, the more options" and they left it at that. Mor had also deigned to bring her new speaker, blasting out Taylor Swift's new album for the duration of the night. Feyre hadn't realised how loud they had been playing until she had received this note.

Frowning at the memory, she placed the note on her bedside table and snuggled into bed. She would deal with this in the morning, when an inevitable hangover would be waiting for her, but also sobriety.

Morning had come to soon and Feyre felt as if her head was about to explode. She soundly thanked her past self as she spied a full glass of water on her bedside table. She had left it there before leaving for Elain's party, knowing she'd need it the following morning. Feyre greedily gulped it down.

It wasn't until a few hours later that her headache receded. Her attention snagged onto yesterday's note. Without giving herself time to hesitate, she grabbed it and went to pen down a response.

Thank you. Although if this is a subtle way of telling me to turn down my music, note taken.

- Girl in 319

With no time to reconsider herself, she was out and slipping the note under her neighbour's door.

Another note came that night, slipped under her door like the day before. If Feyre was being completely honest, she had come to look forward to it. The anticipation of her neighbour's next response.

She quickly unfolded it, her eyes scanning the page, allowing herself a small trickle of hope. A small smile graced her lips as she beheld the writing.

Of course not, I like blasting out my music too. Just wanted to say that I liked what I heard. It'd be nice to share our music preferences some day. What do you say? Hit me up.

- Rhys, the guy in 320

And written on the bottom of that paper, in neat cursive handwriting, was a phone number.

#feysand #feysand fanfic #feyre archeron #rhysand #acotar #sjm #modern au #feyre x rhysand #fanfic #ao3 #romance

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issaxcharlie · 3 years

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Someone To You

Pairing: Alive! Luke Patterson x Fem Reader

Summary: Y/N and Luke have been friends for most of their lives and have already spent some time in love, but not knowing how to jump from friends to lovers, they have been stranded in that rare transition for much longer than they should, something that does not go unnoticed neither for them nor for the members of the rock band.

A lot of Luke and Y/N fluff, and a lot of friendship between Y/N and the Sunset Curve boys💖 (oh and my usual nonsense)

Word count: +3k

Songs used: Kiss me by Ed Sheeran and Follow You by Echosmith

Two in the morning and Y/N has been lying on her bed for twenty minutes trying to go back to sleep without any success. She is about to give up and go to get her journal when an unmistakable knock on the window echoes through the room.

She gets up and turns on the lamp before going to open the lock, her best friend entering the room seconds later and closing the window again before turning to her. The second they are face to face, Y/N lunges at him, entwining her legs tightly across his waist, her face buried completely in his neck, letting the familiarity of his body and scent wash over her.

“Oh god, I missed you.” He whispers in a husky voice, putting his hands on her hips and carefully kicking off his vans with his feet, then moving to her bed, dropping her gently on her usual side.

That's when he can see the girl's face with attention, her features slightly illuminated by the night lamp and making clear that she had been awake before he arrived.

“Difficult night eh?” He asks just before pushing his body forward to jump to the other side of the bed, and she lets out a sweet wholehearted laugh when he stumbles at the last second and ends up falling on his belly on her hips. “This was supposed to be way cooler and smoother.”

“I know Lu, maybe try to just walk next time?”

“Y/N, darlin’. Rockstars don’t just walk, we have to do everything with style.” He gets up and lightly kisses her on the cheek before stepping carefully around her to lie down on his side.

“My mistake, Lucas.” She teases with a smirk and he frowns before playfully sticking his tongue out at her. “Now, what happened? Whenever you appear at the window out of nowhere, it’s because you feel overwhelmed."

He analyzes what she said silently. All the times that he has entered through that window passing through his head, as well as all the hugs and cuddles received. All the years, and feelings and memories making him feel blessed to love her. "I guess you are right, you are my safe place." Y/N's face lights up, and she confidently moves closer to give him a soft kiss on the nose. “And you are mine. Now, spill, handsome.”

He smiles at the compliment, and makes an exaggerated wink that makes her snort. “My mom made me leave the house almost impossible, I was minutes away to miss the gig. I don't understand why it's so hard for her to understand that this is what I was born to do. If I want to be someone in this life, I have to continue on this path, no matter what. I don't want to die and just vanish, I want to leave a mark. We all want our lives to be great and to be remembered." Luke drops his head against the pillow and covers his eyes with his hands, letting his annoyance out.

“I get you, and you know I will always support you.”

“But…”

“But I just want you to know this. You are someone, Luke. To me, to Reggie, Alex, Bobby, and no matter how much you guys argue, you are someone to your parents. You don't need to connect with everyone to make an impact, just with the people who matter to you.”

He moves his hands behind his head and stares in silence at the ceiling for a few seconds, and then turns to see her with the most charming smile in his repertoire. “Will you come to the Orpheum after we nail the audition?” Anyone would be disconcerted by his attitude, but for Y/N it is a typical Luke Patterson defense mechanism. Whenever he feels like the conversation is getting too heavy or when he just doesn't want to respond, he drastically changes the subject with his best smile to try and distract her.

“Of course I will, It’ll be one of the most important days of your life, I would never miss it. And I would not change you singing in my ear for anything, but there is something so special when you are on stage, it is like being in front of the microphone sets your soul on fire.” She replies with a delighted smile.

"I totally get what you mean. So, you like me to sing you to sleep, huh? C’mere beautiful." He requests before trapping her against him, his calloused fingers quickly finding her hair, stroking it gently as he sings in her ear.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. Lie down with me, and hold me in your arms” He stops for a second to meet her eyes again and give her a light kiss on the forehead, before confidently singing the chorus. “Kiss me like you wanna be loved, you wanna be loved, you wanna be loved. This feels like falling in love, falling in love, falling in love.”

Y/N smiles against his neck before finally falling asleep, the peace Luke always gives her completely invading her and melting her in his arms.

In the morning Y/N snaps her eyes open when she raises her arm to wrap her best friend’s waist and finds the space empty. She sits down and finds a note on her nightstand, Luke's unmistakable handwriting peeking out due to a poorly folded sheet.

“Good morning darlin’, sorry for leaving without saying goodbye, I had to go to the last rehearsal before the auditions. After that we will pick you up to go celebrate <3

PS: you look so hot while you drool my shoulder and the pillows."

-Luke

The girl can't help but blush, and furiously examines the pillow to see if she actually did it, only to find another little note below it.

“Gotcha.” She rolls her eyes and a little laugh escapes her lips.

Today is a ridiculously important day in the lives of the boys, if they manage to be among the 10 chosen for the second part of the contest, they will compete in the legendary Orpheum for the opportunity to land a record deal.

The four of them have been working like crazy even though the situation with their families has been getting worse in recent weeks, none of them have even thought about giving up. Without much to do during her day off, Y/N allows herself to remember the feeling of being in Luke's arms, the conversation she had with Alex and Bobby just a few days before in the back of her head.

“Why are we doing this again?” Alex asks clearly annoyed while Bobby and Y/N laugh, turning to see Luke and Reggie jamming some songs across the sidewalk, in front of one of the hottest clubs in LA.

“Something about making the band better known before auditions.” she reports, as she closes the buttons on Luke's bleached jean jacket she's wearing.

“I understand that, but couldn’t he wait til tomorrow? We practiced all day, I’m tired as fuck.” The blond replies, getting irritated from exhaustion.

Bobby yawns, his eyes getting heavier as he rests his head in Y/N’s shoulder. “Muffin, I swear, your man has infinite energy.”

“He is not my man, Bobs.” She answers as she rests her head on his, ruffling his hair gently.

"Well maybe you should let him know, because he refers to you as his girl all the time." Bobby informs her, raising his head to see her reaction.

“He does?” Even in the dark both boys can see how red her cheeks are, and how the smile on her face grows with each passing second. Bobby decides to take a chance and keep teasing her.

“My girl is so insanely talented, that’s my sweet girl, my girl said this and I thought it was so freaking awesome because I’m hopelessly in love with her.”

“Man, that was so accurate. 10/10.” Alex replies while laughing, they lean in to highfive above her head, and she can't help but blush even more at her friend's words.

“You guys are the worst.” She wrinkled her nose and they both turned to see each other, agreeing silently that now is the moment to ask one of the questions they had wanted to ask her for months.

“Since we met you are in this strange relationship, in which you are both aware that you are in love with each other, but neither of you does anything. What are you waiting for?" Bobby asks, indicating Alex to support him with his eyes.

“Yeah bro after 3 years, it gets kind of old.” He adds, trying to sound cool.

“I guess, we just think it is not the right time. Since you started the band he has worked tirelessly on his career as a musician and that is what I want him to focus on. We both know what is in our hearts and for now that is more than enough.” She blurts out, trying to get her thoughts in order.

“That was so cheesy I want to die.” Alex answers in reflex, and his eyes go wide when he realizes what he said.

“Oh my God, Alex. Go away! I will never open my soul to you again.”

The girl blushes again, a small smile at the corner of her lips as she remembers how after that her friends continued to tease her with Luke and called her Mrs Patterson for the rest of the night, both she and Luke totally embarrassed when they continued to tease them in the truck on the way home. She decides to get out her notebook and try to write a song, which she hadn't done since Luke formed Sunset Curve, and by the time she finished she had just some minutes before the boys arrived.

She managed to get ready in time, but what she found when she opened the door was not what she expected. The face that greeted her was Reggie's and not Luke's as always, and the sad little smile on the bassist's face wasn't normal either.

She instantly hugs him, making soft circles with her fingertips on his iconic leather jacket.

“Don’t worry about me, sunshine, I’m fine. But he needs you.” He takes her hand and walks toward Bobby's old truck, and Y/N is even more confused when she meets his beaming smile as they climb into the back of the vehicle. Alex is smiling too, but he looks clearly anxious, and Luke is nowhere to be found.

"Can someone explain to me what happened? Where is Luke?"

“We did it, muffin!” He embraces her excitedly, his clear happiness reassuring the stressed girl.

“Congrats guys! I’m so proud of you!” He released her and she hugs Reggie with her left arm and with her free one takes Alex's hand, who takes it in his and fondly kisses her knuckles.

“Thank you Y/N, but going back to Luke, we need your help. Things didn't go as smoothly as we expected and how to put it nicely… he lost it.” The blond informs her while anxiously playing with his necklace.

“You are the one who always shows him the way.” Reggie says with a bigger smile this time.

“Okay, start the truck Bobs, my man needs me.” Alex snorts a laugh and Bobby fulfills her request after smiling teasingly at her.

“You told Bobby he wasn’t your man.” Alex remarked with a smirk, turning his head toward the back seat to look into her eyes.

“And you told the boy at the club that you didn't know Reggie so you wouldn't have to give him his number. What's your point?” She answered swiftly with a mirrored smirk.

The drummer tries to counter attack but fails miserably, instead whispers a “...Well played.” and looks back to the front of the road.

“Was he cute?” Reg asks with genuine curiosity, and they all debate whether the boy was Reggie’s type or not on the way to where Luke is.

The boys leave her in the big park where the girl already imagined her best friend was, and she walks directly to the place where they sat millions of times throughout her childhood and adolescence, in their little corner of paradise. It doesn't take her long to find a disgruntled Luke sitting against their tree with his guitar three feet away, lying on the grass.

“You look so hot when you are frustrated.” Luke looks up and calms down when he meets her eyes. “I think you are the one who needs a song to relax now.” She adds, pointing out at the guitar. He nods and she picks it up, sitting between Luke's legs, her back leaning against his chest.

She blushes as she begins to play the song she finished composing just an hour ago, grateful that he can't see her face because of the position they are in. “I thank God for you all the time. Someone who knows my faults, but loves me despite them all. And you, I'll follow you just like that. Doesn't matter how far, If I have you, I have it all.”

She feels him kissing her hair, his heart beating just as fast as her own. “I think I found my soulmate, yes I do. I think I found the one who knows me. I don't wanna think about what it'd be like without you. Anywhere, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

When the song ends she freezes for a few seconds and Luke takes the opportunity to take the guitar and move it to the side, so that he can hug her closer to him, his arms around her waist while his chin rests on her shoulder.

“Your voice always shows me the way home.” Luke whispers sweetly in her ear, and Y/N instantly remembers Reggie said something similar in the truck, which means Luke had probably already expressed that thought to his friends, causing her to melt in his arms. She guesses it’s her turn to apply the famous Luke Patterson defense mechanism.

“What happened? I know you guys did pass, Bobby was so happy he wanted to cry.”

“We passed literally with the last ticket. They said they couldn’t see Sunset Curve, just another wannabe garage band, definitely not material for the big leagues.”

“Wow, that’s rough. And how did you react?”

"Reggie and Bobby held me by the arms and Alex by the back to stop me from going berserker." She smiles softly, imagining the scene clearly, and stretches her neck to see the guitarist's face.

“Lu, what else is bothering you?” He looks deep in thought, like he's forming multiple ideas in his head.

“I don't approve of everything they said, but I think maybe they have a point. I spent so much time trying to get the band to be material for a discography that I neglected our essence."

“Okay, then what’s the next move?”

“I have an idea, but I can’t do it without you.” He admits, staring deeply at her with his beautiful hazel eyes.

“Good thing you don’t have to. Luke, remember when we first met?” She asks, trying to distract him from his problems at least for today.

“Yeah, we were six. I told you I wanted to be a rockstar, and you said Lucas wasn’t a rockstar name, that I had to change it immediately.” He recalls with a soft smile.

“After that day you got angry every time someone dared to call you by your name.” She remembers the scene with a laugh.

“You have to admit, little Y/N was wise, you wouldn't have a band if you were still a Lucas.” He chuckles, caressing her hair lovingly., and she leans at the touch.”

“From that day I knew that I always wanted to be by your side. All my life I have tried to be someone, someone for my parents, for my friends, for the public, but I have never had to try with you.

I've always been someone for you... and that's more than enough. You've always known who I am, even when I'm not sure myself. You have always been patient and have loved me unconditionally, and I want you to know that you can always expect the same from me. god, I know since I was a kid I would do anything for you. I need you, I’m tired to wait for the correct moment, because every moment with you feels right.”

“Lu… is this a love confession?”

“I- yeah. But it’s so hard, I feel so many emotions right now and I really want to kiss the hell out of yo-” Y/N pulls him towards her connecting their lips hungrily, both melting into each other's mouths. He bites her lower lip slightly and separates a few seconds to admire her face, her eyes shining with love and lust.

“Darlin’, you can admit now your thing for rockstars. That’s exactly how you see me when I’m on stage.”

“I’ll admit it as soon as you admit you pretended to drown in the pool last year so I could give you mouth-to-mouth.”

“I would never do something like that… again.” They both laugh adoringly and Luke kisses her hard, determined to make up for all the lost time.

“Hey lovebirds, it’s time to go, Alex is minutes ago to snap at Reg and I don't want to end in the middle again, Reggie bit me last time.” They part abruptly, looking up at Bobby with daggers in their eyes.

“You can’t be all annoying all the time about our relationship and then ruin a moment like that.” she says clearly frustrated.

“Wow, eager much, muffin? someone is already whipped huh?” He jokes, causing Luke to put his finger in his mouth and then in his friend's ear.

“Bobby If you don’t shut up I swear-” She starts to fight, but he interrupts her.

“Are you guys dating now?” They both turn to see each other and smile, Luke wipes his hand on Bobby's shirt as they start to walk to the truck and entwine it with Y/N’s.

“Yeah, yes we are.” He declares with a majestic smile.

“Dammit I lost the bet to Alex. He said this was finally the year and I bet on another five.”

“Five? Really?” The girl asks, unable to believe what she hears.

“What? You have been in this strange relationship for about 12 years, five more years would be easy peasy. Reggie bet that you would make your lives with someone else and meet in 20 years to realize that it was always you." He informs them as they reach the vehicle, she looks in shock for a moment but then recovers and feings anger.

“Yeah, that’s it we are walking.” She decides, pulling Luke onto the sidewalk.

“You're just looking for an excuse to make out with your new boyfriend, you never get mad at us, not even the time Reggie stuck gum in your hair.” Bobby calls her out, and Reggie rolls the window down to emphasize that it was an accident.

“Okay yeah, I want to make out with my boyfriend and stick my tongue down his throat because as you mentioned, I've been waiting for many years to be able do it. So get lost or admire the show.” Reggie quickly closes the window again, and Bobby makes a disgusted face before almost running to the driver's seat.

“I’m so in love with you.” He admits with loving eyes, and she stands on tiptoe to fill him with light kisses on the forehead, nose, cheeks and lips. “I’m so in love with you, Lu.”

“Hey darlin’, I know you said the tongue in the throat thing to scare them away but…” He tries to explain himself, but she stops him knowing exactly what he wants to say.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m kissing the hell out of you as soon as we get home.” She reassures, caressing his hand.

He lets out a big sigh of relief. “Good.” A big smile on his face while pressing her hand a little harder to make sure this is actually happening.

Thanks for reading ✨

Taglist: @writerinlearning, @strangerthanfanfiction713 @thebloodthirstyvampress, @kinda-really-lost, @kcd15, @magnet-girl, @aliandthephantoms, @stxrkspidey, @pinkrockstar19, @s0uz4s, @shycupcakealissa @cookiebuba, @fangirlangioma, @sageellsworth05, @twist3dtinkerbell, @sunsetcurvenotsunsetswerve, @caitsymichelle13, @ifilwtmfc @bibliophilewednesday @totomoshi, @siennanoelle01, @lunashadow6955, @bookfrog247, @morganayennefertyrell, @kiss-themoongoodbye, @rachelle3musicals, @imsydneywalker, @really-dont-forget-it @agentstarkid @talksoprettyjjx @kaitieskidmore1 @lukeys-giggle @katie-navarro @crybabyddl @cocopuffs0211 @marvel-ousnesss @tuttigunner @dpaccione @justalittleweirdoo

#luke patterson x reader #luke patterson imagine #luke patterson x y/n #luke patterson fic #luke patterson oneshot #luke patterson #luke jatp #jatp luke #luke patterson fanfiction #charlie gillespie x reader #charlie gillespie imagines #charlie gillespie x y/n #charlie gillespie fic #jatp imagine #julie and the phantoms

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dancingazaleas · 3 years

Text

𖨆. 02 / all for us

summary: you’ve finally decided it was time to eat and bathe, but now that you aren’t worried about starving to death, you’re getting homesick. maybe a cup of tea and a movie is the best.

note: i, now, have a taglist for this series especially!! here’s the taglist form!! it will also be posted on the series masterlist!! much love <33

word count: +3.0k

warnings/notes: starvation, manipulation, abuse, slight panic attack, thoughts of suicide

IT'S been five days since you've had anything to eat.

your body is so weak from the lack of nutrients that you can't stand up on your own. your head is constantly aching from lack of food and you keep getting dizzy.

you feel like you're on the brink of death now, you can't even get out of bed to get yourself water out of your sink, shortening your life span if you keep this up. you feel yourself crying as you roll your body off of the bed and onto the floor.

hissing in pain, you dig your nails into the spruce hardwood floor.

"you are not weak for this. you're surviving," you whisper to yourself as you push yourself forwards with your arms.

it's so painful with the bruises. they rub up against your clothing, already irritating them a bit more than before, and now it's having pressure added onto it. your tears are blocking your sight, but you push on anyways. the door has never felt so far away.

you almost perk up when your nails scratch at the door. with weak fists, you bang at the door and call for one of the men that has captured you. your tears are dripping on the ground below you, forming a small puddle as they all bunch together.

"please," you croak, "please..."

the door is being unlocked and you feel as if all of your strength has been used at that moment. you lay still as your breath falters from your sobbing.

the door bumps against your head, shooting a sharp pain through your head. you can't find strength to care about it.

"so you're finally ready to listen. you look pathetic," you don't have to look up to tell it's levi speaking to you.

he calls out to erwin, telling him to fix you small and easy meal and to get you new clothes. he squats down and takes you into his arms bridal style.

if you weren't crying and letting out weak sobs, he would think your dead. you're so limp in his arms and your eyes are empty and droopy as they stare right through him. and it creeps him out.

he takes you into a bathroom with a tub, setting you gently on the toilet. he doesn't bother locking the door behind him, you're too weak to run away right now. levi's preparing you a bath, walking back and forth as he gets towels and soaps and checking the water.

you hiccup as you watch levi starting to remove that collar and chains around your neck, and you feel like a weight has been lifted off of your chest, literally. he's undressing you, obviously trying to avert his cold eyes away from your body. you're gently laid in the bath, head resting against the rim.

levi's quiet as he pours a warm cup of water over your hair and face, squatting down to reach your level.

"stupid," he scoffs as he lathers up shampoo in his hands. he washes your hair gently.

"this isn't mine and erwin's fault," he shakes his head while he pours water over your head, "it's your fault. you refused our care."

you don't argue back, too tired to even think of a comeback. you also don't feel like getting beat any more than you already are. your eyelids are getting heavy, immediately shutting them as soon as you feel the pressure on them.

levi stares, mouth slightly parted as you breathe in and out through your nose. your cheek was sprinkled in the color crimson, his own handiwork made him cringe. he just sighs, now brushing through your locks of hair with conditioner coated on his hands.

he rinses his hands off, letting the conditioner stay there just for a few seconds so it can soak in. his eyes trail down your body, stopping at your bruised breast. he didn't even realize he hit you there.

he shrugs it off and gathers water into the small cup in his hand, pouring it over your head. he expects you to jump up at the water over your head but all you do is mumble. he wants to wash your body, specifically your underarms, but with you half asleep and barely able to stand on your own without him holding onto you, he can't.

he clicks his tongue and pulls out the cover up blocking the drain. he grabs you by the arm, ignoring the whimper of pain that you let out, and pulls you up onto your wobbling feet. he helps you step out of the tub and wraps a fluffy pink towel around your shoulders, carefully sitting you onto the toilet again.

the bath water is a little murky and levi cringes at it because he knows it'll leave a ring around the tub. he'll clean it up later.

erwin's opening the door, a pile of clothes in his large hands.

"she's all tuckered out," he chuckles, handing off the clothes to levi.

"yeah. don't know how, she's barely done anything. must be the hunger or something," levi shrugs and watches the folded clothing come undone as he holds the hemline between his fingers.

"maybe we were too harsh on her."

"no, we weren't. we can't trust her. believe it or not, but forks can hurt whenever you put force into them when you stab someone. she could've hurt one of us or herself," he folds the clothes over his arm and holds out a hand.

erwin hands him underwear, "i suppose you're right."

"i'm always right," levi carefully puts on your underwear for you.

erwin rolls his eyes at levi's comment, "make sure to dry her hair."

"i know what i'm doing," he snaps, "go put her food in her room."

erwin complies, swinging the door shut behind him as he goes to fetch your food.

you've barely processed their conversation, too focused on levi's hands putting you in a satin light grey nightgown that ends just below your knees. the bishop sleeves keep your arms warm and cold at the same time, in fact, the whole material of the dress does as well. the neckline is a v-neck, not that you mind too much because of the risk you might get too hot.

"do i...," you manage to mumble, "do i have to wear this to sleep...?"

"yeah, unless you feel like sleeping in just underwear. i don't think you want that though," he scoffs as he towels off your damp hair.

you don't reply, far too tired to even say a 'whatever' to him. you let your forehead come into contact with his hip, taking in the cold temperature radiating off of his body. you want to nuzzle into his hip, but thankfully you have enough will to not do so. it reminds you of your friend, pieck, and her cat like tendencies. the memory has you letting out a pained laugh.

levi can feel his face getting warmer at every movement you make with your head, but he manages to play it off because of the towel blocking your view. he throws the towel into the basket by the tub, hand silently stroking at the back of your head in comfort.

it doesn't give you comfort. but you don't let it show.

levi's grabbing a hair brush, a clean and new one, and running it through your (hair type) locks. there are far too many tangles from the lack of care you've been giving your hair, but not enough to make a knot.

levi then pulls out a block of deodorant from the cabinet below the sink. it's unused and you can smell the scent of flowers on it as he brings it closer. his hands slide up your dress with caution, trying to avoid coming into contact with your bruised body.

he manages to put on the deodorant easily. he picks you back up with a grunt, eyebrows furrowing at your pained expression. he's placing you back onto your bed in just a matter of seconds, throwing the covers over your legs.

erwin's sitting at the edge of your bed, holding a fork with food already on it. your eyes are droopy while you look at erwin.

you don't eat a lot, they're in fear that you might throw everything up if fed too fast. you don't blame them, you haven't eaten in five miserable days. it's best to be cautious.

"scooby...," you manage to whisper out, eyes fluttering shut.

"she wants to watch scooby doo even though she's already asleep," levi huffs with the shaking of his head, grabbing the tray from erwin's hands.

erwin follows after levi, closing the door behind the both of them and locking it.

"she seems to be getting adjusted," erwin notes while standing behind levi and watching him wash the dishes.

"only because she was on the brink of death. let's just hope she learned from it," levi's aggressively scrubbing the plate with a sponge.

————

you lay in your bed a few days later, the feeling of homesickness is eating you up inside. did no one care? did anyone even notice you vanished? where was everyone? what were they doing?

you think of zeke. the man you were sort of dating, it's complicated. well, it was. now, it's just nonexistent.

zeke was out of the country for a bit, something to do with work. he left you with a kiss on the forehead and a hug. you wonder if he's texted you.

you think of pieck. oh my god, she's had to have noticed by now. she's your best friend, she lives with you. but the memory of the two of you fighting right before you were kidnapped comes flooding back, and you deflate. if you weren't in the house then pieck would probably think it was normal.

what about porco? reiner? your guys friends who act like guard dogs towards you. where were they? did they notice? surely they had to, you never not text them back.

bertholdt? your close friend that you also worked with him. he was a music prodigy and he texted you almost everyday. did he notice?

you're breathing erratically as you sit up and clutch your hands over your ringing ears. where were they? where even was your phone?

you're gonna get killed before you can tell any of them that you love them. the thought has you crying and tugging at your hair. you were so mean to pieck before you were kidnapped. you hadn't talked to zeke since the day of your kidnapping, who probably wasn't worried because he was busy with work.

when will you see them again? will you ever even get to see them again?

'maybe after death,' you think, eyes darting up to the mirror on your vanity.

you slap yourself upside the head, slapping away the thought. you struggle to get onto your feet, but when you do, you're banging at the door for levi and erwin again.

you have to know if they're okay, to know if they know you're gone. you step away from the door at the sound of keys jingling and their footsteps.

"what are you freaking out about now," levi's being followed by erwin.

"my friends... did.. did you tell them i was okay," with a boost of confidence, your gripping at levi's biceps.

"get your filthy hands off of me," he smacks them away.

"yes, we did tell them you were going away. we said you decided on a vacation," erwin speaks and watches your eyes dart back to the mirror.

"fuck," you whisper to yourself. everyone would believe you'd go on vacation, you had been stressed with your job for the past month.

"levi's gonna make you some tea and then we can all chat, we were about to do so anyways," erwin's hand rubs at your back as he pulls you close to him.

levi leaves the room, following the orders of erwin. erwin, on the other hand, is cooing at you.

"no one's going to miss you," he whispers in a sweet tone and it gives you goosebumps, "no one at all."

you know it's not true. it can't be true. zeke would miss you. reiner would miss you, pieck, porco, bertholdt. they'd all miss you.... right?

"we're the only ones who care, no one else cares," his grip tightens.

"want to know what that girl said," you hear the arrogance in his voice, and you can't do anything to stop it since he's buried your face in his chest.

"she said she was glad you were on vacation. she said that it was good that she didn't have to see you," yoy hiccup against his chest, pieck couldn't have said that, right?

he pulls away finally, satisfied at your expressionless face—if you overlook the tears. you can't give in, pieck would never say that. never in a million years would she say that, even if she hated your guts.

right?

levi comes back in, hands holding a tray that has teacups and a pot of tea on it. levi goes to the area with three chairs, setting the tray onto the coffee table and sitting himself down in one. erwin follows behind him, leaving the chair in between them open for you to sit.

they stare at you expectedly, it makes you uncomfortable so you decide to just deal with it and sit with them.

"what tea is this," erwin asks while levi pours everyone a cup.

"earl grey, what else do we have," levi hands a cup to erwin and then to you.

you hold it by the handle, silently admiring the cup's delicate and intricate design. you try to ignore the voice in the back of your head to break it on the ground and slash your neck open. you want to drink it too, it smells absolutely perfect, but if you hold it any longer you might just listen to that voice.

you set it back down, left hand immediately grabbing at your right wrist. you didn't trust yourself to make a move on your own, if you did you fear it might end up with a shard of glass at your throat.

erwin's ice eyes stare at your wrist and hand, taking in how your knuckles were white and the skin on your arm was reddening.

"just say if you want handcuffs," erwin sips at his tea and looks away.

"what," you flinch at his voice interrupting the quiet that was once there.

his comment has you looking at your hands, which you let go of at the sight of the irritation.

"sorry," you shrug and lean back in your chair.

"good. can't have you hurting your hands," levi comments, eyes staring outside of the bay window.

"speaking of that," you sigh, "why do you always leave my hands alone. you've shown no mercy to my arms, so why my hands?"

"when you're good enough, you'll be allowed to play the piano," erwin crosses a leg over the other, ankle resting on his knee.

"play? for who? there's no one in this empty house but us," you scoff and cross your arms.

"me. and there's more people here than you think," levi's giving you a small smirk, "you're just separated from them."

"it's hard to believe that you have friends, levi," you mumble loud enough for them to hear. your comment has erwin chuckling and levi rolling his eyes.

"i have friends, believe it or not. watch your attitude," he's putting his tea back onto the tray.

"i don't have an attitude," you sound like a child arguing with their parent.

erwin butts in the conversation before levi can get mad, "anyways, we will allow you to play if we think you've been good enough. levi likes the piano, remember?"

you bite down on your tongue to stop the words 'no but i remember getting kidnapped!!' from coming out of your mouth.

"when can i leave this room, it's too stuffy in here?"

"did you not just listen to erwin? he said when we feel you've been good enough. you've got to start by loosing the attitude," levi snaps his fingers irritatedly.

"how am i supposed to act?!"

"obedient," erwin's now standing over your chair, hands gripping the arms as he leans over you.

"like a dog," you look to levi at the sound of his voice, you try to make yourself smaller.

"you have on a chain and collar for a reason, don't you," erwin smiles gently, hand taking ahold of the chains while he stands up straight.

you choke when erwin tugs the chains towards himself, head knocking right against his stomach while the chains swing in the air and curl around his arm. his other arm swiftly grabs at jaw and forces you to look up at him with your chin pressed to his body.

erwin feels himself harden at the sight, your eyes are widened and your mouth his agape and panting because of the sudden cut off of air.

"just like that," he strokes his thumb along your jaw while you wonder what's caused a sudden change in him these past few days; he used to be so gentle. oh right, kidnapping.

his words have you turning hot, embarrassment hugging you from behind. it wasn't like you easily complied, you were forced to do so. you're also embarrassed because you can feel his hard-on against your sternum, and while you haven't thought about it before, you realize that erwin is fucking hung. you hope that you're not too good for them.

you're saying prayers in your head whenever levi speaks up, "i thought we came in here to watch a movie or something."

erwin lets you go, chains dropping from his arm as he does so. you sigh in relief as erwin grabs the remote from your bed and turns the tv on. you huff while you flop onto your bed and crawl up under your covers, knowing that you'll probably just fall asleep as you watch the movie.

unfortunately, this gives off the impression that you would like to be cuddled. levi's sliding under the covers with you, chest pressing against your back with arms wrapped around your waist. erwin follows soon after, inserting himself in your arms as he scrolls through the different movies at his disposal on the television. you're slightly frustrated at all of the physical contact, but you know that if you reject their advances it'll end up bad for you.

"put on heather's, please," you ask, which erwin obliges to.

as the movie goes on, you hope that they get the message.

you'll be veronica, and they'll be jd.

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rogue-durin-16 · 3 years

Text

THINGS NEVER GO AS PLANNED (Part VI/VII)

"the downfall"

Summary: After Fred's death, George and Y/n lean on each other to carry on. This wasn't the most brilliant idea, though; George was pretty much in love with the girl, and Y/n— well, she had been dating Fred prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Genre: angst mostly

Tags:

Suggested by: @crispykittywitch

Things never go as planned: @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @beautyschoo1dropout @s1ut4georgeweasley @sunshineandshadows @missmulti @accioweaslcy @andreaareynoso @georgeweasley16 @dianarte @skarlettmikaelson

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality

Warnings: language, allusions to sex

A/N: my apologies for keeping y'all waiting for this one darlings, but here comes the next part YAYY! Enjoy <3

Prologue: the aftermath

Part I: sleepless nights

Part II: candy floss

Part III: shock therapy

Part IV: wrong name

Part V: the perfect excuse

Part VII: apart

Epilogue: I still love you

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

He had left me in the room that morning, alone, with regret and guilt straining my chest, with embarrassment and panic heaving over me, my only company being a terrible headache and a sore body.

I was still waiting for him to come back. Of course, he still lived in the apartment, but the day after, he slept at Shell Cottage because Bill needed help with the chores, and the next night at the Burrow because Molly had asked to keep an eye on 'the kids' —the kids being Ginny, Harry, Ron and Hermione— while she and Arthur were off to visit Andromeda, and at Lee's because Angelina was away and they were going to have a boys' weekend; in summary, he managed to avoid stepping into the flat while I was in there for an entire week.

I would be lying if I said the idea of moving out hadn't crossed my mind, but I knew I was being dramatic— we were being dramatic; we were adults, even if we forgot about it more often than not, and adults talk things out, so I decided to confront him at the only place I would manage to corner him; the shop.

When I descended from the office on the second floor, I spotted the ginger turning the 'CLOSED' to face the glass door. "Oi!" His head snapped to me as I climbed downstairs and he instantly walked to the shelves on the opposite side. "Can I have a word?" I requested, following him, only for George to move on to another shelf.

"Right now I'm quite busy." He replied, seemingly absent-minded as he pretended to check the products in front of him.

"This is important." I insisted, moving to stand besides him.

Not fast enough, though, because he was off to yet another part of the shop as soon as I got close. "I'm sure it can wait."

"You know it can't," I assured intently, stalking after him, only for him to speed up his own pace, moving from product to product without stopping too long in front of him. "George I'm- Oi, stop! We need to talk about this!"

"Well maybe I don't wanna talk about this!" He exclaimed, taking big steps under one of the stairs in order to shamelessly dodge the hand with which I had reached out to stop him.

"George Weasley don't run away from me!"

"I'm not running away from you!"

"You're literally RUNNING AWAY!"

He stopped circling the counter and stood across from me, slamming his palms over the till. "ALRIGHT, LOVE!" for the first time, I didn't like the way the name dripped off his tongue. "Let's talk about how we accidentally FUCKED! That's what you want so badly, isn't it?!" Flush crept up his neck and ears, and I couldn't tell if it was from anger or from timidness. "Go on, darling, lead the bloody way!"

I felt my own cheeks going red, partly because of his straightforward statement but also because I genuinely had never heard George raise his voice like he had just done.

"Cat's got your tongue now?!" My stuttering seemed to fuel his anger more. "C'mon, Y/n, talk! You wanted to talk!"

"SHUT THE HELL UP, GEORGE!" He clenched his jaw as his freckles drowned in a sea of pinkish red. "Yeah I want to talk! 'Cause that's what grown-ups do! We don't know how to act around each other so we just don't spend time together anymore— Fuck, I've barely seen you! AND WE. LIVE. TOGETHER!" I emphasised each word with stomps. "We can either pretend it didn't happen or talk it out to make sure we're on the same page, you choose but for Merlin's sake, don't avoid me!"

"OKAY!" His eyes widened, surprised at his own tone, and then he repeated in a softer, self-conscious one, "Okay." He breathed deeply and then added. "We're on the same page, right?" His eyebrows raised as he looked into my eyes. "It was... A mistake."

I should have noticed the uncertainty and hope in his voice, but I panicked and was too quick to respond, "Yeah! A massive mistake." My words stung my heart and, to my dismay, his own just as much. "Can we go back to being friends? Because I'm going crazy without you." I blamed our watery eyes to the argument we had had, and not to the fact that it had been a mistake.

He circled the counter and walked to me, hesitating before pulling me into a hug. "Can I...?" I tugged him closer, wrapping my arms around his middle. It took a moment for him to ease into my embrace, and I could tell we had fucked up our friendship for good. "It's alright, we'll make it right again." His words made me squeeze him tighter, as if he was about to vanish from my side.

And from then, we tried to make it right, we tried so hard, because it seemed so easy to make it wrong again.

Everytime we stood too close, everytime he leaned on to whisper something, everytime I helped him with his tie, our eyes would fall on each other's lips; I would sometimes drift off the conversation, staring too much at his mouth and hands, wandering if they would feel just as amazing as they had done while we were drunk.

"Y/n are you listening?"

"Uh yeah- I mean, no- sorry, what?"

I was so focused on trying to hide it that I didn't notice George was in the exact same situation, meaning that neither of us could give in, because we would go down together. In all honesty, it was doomed to happen at some point, we were just delaying the inevitable.

The moment came the last night of January, when George showed up in my room due to a really rough nightmare, and I, as always, invited him in so we could lay down together.

"Isn't this... Weird?" He murmured as we scooted closer. We had kept physical contact at bay for obvious reasons, and cuddling had been off the table since New Year.

"It doesn't have to be." I replied, my voice as quiet as his. "We've done this a thousand times."

"Right." He cleared his throat, averting his eyes from mines as we shifted in our places ever so slightly, trying to find a position where the situation turned less awkward.

And it happened, my mind got lost on the way his neck tensed, on the damp locks hanging over his forehead, sweaty due to the nightmare; on his plump lips, which he had just wetted with his tongue in the most subtle way. It was a nervous habit of him, something he would usually do, but that didn't make it any less hot.

"George..." I called his name without noticing, my heart hammering violently against my chest when his gaze landed on my eyes, quickly falling on my lips.

The next thing I knew was that he was holding my thigh over his hip, his other hand on the back of my neck while we shared a hungry kiss that, as soon as my hips involuntarily rocked against his, turned into something more.

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

GEORGE'S P. O. V.

The next morning we swore to each other that it was just another accident, that it would happen again.

And the next one too.

And the following.

The fifth time that happened, we agreed to call the situation a 'friends with benefits' kind of thing, well aware that it was an euphemism for the downfall of our friendship.

I had longed to be hers for so long, and it that moment, as I lay by her side in her bed, that wish seemed so close yet so far; I could reach out and my fingertips would touch her skin, yet I had never felt that distant towards her.

The moment my eyes were averted from her form, her gaze was laid on me. "You don't have to go."

"I know." I replied in a mumble, already sitting up and reaching for my pants. "But soon we'll have to get up, so I might as well do that and let you sleep." I didn't want to turn around, I didn't want to see her beautiful irises pleading for me to stay by her side, because I knew I would.

I saw on my peripheral vision her fingers attempting to carefully wrap around my wrist, and I was quick to stand up and walk to the door; sadly, I did not miss Y/n burying her face into the pillow, her hands fisting on the fabric ever so subtly.

She tried to hide her tears like that, and I agressively wiped mines as soon as I reached the corridor.

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

"Morning, lady!" I light-heartedly greeted Y/n without turning my back to the making of our breakfast when I heard the steps approaching the kitchen.

In the morning it was easier to pretend everything was back to normal; usually, the refreshing sunlight and the drowsiness provided by a night of sleep were enough to wash away the sad truth of our relationship.

"Good morning, sir." She responded with a yawn, rubbing her eyes as she walked to stand besides me, leaning against the counter with her arms folded. "Smells good." She commented, leaning on to take a peek at the scrambled eggs.

I was about to make a cocky, playful comment when it dawned on me what she was wearing; it was my jumper, one of the old ones that I exclusively used for pyjamas.

I knew she didn't do it intently; I had left it on the floor the previous night, and it was probably the first thing she grabbed, but it struck a nerve.

I had seen a similar scene way too many times before; a sleepy, dishevelled Y/n entering the kitchen with an ugly Weasley jumper as only clothing, ready to start the bickering with an almost identical version of me who would be making breakfast.

My head then travelled to the thought that lately crossed my mind more often than not and my heart clenched; In Y/n's eyes, I was, most likely, just a poor replacement for Fred.

"You alright?" That worried furrow appeared between her brows too often lately. We were both walking on eggshells, and it got me on my nerves.

"You don't have to ask if I'm alright every time I'm quiet." I hadn't meant it to come out harsh or curt, but it definitely did.

"You're not quiet, you're overthinking." She responded with a tinge of hostility.

"What's to overthink?" I fought the need to raise my voice.

"Dunno, you tell me." She squinted her eyes with a scrutinising gaze directed to me.

"Can we not do this?" I almost pleaded; heated arguments had become a usual thing between us —yet another sign of the unfixable problem we refused to address.

Y/n was about to reply something that would lead us into a fight when the doorbell rung. "Mister Weasley?" I took that as a cue to go open the door to Verity, already dressed on her uniform. "The Valentine's Day products arrived, should I unpack them or..." Her eyes flickered behind me and her cheeks heated up. "Y/n—" When I looked over my shoulder, I felt my own face flushing out of embarrassment. Y/n was still my employee and Fred's ex, so Verity catching a glimpse of her dressed in my jumper wasn't the best thing for any of us. "I— am I— sorry, am I interrupting?"

"You're not interrupting." I assured her with a reassuring smile. "Leave the boxes on the puking pastries section, we'll be down in ten."

"Alright, sir." Her curious gaze travelled to Y/n one last time, and with that, she was rushing back down to the shop.

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

READER'S P. O. V.

The ache that had appeared on my chest the day after New Year would end up killing me, or at least it felt like that.

I had a dreadful gut feeling of knowing what caused that pain, but my mind refused to believe it was that, and kept pushing the sensation back into my heart day by day.

George had gone to relocate the puking pastries in the upper level of the shop so I could prepare the section with the Valentine's Day products.

My eyes dawned on the small packages of Amortentia. I knew it was a terrible idea but I needed to know.

I took a look around, making sure Verity wasn't near and George was up still, and brought one of the Amortentias under my nose. It didn't take long for the scents to besot me, and I had to put all my will on not to fall under the potion's spell.

The first smell to reach my nostrils was gunpowder; my heart skipped a bit when the next scent was vanilla.

Then strawberry and chocolate; candy floss cupcakes and George's cologne.

The tiny, heart-shaped bottle fell from my hands, scattering all over the shop's floor. "Shit!" I rapidly kneeled to pick the shattered glass when I realized it had echoed in the empty establishment.

"Oi! What was that?" George descended from the second floor, using the ladder. "Oh shit—" his hands took a hold on my bicep and pulled me away from the pool of pinkish pearl liquid that seemed to be attracting me. "Don't!" He warned Verity, who had attempted to jog in the potion's direction too. "Verity, can you bring me my wand?" The girl complied running up to the office.

In Verity's absence, George took the chance and cupped my cheeks, tilting my head up to check my eyes. "You alright?" I managed to give him a slow nod, my mind buzzing with the newly acquired information. "Getting the Amortentias was a bad idea, wasn't it?" I nodded again, producing a frown between his eyebrows. "No 'told you so'? Are you sure you're alright?" He chuckled nervously, his hands falling to his sides right in time for Verity to rush back to us.

"Here, Mister Weasley!"

"Thank you, darling." He politely replied, taking the wand and restoring the potion bottle in a swift movement. His eyes peeked at me again; I could see the worry growing on him. "Y/n-"

"I'm gonna go wash my face." The words hastily left my mouth before I dashed off to the restroom.

I closed the door behind me and took a look at the mirror; my pupils were blown and my cheeks pink. I ran the tab and splashed the water on my face a few times until the potion's mild effect was gone and my mind clear.

It was in that moment that it dawned on me that I was in love with George Weasley.

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undergrounddweller89 · 3 years

Text

(look you don't have to like this, I'm not expecting anyone to, I just needed to write and if there's the possibility that even one person was hoping I'd write more and enjoys it then that's cool, just don't be a dick about it, it's more house mate au stuff, don't hope for continuity by that I mean it's just all over the place and nothing makes sense , just expect what ever came to my head at the time lol)

Walter was sat at his work table, fiddling with one of his new devices working on to perfect it, no I can't think of anything specific so I'll let you fill in that with your imagination.

The day had been long, his lab assistant Timothy Lawrence (Yea that Timothy if you know him because reasons) had been pretty quiet but done as told so at least that made it easier.

He was tired as the day had gone on his mood had sunk, what was he doing teasing Killian like that, honestly spanking him with the hair brush, he knew some of the things Killian had been up to.

But it was more likely a sign of marking territory or just because he had needs right and it was exciting to do things where you shouldn't.

The blade he was handling slipped and ran across the pad of his index finger, he hissed in pain, seeing the blood smear under the blue latex, pooling to drip, focusing on the red colour he hadn't even noticed Timothy running to fetch the first aid kit.

Pulling his gloves off he discarded them and popped open the box that had been set on the table.

"Thanks Timmy."

Walter smiled a little as he tended to his finger, he hated how the skin felt parting every time he flexed his finger.

Cleaning up and applying what was needed, thankful it wouldn't need stitches.

He wondered what Killian was up to, watching TV, reading maybe, did he eat, did he have enough to drink, was he in a depressive mood, was he mad that hed spanked him, he really should send a message.

Pulling his phone from his lab pocket he texted him.

'Hope you're day has been good, hope you're well, sorry if I upset you this morning.'

He shifted and rubbed a shoulder, he didn't realise how stiff his back had gone, being in charge of a division meant he'd somewhat lost track of self care making sure to do his stretches.

Timothy stood here watching his boss, lot better than the last one, this one was kind and genuine, always looking out for people, honestly Beckett made him feel safe and relaxed, he wasn't looking for anything serious but even he could see that furrowed bow and the lean that spelt hey I'm exhausted let me die.

Walking around and behind him he slowly massaged his shoulders, they were small and rather petite for someone Walter's age but it was more lean muscle and just body build, he just hadn't seen many men like Walter where he'd come from, he was rather pretty.

Walter had considered telling him to stop but when his fingers pressed into that one perfect spot in his shoulder blades he melted, ooooh that just felt so damn good and shit when was the last time he'd had contact, had someone be closer to him...he liked Killian...wondered if they could be more, but he didn't believe for one second that they could be lovers or bed fellows for one moment...not that he wouldn't be interested in finding out but Killian had been there a month, like he wasn't going to make him uncomfortable and feel like that the only way he could stay was if he dated him.

(I keep forgetting times or how many days set shrugs just don't expect like decent continuity, I write these because I need to just write things and moments)

Walter leaned forward arms folded and face buried in them

"Sorry sir, am I doing that badly?"

Timothy's enquired nervously, his hands going still.

"No, please don't stop, I literally didn't realise how stiff I was, you have good hands, I'm just so tired Timothy, I could really use it if you don't mind that is."

"Not at all sir."

Tim smiled happy to know he was helping, yes much nicer than his last boss, Walter was smart but he was also fragile, like him he loved his mother and when he'd heard Walters mother had died when he was small he wanted to scoop him up and just hug him.

A talk with Lance at one point and he'd learned that was a natural reaction for anyone with a heart around Walter who didn't have their head up their ass.

Which had practically been the last tech department Beckett had worked in, that totally wasn't cool that they'd done that to such a brilliant mind, it was so much fun working on items that didn't kill people and actually helped them!

Walter was imagining the fingers loosening the knots in his back were Killian, wondered what that would feel like with those pretty metal claws, but he never forgot it was Timothy, after all Timothy deserved more respect than that.

Looking over his shoulder at him, auburn hair flopping off to one side, Tim's hands on his waist he noticed the subtle blush.

"You wanna go grab some dinner or something in a minute there's a corner café I know, makes steak sandwiches and baked potatoes with a perfect crispy skin, a warm meal sounds pretty nice don't you think?"

Tim in the angle he was in was trying not to think about how suggestive this looked, he would absolutely lean down and kiss Walter if he thought it was an option, it really was a casual thing he felt, but Walter just looked so pretty and like he needed someone to carry him right now.

Continuing to rub his back Timothy nodded

"Yeah that sounds pretty nice actually."

---

At home Killian had found plenty to do, he'd read, watched tv, all in Walters bed of course, just to feel close to him as he could, he did wonder after handling himself, if Walter could see him as anything more than a friend, someone more than a few passing jokes between the other...turning his head and taking in his scent as he buried his face into a pillow again, looking forward to seeing those blue eyes...he should really get out of Walter's bed and get the covers washed.

Beckett brought comfort to his mind after his years of suffering, the sunrise after the storm.

He'd talked to Lovey, wondering if she could understand him, she was surprisingly responsive to his rambling as he worked on his arm, updating the tech and keeping up with maintenence.

Living here with Walter and slowly working past things with Lance and seeing he had genuinely started changes of his own, it made it easier with how Walter talked about him on the job, that he considered all options before violence and discussed the situations with him...it was good to know Beckett had helped Lance to.

He was glad to know Walter's field partner was a good one, though his lab partner, this Timothy Lawrence seemed to be pretty chummy didn't he, he'd seen a picture, thick brown hair, heterochromia eyes, blue and green to be exact and a chiseled jaw, in other words a damn pretty boy and he didn't want him around Walter.

He huffed folding his arms, yes he was jealous he was going to be pouty, before his injury he had thick black hair and had been known to be a very handsome man, now he looked like he'd been put through a grinder when he took off his holo mask and this Timothy Lawrence just had to be Walter's lab partner, he'd be around him alot and-

His phone buzzed, it'd been put on the side table and he read the text that'd come through and there was another one.

'Going out to dinner with Timothy, don't know what time I'll be back, have fun you probably need a break from me anyway lol 😂'

Killian's eye twitched, he nearly threw the damn phone, but how would he explain that, honestly he couldn't, Tristan sighed, shoulders drooping a little and answered his questions

'It's been a relaxing day, did work on the arm, Lovey' s surprisingly easy to talk to, watched a little television but perhaps you could suggest something to watch, it's rather hard deciding with all these options and no Walter you didn't upset me, though you left in a hurry, you do not need to avoid me. You're not a bother. Are you alright?'

'I'm so happy you're warming up to her! That's awesome! Also it's good you have time to relax, ten years of hectic stress you're more than overdue! I...well I was more embarrassed than anything, I reacted on instinct, last boyfriend liked that well that's probably more than you needed to know, but yeah I'll help you pick something to watch see you later!'

Last boyfriend? Spanking, Walter had, he had...Killian shifted well the blankets were starting to tent, the idea of being put over Walters petite lap and being told he was a very bad man came to mind.

He liked it.

A lot.

He looked at his phone as it pinged again.

'And god damn it, make sure you eat something for dinner, don't just go picking out the cupboard!'

Killian snickered and replied

'Yes Daddy, I'll make sure to eat something.'

After sending the text he realised what he'd written and wished he could take back that text, wincing as he managed to look at the response

'Behave, eat dinner or I'll put you over my knee young man.'

Killian stared and stared at that answer, he knew Walter was just teasing but, his cheeks were warm and he was...was he blushing.

----

"You all set to go Timothy?"

Walter smiled, his back was feeling a hundred times better after Timothy had dug into the knots, it wasn't a surprise that he was good with his hands, you had to have nimble ones to work with the tech they used here.

"Yeah, just coming boss!"

He pulled his satchel over his shoulder after pulling on his old brown leather jacket

"Please Timothy don't call me that, call me daddy."

Walter laughed at how silly that sounded

"I'm sorry, pfffft don't call me that god please, no, Walter's just fine."

Tim had paused a moment a slight fear he might have a streak like his last boss after all but that laugh was too warm and giggly and just shook his head with a smile

"Wouldn't dream of it Walter, you're more of a kitten anyway."

Timmy felt his insides tighten a little and there was that hint of Jack Dna surfacing.

"So shall we go?"

Beckett enquired looking up at him, huh he kinda looked like Killian, just a little.

"Ready when you are."

And with that they were off.

(Alright end of this ramble, Timothy has been thrown in because I needed the gasp drama of prolongation and shit and didn't have the energy to create an oc and honestly I'll mash anything from anywhere if it's convenient bleh)

#Spies in disguise #Au #walter beckett #Killian #Timothy lawrence #I don't even know anymore #Sometimes I just write and bs comes out #I'm tired

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bakugou-jpg · 4 years

Text

Cherry wine || Single dad!Tsukishima

So hello! This is something i’ve been planning on posting for awhile now. Idk if i like it or not and Tsukishima might be a bit OOC since i haven’t been in the Haikyuu fandom for very long but oh well. Tomorrow i’ll try and post the masterlist for it and how many chapters it’ll have!

-Prologue-

“I’m pregnant”

The silence that fell over the room became deafening, not a single sound except for the distant students outside of the dorm building chatting and laughing together. The fan in the corner of the room buzzed, rotating left and right and rustling some papers on the desk. The wind softly blew through his hair, making the heat more bearable than it was before but at that very moment his thoughts and gone completely blank.

The girl in front of him leaned onto the desk that was placed behind her and knitted her eyebrows together, not in anger but purely because she had been lost in thought. Her arms were crossed and she looked at the boy's feet, biting her bottom lip while doing so.

To say it was a shock, was simply too lightly. I mean, yes, the two of them hadn't exactly done much to prevent it that night so it had been quite the possibility but it had never crossed his mind. She was pregnant, something he did. The clumb of cells that was currently busy forming into a little human was because of him.

"Tsukishima"

Tsukishima's head snapped up and for a moment his eyes widened slightly. They held eye contact for a moment, neither of them breaking it. They were both, confused. Neither of them knowing what to do know and neither of them knowing what to say.

The boy adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. He folded his hands together and fiddled around with them, something he unconciously did when he was nervous. "..Oh"

Its all he could think of at that moment. Tsukishima, a man who always knew how to respond to whatever situation with either a logic answer or a cocky remark now felt silent. He was a rational person, but now it seemed that his brain short circuited.

The girl sighed, her eyes falling down to the ground once again. She moved one of her hands to rub over her face and then started biting her thumb nail. "I found out on Sunday. I..wanted to think about it myself a bit first. Hope you understand" She said, her voice trailing off.

Tsukishima nodded. "Of course."

Another silence.

There was one question he was dying to ask, of course, the most obvious one. He was a strong believer of the belief that it was her body and her choice and that he didn't have ANY saying in what she wanted to do, but he was still curious. At that moment he didn't even know which decision he wanted or preferred. Would it be bad if he asked? Or was it too soon?

"What do you- " "I-"

They both fell silent, not wanting to interrupt one another. Tsukishima excused himself and nodded towards her. "Sorry, go on".

The girl in front of her looked a little anxious and bit her lip before taking a deep breath and closing her eyes to calm her nerves. She breathed out and locked eyes with the boy standing in front of her. "I've thought about it..and decided what choice i wanted to make and i hope you can support me in that."

Tsukishima quickly nodded and waved his hand. "Your body your choice. Whatever decision you make i will respect it so do not rely on my approval" He said, something which made her worried expression relax. It felt as if there had bee a weight lifted off of her shoulders.

She nodded, letting her eyes roam around the room for a second trying to figure out how to put it into words.

"For the longest time i've planned out what i wanted to do with my life, with my future. Go to college, study to become an archeologist and become succesful and travel around..A baby can't fit into that plan, not yet."

Understandable. Tsukishima understood what she meant, for he too had a plan of what he wanted to do in the future. Work in a museum, it was something that he loved the idea of ever since he was a kid. She wanted to become something bigger, so of course a baby would only get in the way.

She cleared her throat and fiddled her hands. "I do, however, want to give it a chance of being able to live. For him or her to find out what joys life can gift to you and how wonderful the world can be..So i'm going to give them up for adop-"

"I'll raise them"

What.

The girl's eyes widened and she looked at Tsukishima in shock.

Tsukishima pushed himself off of the wall and looked at her for a second before taking a step closer to her. "I'll take responsibility and raise them."

What was he saying?

The girl blinked in surprise, her mouth slightly agape from the sudden response one that she had not expected in a million years. Tsukishima's eyebrows were slightly knitted, something which showed he was dear serious over this. "..please"

Why was he saying this?

The girl snapped out of her daze and ran her fingers through her hair, her other hand cupping her still flat stomach. "I-..Wh- Tsukishima..are you serious?" She asked in disbelieve, still taken aback from the reaction. "With all due respect, Tsukishima, but i really hope you understand i am not planning on raising this baby alongside you nor am i planning to hop in at a later age. I just-"

"I don't care for that. You won't have to be involved in any way, i'll make my own money, buy my own two bedroom apartment, raise my own kid. I'll work it out, if you want i'll cover half of all your medical bills" Tsukishima said while leaning back again, looking at her with his usual stoic expression again. Yet, his golden brown eyes held a mixture of confusion and fear. But that was something she would never be able to catch onto.

God what the fuck was he saying

The girl sighed and shook her head a little, trying to wrap her head around what was happening. "I mean..Medical bills won't be a problem, my family's wealthy enough to be able to cover that without a problem..I just..I thought you were passionate about this college course and wanting to succeed? Its not some kind of puppy you raise, can leave at home for the day and to come back at the end of the day and feed it and sometimes throw a stick around, Tsuki-"

"Do i look like an idiot to you?" Tsukishima said with narrowed eyebrows, tapping his finger on his other arm impatiently. Surely, he fooled around with her, but Tsukishima couldn't stand the way she thought she was better and smarter than him.

The girl rolled her eyes and sighed. "You know what i mean" She snapped back. "Its gonna be a big responsibility, its gonna get in the way of you making it big out there."

Once again, a silence fell over the dorm.

Tsukishima's thoughts were screaming at him. Telling him this decision was an impulsive one, how he had to think it through first and asking him over and over again what he was thinking. He knitted his eyebrows together and stared at the ground, slowly nodding.

"I know what i'm doing"

No he did not

The girl nodded and shrugged, her eyes glancing to the clock hanging on his wall. She looked back at Tsukishima and hummed, pushing herself off of the desk. "Well, okay then. I've got class in ten minutes, we'll discuss the details later on. Take care" She said, pushing herself off of the desk. Her hand reached out for Tsukishima's shoulder and gave it a small squeeze, something which made Tsukishima just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

He didn't even say anything, simply too caught up with the sea of a void that suddenly washed over him. It numbed all of his thoughts, all of his surroundings as the thumping of his own heartbeat echoed in his ear.

The click of his dorm room falling back into its lock flew past him, not even having noticed the girl had left. Tsukishima stood there for about 10 minutes until he was pulled back to the surface, something which made him fall back onto his bed. He put his elbows on his knees, his hands raking through his hair as he looked at his ground with slightly panicked eyes.

He let out a long sigh, his hand running over his face as he threw his head back and leaned it against the wall. It was already dark, the only people outside being the ones going to their night classes. It was cold, after all it was October and the weather hadn't been exactly the nicest out.

Tsukishima glanced out of his window, his eyes following the form of the girl who was just left his dorm and was now running outside to arrive at her class in time. His eyes were locked onto her until she had turned a corner, now out of sight.

What did he just agree to?

He let his eyes slowly slide down from his window to his bed, a place where his phone was resting. Without really thinking about it, he reached out for the phone, pressing a few buttons before bringing it up to his ear.

"..Tadashi? I..i fucked up"

Nine months felt a lot longer than it usually did. While a school year usually felt like it flew by rather quickly to Tsukishima, these past few months felt like as if there was a chain with a heavy ball chained to his ankles. Every minute, every second felt like it took forever.

As the trees lost their leaves, the snow covered the ground. As the snow melted away, the flowers started blooming again. As the flowers grew higher, the temperature did too. With every transmission, Tsukishima's feet grew heavier and heavier. It all lead up to that one moment. One moment that would change his life forever, a moment he'd remember till' the day he'd die.

As the seconds ticked by, they turned into minutes. As the small hand of the clock moved forward made a full circle, the hours started moving by. Slow, very slowly. Tsukishima lost sense of time, sitting in that chair waiting for someone to give him a sign and to inform him of the slightest bit of news. Anything.

His thoughts even stopped at some point. Surely he was panicking internally and the fact that his phone kept buzzing in his pocket, his family and Yamaguchi repeatedly asking him how it was going, didn't make it any better. Hell, the fact Yamaguchi managed to leak the information to his old teammates didn't soothen the buzz in his pockets at all. But he just stared at a wall.

The ticking of the clock, the water that dripped from the tap, the foot steps from the nurses, the distant screams of agony and the phone that rang every 15 minutes in the nurses office started to feel like a pattern. A never ending pattern that had repeated itself almost a million times already.

"Mr. Tsukishima?"

Fuck

Tsukishima's head snapped up and his eyes met the one of an older woman who was wearing a long blue cover up and a mask hanging next to the side of her head. She wore a smile on her face, a tired one, but a happy one. She had discarded the gloves she wore and Tsukishima noticed some light blood smears on the gown she was wearing.

"He's here"

In the past 9 months that had passed, Tsukishima had never thought that his feet could feel more heavier. But in that moment it felt as if Medusa herself had locked eyes with him and stared into his golden brown eyes, drinking in his beauty before stiffening his body and turning it into stone.

He didn't notice how his lanky long body had gotten up from the chair he had been sitting at for the past few hours and how he was now silently walking behind the doctor, following in her footsteps as she lead him to a room.

"The mother told me to inform you she didn't want to see your son and that she'd appreciate it if you stayed away for a little while" The nurse said while holding the door for him open.

His son

Tsukishima looked around the room, noticing how extremely empty and silent it was. The beds that were there were empty, waiting for a new patient to arrive. The blind were closed, but it let the slightest bit of light through cascading down onto to the little bin standing in the middle of it, surrounded by two other nurses that were busy with what was inside of it.

The two nurses looked up at him and smiled, one of them walking towards the exit of the room while the other reached out for the bundle of blankets inside of the little bed. She picked it up, stepping towards Tsukishima with a very kind small. One he didn't notice, for his eyes were only focused on the very small baby she held in her hands. "Meet your son" She said while holding the baby out for him, adjusting his hands just slightly so he'd make the baby feel comfortable.

He held out his hands, taking the bundle of blankets into his arms and immediately holding him close to his body. Tsukishima made sure to support his head, remembering all the things he read in a book his mother gifted him after having announced the news. He wouldn't dare to cause the baby any discomfort, it felt as if he was made out of the thinnest porcelain in the world.

"We'll give you a moment, we'll be next door if u need us" Tsukishima heard the older nurse say before the door shut behind her, leaving both him and his son alone in the room.

The baby slightly moved around in his blanket, one of his tiny arms poking through and stretching out towards Tsukishima's face before returning back into the comfort of his warm cocoon. A small yawn left the baby's mouth, a sight that made Tsukishima's eyes soften.

"Someone's pretty tired, huh? Nine months of sleep ain't enough for you, buddy?" He whispered, peering into the little eyes that were slowly opening up revealing a very familar pair of golden brown ones although his appeared to be just a bit more darker. It also didn't Tsukishima long before he noticed the dark blonde hairs poking out of his hat, ones that almost matched his own but just being a shade darker than his own.

He grinned and stroked the baby's cheek, taking in every detail of his face. "Aren't you just a sight for sore eyes, like i'm looking into a mirror." Tsukishima said with a short snicker.

In that very moment, Tsukishima felt his feet get lighter. The heavy chain on his feet he carried around for months that got heavier and heavier broke, just by the single stare the boy had on him. He didn't care anymore, about what he was gonna do in the future. He didn't care about if he'd still be able to finish college or if he was gonna be able to pull through.

Every thing he did, was gonna be for him. Every decision he made, was gonna be with him in the back of his mind. Every thing decent nice thing he did, he did hoping he could be somewhat proud of his old man.

And so, from 7 years from that moment, on Tsukishima was going to have a succesful career. One he had achieved after graduating from college, something he couldn't of have done without the motivation he had after his son was born and he was going to make sure his son was always first with whatever he did.

"Welcome to the world, Kaoru"

#haikyuu!!#tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei #tsukishima #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #tsukishima x y/n #haikyuu x y/n #tsukishima x you

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itsjustmyfantasyroom · 4 years

Text

I’ am not my father

Warnings: Mad Barba, slight touch on smut.

Enjoy x

"SVU ever brings me a case like this again and you can find some other ADA to fight it" Rafael all but yelled at you and Liv as you walked into his office.

"Come on Rafael, it was air tight" Liv snapped back.

"Air tight? If this case was so air tight it wouldn't have ended in a not guilty. You both let your emotions get in the way and clouded your judgement. I am not putting my job on the line anymore" he snarled back

Liv threw her hands up and shock her head.

"You are out of line Rafi, that's not fair" you said back. He glared at you.

"What's not fair is me losing my job over this. That's not fair because you acted like the emotional little girl that you are"

Your eyes opened wide with shock. Rafael felt regret as soon as those words left his mouth but he couldn’t take them back now.

"Come on Rafael, that's not nice" Liv spoke back.

"You both need to get out, now" Liv turned and walked out, you stood there staring at him.

"Are you deaf as well now? Get out NOW" you turned on your heels walked out and slammed the door shut.

"Good luck with THAT this afternoon Carmen" she didn't know what to say and you left to catch up with Liv.

On your way back to the station in the car, it was silent. Rafael had never spoke to you like that before, ever. You felt so mad and you were trying to keep the tears from falling.

"Are you ok?" Liv asked as she turned off the car

"I will be, Thanks Liv" a small tight smile coming to your face.

You both walked into the bullpen to everyone at their desks. Their heads turned to look at you as soon as you walked through the doors.

"How did it go?" Fin asked leaning back in his car.

"Not guilty" you answered back

"No way" Nick threw his pen down on his desk.

"Ah yeah, Barba isn't happy with us at all" Liv sighed.

----

It was your day to go to your place to check on everything and get more cloths before going back to Rafael's. But after the way he spoke to you today, you decided to stay home and order in.

You hadn't heard from him so you didn't bother reaching out. You and Nick were working the night shift the next night so you didn't go to bed early, you stayed up to catch up on some shows you had recorded.

It was 12.30 am when your phone started to ring, it was Sonny,

"Hey Sonny everything ok?"

"Ah hey, no not really, Amanda is on her way to pick you up, she will be there in 5 minutes, meet her down stairs please"

"What's going on?"

“She will fill you in" and he hung up.

You jumped up, ran and changed your track pants to jeans, you left on the navy t shirt you had on, put on a strapless bra, tied your hair in a low lose pony, put on socks and runners. You put your phone in your back pocket, and your badge and key's in your front pocket grabbed your wallet and went down stairs. Just as you walked out on the street Amanda pulled up and you jumped in.

"What the hell is going on?" you looked over at her in the drivers seat.

"Sonny and I decided to have a drink after our midnight shift, we walked into Florini's and seen Barba at the bar. He has had a LOT to drink. He wouldn't leave with us, He just kept saying I'm not my father, so we called you"

"You should have left him there" you rolled your eyes looking forward to the road.

She looked at you funny raising one eye brow at you, so you told her what happened.

"I' am sure he didn't mean it" Amanda said softly.

"He meant it, don't you worry about that" you spat back.

Amanda managed to get a park outside the bar, and you got out and walked in with Amanda behind you. There weren't many people so you saw Sonny and Rafael sitting at the bar straight away. Sonny looked up and gave you a small half smile, he got off the bar stool and walked over to you and put his hand on your shoulder giving it a light squeeze,

"Go easy Y/N, he is really sorry"

"He's drunk, he doesn't know what he is"

You walked over to Rafael, he hadn’t notice you yet. The bar tender had just poured him another drink.

"Don't you think he's had enough? Can I have the bill please" he sculled down his drink not even looking at you.

"Give me your wallet" you snapped at him

He missed putting his hand in his pocket 3 times, then he got it and handed it to you. You pulled out his card and paid the tab. You grabbed his case and jacket and handed it to Amanda

"We are taking you home, let's go"

He still hadn’t spoken to you. Rafael stood up putting his arm around your shoulders, you put your arm around his waist and you walked him out to Amanda's car. Sonny opened the door and he got in, looking like Bambi on ice. You went around the other side and got in the car.

"Yours or His?" Amanda looked at you through the review mirror.

"His" You huffed back.

Before to long you were back at his place. Amanda and Sonny helped you take him upstairs. You took the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. This was the most silent he had ever been.

"Thanks guys I got it from here. See you tomorrow" they both waved and left.

You lent him up against the wall just inside the door, you got on your knees and took his shoes off. He was so out of it you could control his body. You pulled him off the wall and walked him to the bed room and turned on the light. He stood in front of you still not saying a word. You undone his tie and took it off and then undone his vest and took that off too. You pulled his arm and led him to the bed, you pulled down the blankets and sat him down, and he laid down staring into space. You pulled the blankets up and turned to walk away, when he grabbed your hand.

"I'm not like my father"

You pulled your hand out of his, walked and turned the light off and shut the door. You slept on the couch.

Sleep was too far away all night. You messaged Carmen from your phone and told her Rafael would be in, in the afternoon, something came up. You didn't have to be at work till 4 that afternoon, so you tried and tried to fall asleep, but it wasn't happening. Finally at 5am you drifted off to sleep.

****

"Bang" you woke up with a fright, you sat up and looked around you and seen on the wall clock it was 9.30 am, you heard the water run so you turned towards the kitchen, there was Rafael looking like a mess, hair everywhere, still in the same cloths, having a drink of water.

You both didn't say anything. You sat up, folded up the blanket you used, put your shoes on and headed to the front door without a word. You had seen him awake, he was fine so you could leave.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Home, your awake and fine I can leave now" he ran after you and grabbed your arm.

"No please don't go" you looked down at the floor. "Give me 10 minutes to shower, please. I have some explaining to do"

You pulled out of his grip and walked into the kitchen to make some toast and coffee for yourself while he had a shower.

You were sitting at the dining room table, with your coffee cup resting on your bottom lip looking into no where. You guys had been together for a while now, but this was the first really serious fight you guys had.

----

Rafael stood in the shower and let the water run over him and flashes of what happened came running back. Yes he was upset about the case, the DA wasn't happy, but he didn't cop it has much as he thought. But to say what he said to you, what a horrible thing to say. Age never mattered to you, and you always put people in their place when it was brought up. So why did he say that. He sounded like his father, and that's what drove him to drink that much. He couldn't have that, acting like his Dad, he prided himself to act the complete opposite. What he said would have pushed you away, he knew that. But he loved you way too much to let you go.

----

He walked out in a pair of dress pants and a white under shirt, his suspenders hanging down around him. He knew you messaged Camera, because when he woke up he had a message from her asking him what case files he needed when he came in that afternoon. He remembered you had over night that night, so he had time to try and make this better.

He seen you sitting at the table holding your coffee mug, with a tear rolling down your cheek.

"Please don't cry Hermosa" as he sat down on the chair opposite you. You wiped the tear away with the back of your hand.

"Say what you need to say, so I can go home" You looked down at the table

"I'm so sorry Mi Hermosa. I never should have said what I said. You’re not that at all, you’re an amazing person and I love you. And I'm sorry about last night. Treating you the way I did- I’m ashamed. I sounded like my father. I ran away and drank stupid instead of trying to fix it. I 'am not going to be like him"

You snapped your eyes off the table and looked at Rafael’s face, it was filled with sadness and his eyes were damp with tears.

"I didn't like what you said to me, I'm not some emotional little girl, I’ am a strong grown ass women. I understand you were mad, but if you’re going to start treating me like that and speaking to me like that after cases, I can't work with you anymore. I'll be off cases that involve you or we break up, we can't do both if it's going to be like this"

Tears ran down Rafael’s cheeks. He knew he over stepped.

"You are strong, one of the strongest I know. I love you and I love working with you. You’re an amazing detective, I don't want any of that to happen. I want to grow old with you"

"You can't walk around and say nasty things like that to me and not expect me to be upset or mad or react. You took your anger out on me in one of the nastiest way you could have. You knew saying that would push the right buttons, that's not you Rafi, you’re not that person"

You got up, walked into the kitchen and washed up your mug and plate so you could leave. You were washing up with tears running down your face and Rafael was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, his big tears landing on the table.

You finished quickly and headed to the front door, before you knew it Rafael grabbed you from behind wrapping his arms around your middle and pulled you into him, resting his head on your back.

"Please don't go" you could feel his wet face through your t shirt.

You spun around in his grip and faced him, his eyes were blood shot and filled with tears.

"I' am not my father"

"No you’re not. You are Rafael Barba, the most amazing ADA in Manhattan, if not New York. Your smart, kind, sassy, extremely sexy and have the best suspenders collection in the whole of the USA-"

You both giggled through your tears. You reached up to cup his face with both hands, rubbing your thumbs over his cheeks.

"And you’re my boyfriend. I love you Rafi. Couples fight and that's fine, but nasty things like that being said just to hurt the other person, we can't be doing that"

"I’ am so so sorry Hermosa, I never want to risk losing you. If I ever lost you I would be losing my soul mate, please forgive me?"

You pulled his face towards you and kissed him lightly on the lips. You could feel his tongue running along your bottom lip so you opened your mouth slightly and moved your head so he could deepen his kiss.

His hands were resting on your hips, he pushed you up against the wall. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him even closer. Rafael slid his hands up your shirt to your bra back and undone it, pulled it out and threw it on the floor, he grabbed the hem of your t shirt and pulled it up over your head. Only breaking the kiss when it slipped over your face. He landed back on your lips again, then started to kiss down your neck, you grabbed the hem of his under shirt and pulled it up over him.

He continued to kiss all over your neck and around your collar bone. He ran his hands down your sides to the waist of your jeans then around to the button and he undone it, he slid both of his hands down the back and grabbed your ass in each hand. You could feel him hardening up against you.

He pulled away and looked in yours eyes,

"I will love you as long as I live”

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birdskullz · 3 years

Text

24hr Laundry

about 4k words • short story • scifi / horror

to celebrate the first day of camp nanowrimo AND receiving my first rejection letter ever, i'm gonna share the story that got rejected!! even so, i'm proud of myself just for finishing something, so enjoy, and happy camp everybody!!

If you've ever walked into a twenty-four-hour laundromat, you've walked into them all. They might not share the same layout or use the same model of machines, and the colors will differ from place to place, but the experience is consistent. Almost dependable. You can count on the sounds of laundry going and fluorescent lights buzzing, the smells of detergent and fabric softener. You know what to expect, and you take some comfort in that when you go to wash your intimates in front of strangers.

However, there's an air of impermanence to a laundromat, especially if it’s located in a strip mall. Despite standing open while countless businesses spawn and die around it, there's a lingering threat that the laundromat might not be there the next time you need it.

Mallory Fisher was no stranger to laundromats. As a junior in college, she had the process cleaning her clothes down to a science. The tiny laundry rooms on campus demanded that she be as quick and efficient as possible; they also demanded that students pay outrageous prices, nearly ten dollars to wash and dry one load. None of the other students seemed to flinch at the expense. It wasn't their own money they were spending. But Mallory just couldn't afford it anymore.

She decided to try out Mr. Scrubs' 24hr Laundry, a medium-sized facility in a strip mall about a five minute drive away from her dorm building. Wedged between a pizza parlor and a jewelry store, it seemed nice enough. The prices advertised in the window seemed even nicer, with wash and dry only costing about a buck fifty each. Mallory silently congratulated herself as she walked through the propped-open door. She'd beat the system. What a deal.

When she crossed the threshold, she was hit with a wave of déjà vu. She glanced around the place, and it felt like her eyes had looked at the same things in the same order once before: the vending machine by the front window, then up the row of dryers, then to the box TV mounted on the back wall. There was the older man sitting under it, reading the paper with his legs crossed just so. The weight of the clothes basket on her hip felt so familiar, so right. A strange prickle began to crawl up the back of her neck.

Mallory shook it off, knowing that she'd never set foot in Mr. Scrubs' before. She'd read somewhere that déjà vu was just the brain catching up with the eyes, nothing special about it. She could only remember it happening maybe twice before now, and each time it had been more of an inconvenience rather than anything to worry about.

The girl studied the place as she walked in further. It looked like it hadn't been renovated since the late eighties, but it wasn't the cute kind of retro that was trendy at the moment. The floors were a checkered pattern and grubby, the kind where the white tiles always looked dirty and the black ones had faded to gray. The machines seemed too big. The aisles between them seemed too cramped. Old neon signs buzzed in the front windows at a different note than the fluorescent lights overhead, which added a faint dissonance to the air.

Mallory noticed she could feel the discrepancy between the notes resonating in the base of her skull. She also couldn't tell if it was too bright or not bright enough; either way, seeing felt like a chore. Hopefully, she wouldn't be there long. Otherwise she might get a headache.

There didn't seem to be an attendant working since they didn't offer a dry cleaning service. There were only four other people there, which Mallory was glad for. The fewer people who had to witness her in her worn-out leggings and holey sweater, the better. She quietly headed for a washer in the back left corner and opened the round door. She bent over her laundry basket and started loading in her clothes.

"I wouldn't use that one, dearie," a wavering voice said, "It's broken."

Mallory turned and saw an older woman standing at one of the plasticky blue tables. She was working through a mountain of clothes in the rolling cart next to her, folding what looked like enough laundry for a small army. The woman wasn't looking at her, instead rather enraptured with her tedious work, so Mallory wasn't sure who she was talking to at first. Still, she surveyed her washer. It didn't seem like there was anything wrong with it, not that she was an expert on cleaning machines. But then, she spotted a piece of paper face down on the floor by her feet. She knelt and turned it over.

The page read "Out of Order" in messy, scribbled lettering.

Mallory stood and sheepishly tried to reattach the sign to the washer door. The tape was too old and thin, and frankly covered in too much dirt, grime and lint to work anymore. So instead, she pulled out the shirts she had already thrown in and tucked the paper into the door as she closed it. Then she opened the next washer down and began loading her clothes again.

"Thank you. You saved me the embarrassment," she said over her shoulder, even though her cheeks burned.

"It's no trouble. I can't remember the last time that washer worked, but Larry refuses to get it replaced," the woman replied.

"…Larry?"

"Yes, Mr. Scrubs himself. Mr. Cheap suits him better if you asked me."

Mallory gave a light laugh at that. She closed the washer hatch, turned and leaned her back against it. She thought the woman was a little aloof at first, but now she seemed genuine. She liked the way the red bandanna covering her limp gray hair brought out the apples of her cheeks. Her casualness put the girl at ease, encouraging her shoulders to loosen. She hadn't realized they'd gotten so tight. Plus, it seemed like she was being let in on some hot gossip that she couldn't get anywhere else. She wanted to keep the conversation going.

"Have you been coming here long, Mrs…?" Mallory trailed off, waiting for her matronly acquaintance to fill in the blank.

"Doyle. But please, call me Claudia," the woman said. That was nice, but despite not being a child anymore, Mallory would rather die than call this woman by her first name. Mrs. Doyle would be just fine. "And yes, for a good ten years or so. What about you, dearie? I've never seen you in here before."

"I'm Mallory. And I've been using the college laundry rooms up till now. I just couldn't take the prices."

"Ah, that's where they get you. Tuition just isn't enough, is it?"

"Tell me about it," Mallory said with another laugh.

The two continued on talking as the younger woman put in her detergent and the older kept folding. Topics ranged from Mallory's major (marine biology) to Mrs. Doyle's grandchildren (five in total). There were stories shared and helpful tips passed from one woman to another. The conversation was so refreshing and easy and warm that Mallory got lost in it, and she jumped when her washer chimed, signaling the end of the cycle. She kept talking with Mrs. Doyle over her shoulder as she began switching her load over to the dryer.

"Mallory, hon, don't you separate your clothes?" Mrs. Doyle asked her.

"Oh, I guess I don't. I mean, throwing everything in one load and washing it on cold hasn't done me wrong yet. Saves money too."

"Well, how about that. I suppose you could teach this oldie a few things, couldn't you?" Mrs. Doyle had finished her folding. She took out several bottles of laundry adjacent items— detergent, fabric softener, bleach, dryer balls— from the bottom of her basket to make room for the clothes. Mallory offered to help bring them out to the woman's car, but Mrs. Doyle assured her that she could manage just fine.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Mallory," she said when she had everything together, "Maybe I'll see you again sometime.”

"Most likely! This place is nice," Mallory replied warmly.

Mrs. Doyle turned to go, and Mallory turned toward the bench seating under the TV. The seats were open now, the old man having left a bit ago, and the small table held a thick layer of magazines. She selected the trashiest one she could find, sat down, and buried her nose in it. She had about forty-five minutes to kill and she was sure she could blow through at least half the stack.

"And dearie?"

"Yes?" The young woman looked up.

"Don't stay too long. I know this laundromat doesn't close, but some places just aren't meant to be open much later than this."

Mrs. Doyle gave her a long, serious look. Her cheery demeanor was gone, replaced with a sternness that felt like it was reserved for naughty children. Mallory was confused. She had walked in around six-thirty, which meant it couldn't be much later than seven o'clock. Of course, the nights were getting longer and the sun was starting to set, but she was sure she'd be out of here and back in her dorm room long before nine. It was sweet of the old woman to worry though.

"Sure, Mrs. Doyle. I'll leave as soon as this load is done."

That seemed to satisfy her new acquaintance, and with a stiff nod, the older woman again turned to go. Mallory looked back down at her magazine, but as she did, something caught her eye. A bottle of Clorox bleach sat abandoned in the rolling cart.

"Oh, wait, you forgot your—" Mallory began as she got up to grab the bottle. But when she looked, Mrs. Doyle was gone.

"...bleach.”

In fact, she found that everyone else had left too. She hadn't noticed anyone else leave, save for the old man. She’d been too caught up in talking. It was strange seeing the laundromat empty. It seemed larger now that she had it all to herself, and the electricity hummed louder without the presence of people to mask it.

She felt weird just standing there, holding a bottle of bleach out for no one to take. Even though there was no one to see her, she felt stupid. Better to leave it in the cart, she told herself. Mrs. Doyle would be back for it. As Mallory started back toward her seat, she felt like the déjà vu was coming over her again, that prickle coming back with such a vengeance that it felt more like a shiver. But instead of the uncanny sense she’d already done this, it felt more like she was between something. She didn't know what she was between, but she knew she was neither here nor there. Just between, and she didn't know which side to return to.

Mallory’s legs felt unsteady, and her fingers found the hem of her sweater, wringing and twisting as she came to a stop in front of the coffee table. She would have kept messing with it until it was threadbare, but she got a hold of herself. Mrs. Doyle had just left, and there wasn’t any reason to freak out. Being alone made it feel like she’d overstayed her welcome, that was all. Even so, the girl craned her neck to look for a clock that would tell her she was overreacting. But there wasn't one anywhere. The only indication that any time had passed was the darkness in the parking lot that the streetlights did nothing to keep away.

She paced the length of the laundromat to look out into the lot. Had it been that dark a minute ago? She was desperate to know the time. Her phone was in her car because she didn't have any pockets in her leggings. God, why couldn't women's fashion be functional too? Mallory knew she should go and get it, but staring out into the empty expanse of asphalt, unnaturally yellowed by the streetlights, made her think of all the things that could be out tonight. A man in a dark hood, a formless monster watching from the shadows, a crack in the ground waiting to swallow her up.

Impulsively, she kicked the door stopper away. The door swung closed too fast, no mechanism to keep it from slamming. Bang! It was so heavy that the store-front windows wobbled on impact. She doubted the glass would save her from anything trying to get inside, but she stole back a little sense of security, a little normalcy from it.

When she turned, Mallory noticed that her dryer was not the only appliance running anymore. She stared at the "out of order" washing machine, watching it shudder as it ran. When had it started? It wasn’t running a second ago, was it? She eyed the rest of the space warily, wondering who could have started a load without her seeing them. Mallory inched forward to peer into the clear door that served as a porthole view into the washer drum.

There weren't any clothes inside.

Water began to seep out of the door then, soap frothing around the rim like the machine had a bad case of rabies. Mallory began to back away slowly, both out of fear and to avoid getting her shoes wet. Embarrassment started to make her cheeks flush again. She felt like a kid again, a kid left home alone who made too big of a mess, with no hope of cleaning it up herself before her parents got home. If she could have afforded to buy new clothes, she might’ve bolted right then and there, the majority of her wardrobe yet to be dried be damned.

Her heart sank. She knew she couldn't do that.

With a stubborn determination born out of her tight budget, Mallory paused to take a breath and clear her head. She was an adult, she could handle a little water. It wasn't her fault the washer was leaking, and it would be unfair of Larry to blame her for it. He wasn't even here, nor did he hold any sort of authority over her. It wasn't like she was an employee. It wasn't like she was responsible for any of this. But despite telling herself that, she still aggressively searched for a mop or even some rags, just anything to soak up the water and erase the evidence of anything going wrong under her watch.

There, behind the counter where an attendant was supposed to sit: a mop with a cheap plastic handle. It sat in a yellow rolling bucket, leaning into the corner. Mallory warily eyed the misbehaving washer, half convinced that it might explode as soon as she let it out of her sight. Then she dashed around the counter.

Just as she got the mop in her hands, the fluorescents gave up the ghost and the laundromat went dark. Layers of sound began stripping away— first the hum of the lights, then the buzz of the vending machine and whatever else had been running in the background. Mallory cautiously stepped out from behind the counter. At least the neon signs in the windows were still on, reading "Open 24hrs" and "Self-Service" in bright red and blue. Their light reflected off the chrome of the appliances, mixed with the shifting texture of the TV's muted, staticky glow.

The washer thumped loudly, like an unbalanced load was being tossed around inside. As she edged closer, the mop raised defensively, even that stilled. Mallory passed the trusty dryer holding her clothes, doing it's job in the face of adversity like a good little machine. She reached out and patted the top of it in a silent thanks, keeping her eyes trained on the broken washer.

She stopped short when it’s hatch swung open.

The Out of Order sign rocked back and forth in the air, falling into the puddle below.

A thick tentacle burst from the circular void within the machine. It was nothing more than a blur, lunging straight for her. On impulse, she batted the thing away with the mop and sent it hurtling toward the wall, which it smacked against wetly. A dark gooey liquid splattered across the peeling wallpaper, like bug guts against a windshield. The limb then recoiled, yanking itself away and arching up into an 'S' shape, mimicking a cobra ready to strike. Mallory ran for the other end of the laundromat before it got the chance.

Something slimy got a hold of her ankle, tangling around it like seaweed in the ocean. She stopped, looked down. Another squishy tentacle curled around it, cold and wet and sticky. Before she had time to pry it away, the gray limb ripped her feet out from under her. In the next second her hip connected with the floor, a loud thump audible beneath the clatter of the mop. Hot pain sprouted while cold water soaked her side through. She didn't have time to care. The creature started to drag her body through the puddle, reeling her in like she was the catch of the day.

The girl's hands scrabbled uselessly along the checkered tiles. She needed a hand hold, a purchase, anything to stop the living winch from dragging her into its machine-washable lair. She risked a glance back toward it, and noticed a mouth had come out of the shadows of the washer drum. Three circular rings of horrid yellowed fangs snarled from inside, like a garbage disposal made of flesh. It sounded like a garbage disposal too, deep growls and horrible gurgling filling the girl’s ears. More tentacles poked out of the machine, wriggling in a way that discouraged the idea of bones. Mallory had come across many invertebrates in her studies, but all of them had been dead in a lab tray. Was this karma? Panic shot through her chest and she flailed her arms more desperately. Her hand managed to catch on something, closing around it in a death grip, only to discover she had a hold of one of the rolling carts.

But it was the rolling cart with Mrs. Doyle's bottle of Clorox.

Somehow, Mallory's luck hadn't run out. Two of the cart's wheels were twisted the wrong way, which put up enough resistance to slow the monster's relentless pull. She managed to get an arm over the lip of the cart's basket and reached for the Clorox bottle with the other. It was close enough to touch, but just out of reach of grabbing. Her fingernails skittered over the smooth white plastic, useless.

The creature jerked her and the cart backward, sending the bottle spinning. The handle of it bumped into the palm of her hand. Mallory let out a strangled noise of triumphant disbelief.

Another jerk, another foot closer to the load of laundry from hell. As a kid, this was just the sort of thing she would have been terrified of, but she was an adult now. She could handle this. She'd worked her ass off to pay her own way through college, played the capitalists' game and nearly won, and she wasn't about to die here and waste it. She tossed a defiant glare toward the gaping tunnel of teeth and then let go of the cart.

The thing sensed the slack immediately and heaved her up into the air so fast that she almost hit the paper tile ceiling. She dangled there for a moment, upside down, feeling like an animal caught in a snare. The tentacle began to reel her in again, slow and methodical. The mouth began to drool, the blue saliva oozing over the teeth and to the floor. Mallory thought the spit looked way too much like her dollar store detergent to be funny.

As it pulled her in, she twisted herself so she could brace her feet against the machine's chrome finish. For a heart stopping second her wet sneakers slipped against the smooth metal and she almost lost her footing. She'd have to make this quick. She struggled to unscrew the child-proof cap on the bleach. At her resistance, more tentacles began throwing themselves around her middle. The maw smacked impatiently, the webby membrane functioning as lips throwing mucus everywhere. The girl gagged when the smell of its breath wafted towards her face: the pungency of dirty water and mildew.

Finally the cap came away with a hard yank. The monster yanked at her too, making the bleach slosh in the bottom of the bottle. Mallory wasted no time in dumping as much of it down the thing’s throat as she could. It wasn't easy— as soon as the Clorox met the creature's gullet, it screeched horribly and started jostling her around. Its grip loosened and she hit the floor with a splash. For a moment she lay there, stunned, watching the mob of tentacles pulse, writhe, and flail above her. It was disgusting, like watching night-crawlers squirm in the bucket before being used as bait.

Spurred on by adrenaline, Mallory scrambled up and grabbed the washer door. She slammed it as hard as she could, but it bounced back into her waiting hand. It was just like any other time she hadn't closed one hard enough, save for the wet squelch and pained, keening squeal that followed. Again she threw the door, and again it came back to her. The clutch of tentacles slapped at everything they could reach, trying in vain to recapture their prey. She smacked one away that came too close to her face.

One more hard slam, and the tentacles wilted in defeat. They began retreating, hastily slithering back into the washer drum. As soon as the monster had folded in on itself enough, Mallory shut the door and threw her weight against it to keep it that way. Her feet slipped in the water. The machine shook and rumbled as the thing writhed within, bumping against her cheek painfully.

Gradually, like the end of a normal spin cycle, the machine quieted down. Mallory refused to let go at first, sure that the creature was just playing dead. When she worked up the nerve to back away, her posture was stiff and tense in case it lunged for her again. The air conditioning kicked back on then and she shivered, her wet clothes making her chilly. They clung to her and she felt like she’d been dipped head to toe in a vat of detergent. Mallory huffed angrily. She was sure she'd never get the monster's mucus out of her clothes, and the irony of it wasn’t lost on her. All this just to wash her clothes at a cheaper rate? How annoying.

She stood there for another moment, just breathing. In and out.

The odd sensation she’d been feeling, the uneasiness in her mind, was gone. She wasn’t between anything any more, and she could only hope she was back where she came from. But where had she been? What was that? Did that really just happen? How the hell did that monster-octopus-kraken-thing get into a washing machine in a land-locked state?!

A loud ding came from Mallory's left and she jumped away, crashing into the dryer next to her. She stared at the glowing green light just a few feet away. When she realized what it was, she sunk to the floor in relief, not caring about the puddle in the slightest.

Her laundry was finished. Her clothes were clean.

#real writer #writer #writeblr #writers on tumblr #short story #horror short story #scifi short story #my writing #my post #horror writer #reblogs are much appreciated!!#my first rejection wowowow #:')

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shimmeringclouds · 3 years

Text

♔ | 𝐕𝐈

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You woke with a start, heart pounding. You quickly sat up, hands clutching your covers with a white-knuckled grip. You were breathing too quickly, too heavily, leaving you lightheaded. Scrambling out of your bedsheets, you rushed over to the bathroom, fumbling with the tap and splashing cold water onto your face. Your head throbbed harshly, but you didn't stop until your felt your face cooling down.

With a deep sigh, you hesitantly glanced up at your reflection. Your hair was a mess, sticking uncomfortably to your face, your skin didn't look right to you at all, your eyes looked weighted and dull, rimmed red from the sudden awakening — all in all, you looked just as terrible as you felt.

A part of you wanted to remember what exactly startled you awake, but another side of you decided it was probably best not to remember. If it scared you this badly, would you really want to have it in your thoughts for the rest of the day?

Instead, you began washing up, taking your time so that you could recollect your thoughts before showing your face to your hosts. You brushed through your hair, making sure it wasn't all in your face, grabbing a hair tie and placing it around your wrist just in case. Wandering back into your room, you looked around for your phone, checking the time.

[Tuesday - 10:36]

You wondered if anyone would be awake yet.

'Guess there's only one way to find out.'

You went to open your door, sliding it open—

"AAAH?!" You jumped away in fear, arms raised in fornt of your body. You blinked, then relaxed. It appeared that Dayoko was also planning on opening your door at the same time as you.

"I-I'm so sorry, Dayoko! Did I scare you?" You fussed over her, resting a hand on her shoulder with a concerned frown.

"Dayon...!" She sighed heavily with relief.

'I should be asking you that!'

Seeing she was fine, you moved away, taking in her outfit for the day. Her kimono was a warm yellow, reminding you of the sunflowers you had seen in the fields on your train ride yesterday. White lines of thread wrapped around the fabric, twisting and swirling elegantly. In her hair was a yellow primrose, vibrant with its petals unfurled.

"I love the flower in your hair," you smiled, watching as Dayoko smiled bashfully.

"Dayon, dayon 'yon!"

'Thank you! I can show you how to put it in your hair too after breakfast!'

She took hold of your hand once more, leading you happily down to the main room. You made sure to take note of where you were going this time, not wanting to get lost again anytime soon. Speaking of which...

"Dayoko? Where did you go last night?" she looked back at you with a confused look before her eyes widened in realisation. She halted in her tracks, whipping around to face you with a worried look in her eyes.

"Dayon! Dayon, dayon!" her arms were waving around as she explained herself, saying she was waiting for you but then Chorosuke needed her for something so she had to go and then she lost track of time and then when she realised what time it was she rushed back to the washroom but you weren't there and—

"Dayoko! Wait, slow down!" you paused her rambling, an amused but gentle smile on your face. "It's okay, I understand that you got busy. You don't have to apologise," you reassured her. She didn't look entirely pleased with herself, but she nodded slowly, sending one last apologetic look your way before heading down the hallway again.

"Dayon..."

'I'm just glad you managed to make your way back.'

"Well..." you rubbed the back of your head sheepishly, "I did get a little lost at first, but I got help, so it's fine!"

"Dayon? Dayon?"

'Help? From who?'

You hesitated. "From Ozo..."

Her face fell flat. Of course that idiot was still hanging around when he said he was heading off. She should have known he was going to try something, but you didn't appear to be hurt (or traumatised) by something he did, so Dayoko left it at that.

Entering the main room again, you smiled brightly at the sight of Chorosuke, who was already sipping away at his tea, seated comfortably on the wooden walkway in front of the garden. He perked up when he heard your greeting, turning with small nod of his head.

"Good morning, you two. Please, help yourself to some breakfast." He gestured to the table, various foods spread over the top in a neat arrangement. You eyed the table setting with awe, mouth salivating at the delicious scent of food. You quickly sat down, saying your thanks before digging in, keeping an eye on how quickly you were eating so as not to appear gluttonous.

Dayoko joined you, but Chorosuke stayed where he was.

"Are you not gonna eat, Chorosuke?" You asked after swallowing a rather large mouthful of omelet. He shook his head, lowering his cup from his mouth.

"I woke up quite early today for work, so I'm afraid I already ate. Perhaps next time I shall join you," he gave you an apologetic smile, to which you nodded in understanding.

The atmosphere was calm and relaxing, a simple summer morning rolling by as the clock ticked on. Chorosuke placed his cup down on a coaster beside him, folding his hands together onto his lap.

"What will you be doing today, [Y/N]?" He asked, breaking the silence. "The weather is perfect for some sightseeing today. Do you have anywhere in mind that you'd like to visit?"

Yo tilted your head in thought, taking a sip of your own drink. "Hmm... That's a good question, but to be honest, I don't really know any places around here," you admitted shyly. "I'd love to see some more of the scenery in Akashika, though. It's very beautiful here."

"Indeed," Chorosuke agreed. He sat in thought for a moment before lighting up. "How about you visit Iriabi? There's a cafe there that my brother runs. It's quite lovely — even though I hate to admit it — and the scenery along the way will surely satisfy you."

You mulled over his suggestion, the name Iriabi ringing a bell. Ozo had talked about it last night too, didn't he? Well, if they were both suggesting it, then it really can't be that bad.

"Sure! That sounds like a great idea!" You beamed. Chorosuke returned the smile, picking himself up off the ground.

"I'm glad that's settled!" He straightened out his kimono, which you noticed wasn't as plain as yesterday, having light decorations of sewn on white flowers scattered across the clothing. "Well, I must be going back to work. I'm sure Dayoko can help you should you need anything," he glanced fondly at his younger sister before bowing. "Take care, [Y/N]."

With that, he left the room, leaving you girls alone. Dayoko turned to you with an excited glint in her eyes, bouncing in her seat.

'I can help you get ready!' She offered, standing up and ushering you out of the room. You were glad that you managed to finish your breakfast, else you were sure she wouldn't have waited for you be done.

"B-But, the dishes—!" You started, only to be cut off.

'They'll get picked up, don't worry!'

She led you down a series of hallways that you were sure you hadn't been down before; although, every hallway looked almost exactly the same as each other. You whizzed past a few more doors before coming to an abrupt halt, and you just managed to catch yourself before you fell straight into Dayoko.

The door slid open to reveal a bedroom, coloured in a girly pink from head to toe. The furniture was a blush pink, the carpet was a rose gold, the flowers strewn about the room were a shocking hue... You felt like you had walked into Barbie's bedroom.

Dayoko pushed you over to the lavish vanity, which had a multitude of perfumes, cosmetics and accessories daintily organised across the surface. She seated you down on the plump stool, moving away to gather a few things as you made yourself comfortable.

She returned with a hairbrush in hand, and a large box. She placed it down, opening it to reveal bunches of fake flowers, like the ones she had placed in her hair. You admired each one before Dayoko tapped your shoulder, catching your eyes in the mirror in front of you.

"Dayon!!"

'Time for a makeover!'

You giggled at her excitement, a similar feeling welling up inside of you. In that moment, she felt like a little sister to you, too. It was cute and endearing. You grinned back at her saying with a hint of a laugh:

"Make me as pretty as you, Dayoko!"

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vanithesquidwrites · 5 years

Text

Waiting for Water - 2

Crosspost to AO3 for those who prefer to read there. Warning: 10k+ words post.

Maybe it's worth a try.

Maybe it's even worth thousands.

2 - SUBMERGE

You can't say that you've ever had much issue with yourself, especially not by Rhalâim standards.

...Well, much issue with your... physical self, that is. Your vessel. Your mind was a minefield as far back as you remember, and you always knew it, if not the full extent of it. Your body, however, had been reliable. Comforting in its constancy. Jittery on dry days, deathly sick on wet ones, and tense as a bowstring on all of them, certainly — yet nevertheless always there. Supporting you through thick and thin to the best of its ability.

Your lungs had admittedly been a complete disaster, especially early on, but you hadn't much cared once Letho took you in. Your scrawny limbs had come with the height expected of Aeterna, with quick footing, agile fingers, and genuinely impressive aim. Your thin frame proved an advantage when you first walked into the Pit, and when you finally put on weight, thanks to the meat and mushrooms victory let you afford, all of it was wiry muscle, strong and lean enough to dance along and around blades.

Your body hadn't merely been your vessel. It had been your temple. The one and only roof to have never caved in nor let you down. The single home to have held strong, no matter whether it was hunger, blades, bandits, or the Rhalâta itself banging on its doors.

Yet for all of its usefulness, for all its speed and size and strength, your favorite of its features had never been any of those. No — it had been your skin.

You'd always been festooned with scars, even long before the Pit. You had chased every rat, you'd finished every fight — albeit on the floor — and you had climbed the walls in the most literal fashion, active yet weak enough to fall from every ledge and roof in the Undercity. But those scars had never been anything but an advantage, and all the more so once the Dust Pit came to add its own fair share. They were proof of a gift for enduring in spite of pain, proof of a gift for survival, in caves intimidation ruled second only to the Rhalâs. You might have carved some into your flesh yourself, had it somehow made it out of your childhood unblemished.

Through your years as a Rhalâim, on those nights wrath was not enough and memories faded away, you always found a measure of comfort in that scarred skin. Every last burn, pit and blemish was a testament to before, a world beyond the Rhalâta, resurfacing for air when the mask and the robes came off. A criss-crossing web of memories, stretching from toes to fingertips, wrapped around your bones more comfortably than silken cloth. On those nights — on nightmare nights — you would tiptoe between bedrolls, volunteer for any duty that would take you into the caves, and there, hidden in dark corners, you would take your gloves off to cradle yourself in your scars, in the little reminders of why you were there at all.

All of the others, your so-called family, had shunned the pain of life and the marks it left on their hulls. You had embraced it. Reveled in it. Relished the way each cut and bruise would sting against the Temple floors, throbbing along with your heart, a myriad small treasons you could privately indulge in. Letho's face would often fade, and wrath could sometimes abate; scars stood eternal, untouched by the Father's words. He had taken your family, taken your home, taken your memories, even taken your name, your hair, and your choice of clothes — but he could never erase the past from your skin, and every look at your bare hands, every glance of your exposed arms, kept the pain that propelled you ever onward fresh and new. Sharp. Honed and ready for battle, just like your body always was.

Throughout all of those empty years, wrath and revenge may have buoyed you, and lies and murder sheltered you, but it had been that blanket of old wounds that kept you warm at night.

And so here you fucking are, former Voice of the Father, former Champion of the Pit, petrified by the sight of soap.

You throw an angry glance at the offending object, still sitting in the mercenary's hand, on the other end of the bath.

You had been doing well, so far. Not one serious argument in three days, be it with the tavern patrons or the mercenary. One small scuffle on the first day, yes, but an hour spent chopping wood outside with the woman had calmed your nerves as efficiently as balm on a wound. From then on, nothing had gone amiss. Not even when the woman argued you should bathe before leaving. You'd carried the washtub upstairs, brought up your half of the water, offered the innkeeper to wash the linens afterwards if she would lend you a cauldron to heat water by the fire. You'd managed to undress. To sit in the water. You'd even managed to convince the mercenary that sharing the washtub would be practical, less likely to leave her with naught but cold water and you with nothing but silence to try and occupy your thoughts.

You'd much rather have slept alone, and bathed alone, and been alone — but if there is any lesson of value to take from the past few days, from the cliff and the travel and all the empty years before them, it's that you don't actually handle being alone very well.

All your small compromises with isolation had worked perfectly, too, from the forced politeness to making yourself share the bath. You hadn't slipped, not even once. Not until that damn soap, lying inconspicuous in the woman's outstretched hand, forcing you to acknowledge your skin all over again. To realize that your temple had stood on rotten foundations.

That its artificial flesh has never been yours at all.

You look down at the hands, clenching a wet rag in the lap. You look at the burns and the old scars, half-hidden under bloody grime and the wrinkles of bathwater. You try to find a truly old one, one that could precede the Rhalâta, the Dust Pit, the Father, the experiments. The time you had been daft enough to try and lift Letho's so-called kettle from the fire with your bare hands. The time you sliced your thumb open peeling potatoes with Torus, and Sha'Gun had to sew it closed herself while Letho held your arm. The time you threw Nessah's stupid old wooden bear onto the roof, and Letho wouldn't speak to you until you'd rubbed your fingers raw climbing to retrieve the damn thing.

You think, and look, and think and look some more, turning the wet limbs to and fro in the candlelight — but the years down in the Pit have made patchwork out of the skin, and nothing looks so much like an old childhood scar than scores upon scores of others.

You wish you could have fought with Brother Sorrow and survived, somehow. Or been disciplined by him at some point. Or even simply not — not done what you had. Perhaps then you would have something real to remember Letho by, rather than the tatters of a dead child's memories. But no, that would only be yet more masquerade, wouldn't it? Brother Sorrow was no more Letho than Brother Wrath was Tharaêl Narys, in the end. Just a pair of counterfeit echoes chancing to meet in the void, both pretending that they were real.

"Tharaêl?"

The name brings you back to the present, to the half-filled washtub and the mercenary you share it with. She looks even smaller, even more out of place, without her steel plate to add some bulk to her diminutive frame. Wrapped in nothing but a towel, she looks almost childlike; as if time parted ways with her when she was all of twelve winters and then chose to return only two full decades later, to carve wrinkles across her face and spatter her with the small burns you had mistaken for freckles.

She sits staring at you, black hair dripping dirty droplets, black eyes empty as ever — yet the tilt of her head manages to convey concern, somehow. The hand that had been holding the soap is folded onto her lap, the soap itself nowhere to be seen.

"I was trying not to interrupt," she says, sounding almost apologetic, "but you still haven't so much as begun to wash, and you've been staring at your hands for a good five minutes. Did I miss a sprain or bruise? Is something wrong with them?"

"...Aside from their not being real?" You stare at the mercenary woman in disbelief, uncertain whether to feel contemptuous or insulted. "What do you think?!"

"I don't know what to think, Tharaêl, which is why I'm asking you." She straightens herself a little, folding back her legs to bring her knees level with her chest then prop her arms on top of them. An innocent enough gesture, if you could not see all too well that its purpose is to create distance, to erect barriers of bone between her torso and your hands. "Whatever else they may or may not be, they are yours. This is your body. It's the same as twelve years ago, remember? That still hasn't changed."

You do remember, of course. After three days of calm and of the migraine receding, you remember perfectly well.

'The same as twelve years ago.' Comforting words, in the abstract, while stranded on snowy slopes and desperate for direction — but damning ones in retrospect, once able to think clearly. Twelve years ago means the Corpse Pit. Late enough to place arena and Rhalâta on your shoulders, while snatching home and family from underneath your feet.

To Tharaêl Narys, Letho and the Refuge.

To the man born among corpses, the Child Killer of the Dust Pit, Brother Wrath of the Rhalâta? Only anger, death, and the void.

All for nothing, twice over. No result, for no reason.

The soul is the same, the mercenary said. But in practice, what does she know? She has not studied the Rhalâs, has not read through the Father's notes. She has no idea what he did or how his experiments worked. She is self-taught, by her own words, guessing her way through your memories and the Father's soft-spoken lies. A talented Sleeper, but a Sleeper all the same.

"Can I?"

Your eyes return to the woman as her voice pushes past your thoughts, and you find her own open hands held out towards you.

"Look at them," she says, clearly mistaking your reticence for lack of comprehension. "Can I? It's fine if you don't want to, I just — I might see something you don't."

You hesitate for an instant, torn between your constant desire for more information and your increasing reluctance to being examined. You enumerate to yourself the reasons for and points against, the whies and why nots of giving the woman insight into you, be it your vessel or your mind. Still, in the end, one thing alone affects the decision you make: that the woman was as disgusted with the Father as you were.

You give her your left hand, let her splay it over her knees. She angles it this way and that to better catch the candlelight, folding the fingers one by one, comparing the pulse to her own with a thoughtful frown. She pinches the false flesh, presses into it hard, indents it with a nail to observe how quickly marks fade. How fast the blood — if it is blood — resumes it flow under the skin.

"...It certainly feels and looks just as real as my own hands to me. You even have skin spots and ridges on your nails," she mutters, eyebrows arching upwards in interest. "I honestly can't tell that anything's amiss at all."

You can hear the awe in her voice. The wonder at the Father's work.

You always were my masterpiece.

You startle and jerk the hand back at the memory of the words, water sloshing against the washtub with the force of your recoil. His masterpiece. Hah. Yeah, right. As if someone half as careful and secretive as the Father would leave anything of value to rot in the Corpse Pit! What a fucking joke. To think that you even believed him, for a short moment. Had you been that fucking desperate?

You clench the hands together against your stomach, curling inward around them. Fuck this. Fuck it all. Fuck this— this— this casing the Father had padded with you. Fuck the Father for making it. Fuck the woman for fucking admiring his fucking work. Why did you even come here? What are you doing? Did you think this... this strangeness would somehow just melt away, if you distracted yourself long enough?

"Shit. Sorry. I — I shouldn't have said that."

You uncurl the hands again, staring at the shadow of what is passing for your veins, imagining the flow of whatever serves as your blood. How had the Father even put it all together? Was it built through magic? Grown in some vat? Did he sew the parts to each other somehow, fake guts, false skin and mock-up bone, then shove your soul inside like one would stuffing in a doll? How long had you laid bare on his table, like an insect pinned under glass, a trinket for him to toy with? Did he mold your vessel, did he mold your soul, like so much clay within his hands, just like he did those past eight years? Did his fingers roam beneath your ribs like yours once did through dead bodies, bits of flesh stuck under the nails, blood slathered up to the elbows?

Do traces of him still remain hidden inside of you somewhere? Some mark within the flesh, some signature on bone?

To think you'd believed he might have whored you off to some Sublime, once. Thought that that sort of violation was the worst he'd done to you.

"...Tharaêl?"

The thought makes your head spin, and you try to shake it away like you did headaches and nightmares, but no amount of force or speed seems to dislodge it from your mind. There you had been, mocking the other Rhalâim as they covered from head to toe, playing at pretend brotherhood while smirking at them in contempt. There you had been, the one true disgusting pile of flesh all along, and yet too much of a Sleeper to even begin to notice.

"Tharaêl. Wake up. Wherever you've gone, you're not there."

...That's right, isn't it? You're not here. You've never been here. Only some puppet of the Father's, thinking itself a long-dead child. Holding onto that dead child's memories of his just-as-dead brother, as if he could even recognize whatever you had become. Why would he? You had never met. What need did Brother Sorrow have for some delusional construct? What need did dead Letho have for pretenders clinging to his memory?

The arms hang limp and the chest feels hollow, heartbeat silent, skin gone numb. Air comes in unsteadily. Vision trembles. No, not vision — shoulders. Hands on shoulders. Not the vessel's hands. Shaking? Why would—

—pain erupts on the left side of your face, and your sight violently swivels. Punch? No, too light. You catch yourself on the wet wood of the washtub's edge, blinking in confusion, and raise your left arm to block any further oncoming hits as you turn your head to locate the source of the blow.

The mercenary looks back at you, right arm extended in what you guess to have been a slap.

Time seems to stretch for a moment, with her arm still held out, your own arm still held up, and your stomach churning with the disgust of your last thoughts. But the moment passes, and so does the tension. You let your arm lower, and the woman does the same.

"Thank you for not striking back," she says with an uneasy smile, but you feel so nauseous that you can only nod in response. "Are you alright?"

You almost want to laugh at the sheer stupidity of the woman's question — and you do, for a few seconds, your shoulders quaking all over again. But then the cackles turn to gasps and the gasps themselves into coughs, and you stumble out of the washtub to vomit on the inn's floor.

"Shit," you hear the woman say amidst splashing sounds, somewhere around the edges of your blurring vision. "I'll go grab some rags. Sit down. Here," her wet footsteps approach, and you can feel her put something between your hands. "Bucket."

You nod in silent gratitude, retching into the wooden pail until the vessel can produce nothing more but dry heaves.

The taste of vomit in your throat sends your mind back to simpler times. Better times, really, in the end. Knees in the gut in the Dust Pit, old bread just a little too old, water you'd forgotten to boil. Everything had been so clear, then. No questions of who you were — of what you were — or what you would do the next day. Only the routine of survival, of blades kept sharp and chainmail mended, your stomach filled with whatever had been within reach of your hands. No Seers nor mercenary to cast every word into doubt. No Father to play with your body and mind like you were his toy, to be thoughtlessly cast aside the moment he thought you broken.

"Do you think you can keep going?"

You raise your eyes from the bucket to meet the mercenary's gaze. She kneels off to your side, wrapped in a brand new dry towel, another bucket in her arms — that one filled with vomit-soiled rags. You take a breath in, let it out, wipe your mouth with the back of a hand.

"Yeah," you answer her, pushing your own bucket aside. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"And I'm Loram Waterblade risen from the grave to save mankind," is the woman's response, and you would snap back, were it not for her apologetic smile. "But you truly do need to wash. Well, anyway, I'm already done, so I can leave if that makes you more comfo— alright," she interrupts herself as you shake your head no. "If you want me to stay, I stay. But I am staying out of the washtub and putting on a shift."

"Why? No," you mutter, head still spinning. "I can—"

"—Overestimate yourself because you don't want to seem vulnerable, and end up making everything harder to do in the process? Yes, you can definitely do that," the mercenary retorts, voice kind and mellow to the point of condescension. "Which is why I am going to go cover up some more and spare your ex-Rhalâim arse the discomfort it won't admit to."

That's not— that's not it, your mind wants to scream as she turns to fetch clothes. That's not what the problem is, damn it. How can the mercenary feel so fucking self-important as to think you give a damn?! You've seen your fair share of bodies, each one more mundane than the last. You've seen them bared to entice, bared to humiliate, eaten alive by fleshmaggots and shitting themselves in the dust. You don't care about any of them, and about hers least of all, as long as their flesh never comes into contact with yours.

The problem isn't her stupid, small, weak mess of a body. The problem is that your vessel can't be kept at a distance. The problem is that you can scrub with all the soap the world can hold, and your skin will still be a lie. The problem is that if even the woman can't bear to see it like this, then the one person to have helped, the only one to have stuck by you in over twelve fucking years, will leave you over embarrassment, of all stupid fucking things.

And once she's gone, who will stand between you and the damn window? Who will pull you back from the cliff, the next time the void comes calling?

...Why are you even thinking this? This isn't you. You don't stop and ponder help and bare skin when washing. You don't focus on dying or on whatever the future holds. You're a survivor. You focus on now.

This. Isn't. You. This is only the vessel trying to assert control, to bend your spirit to its will by drowning it in emotion. Equations and chemical imbalances, all of it. You need to be more objective, to remind yourself of the chasm between sensation and truth. Flesh does not get to dictate to the mind what it should think. Let alone false flesh. You know better than to succumb to as petty an urge as this.

You exhale at the thought and squeeze your eyes shut tight, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers in frustration. From the Rhalâs to numbness to disgust right back to the Rhalâs. You have no other weapon with which to fend off intrusive thoughts.

That's the whole issue, isn't it. That tearing off your mask and brand can hide the Rhalâs out of sight, but that it will never let you carve it out of your bones, scrape it from underneath your skin like dirt from under fingernails. You can escape the Rhalâta, you can call yourself Tharaêl, but you will still remain a Rhalâim no matter what you do. Because for you to be able to call this mind and memories yours, you need to accept that the Father gave you your soul and vessel — and for you to accept the Father gave you your soul and vessel, you need the Rhalâs to force pain and disgust from your mind.

There's no way out. There never was. There'd been the fall, but you've fought it back long enough to grow afraid of the idea, to want to be pulled away from windows, cliffs, and banisters. To hear the mercenary talk of long-dead souls still stuck in place.

To wonder what happens to souls, once bodies shatter on the ground.

Maybe you should pursue another sort of radical option. Shock yourself out of your feelings by flooding them with stronger ones. Drink yourself under a table, hire the nearest pair of whores, get your life's worth of revulsion done and over with in minutes. You chuckle to yourself as you try to picture the scene: Brother Wrath, pissed-out drunk, framed by the Silver Cloud's harlots in some smoky parlor. Hah. As if.

You'd given it a go, of course. Twice, when you were... what, fourteen? Fifteen? You don't even remember. Coming out of the arena, with the bitch that used to work there. You might die any day, you'd reasoned, so why not try fucking first? But sex had turned out to be just as empty as lust and love themselves. The vaunted origin of half the bullshit in the universe, not to mention most of its art, hadn't been half as good a high as cracking skulls or breaking limbs, half as calming as a blade in your hand or food in your stomach. There'd never been a third attempt, and now... the mere thought of their hands on you disgusts you on the best of days, and these days are about as far from the best as you can conceive.

Something in the line of thought brings your mind to a grinding halt, as if whatever support it had been resting had gone and caved under your weight.

You frown, perplexed, your eyes lost on the still-wet stain your vomiting left on the floor. The idea is ridiculous, yes, but it should not warrant upset. Whores are as they are, certainly, and beacons of disease besides, but nothing to trouble the mind — nothing worse than the Corpse Pit was. And as for this day being about as far from the best as you can—

A strange, distant sort of numbness spreads through your chest and head, and for a moment you think yourself back up the mountain, severed from yourself in ways you cannot articulate. But the moment melts away just like the mountain snow did, and you return to the tavern, still sat on the wet floor, your head and shoulder leaning to the side against the washtub's edge. You look about for the mercenary, and find her sat nearby, in the bedroom's one armchair. Positioned so as to be close, yet face away from the washtub.

"...If I went and knocked up some girl," you mutter through the fading daze, and the woman turns her head back at the sound of your voice. "Would the child even be mine? Can I even— would it work at all?"

The mercenary's brows furrow as her head swivels further back still, but no words come out of her mouth. Her skill for talking your ears off seems inversely proportional to your desire for answers.

"And if it does work," you go on, raising your hands to indicate your chest. "If fucked someone with this thing that was meant to be empty from the start, will whatever child I father be—"

"Tharaêl," the woman interrupts you, pivoting in her seat to come properly face to face. "Do you have some girl that you want to go and knock up?"

"I — no," you stumble over the word, taken aback by the question.

The mercenary's lips twist into a sarcastic smile.

"I figured. And do you want children?"

"No."

The question bears no thought. Absolutely not. No children. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. Even discounting your nightmares and the issue of your anger, you would make a dreadful parent. You are not father material.

You almost choke on the sheer irony of that last thought.

"Then let it go," the mercenary says, her voice more firm than you've ever heard it. "Look, I don't know you enough to know if this is how you normally act when grieving, or if this is years of repressed feelings falling on your brain all at once. But whichever it is, if you keep trying to think through everything at the same time, it's bound to spill over like this. No thinking of the future until you've been at home for a week, alright? Especially not things you don't want to do. They don't matter right now."

But they do matter, some part of you wants to scream at the woman. You would have wanted to— to— damn it all, you don't even know what you would have wanted. To wonder, maybe. To be able to ask yourself the question without the very idea making you feel faint and nauseous.

You would have wanted to have a choice, for once. Only a choice. It would have been enough.

...Yeah. And you would have wanted Letho alive, Sha'Gun decent, and a pretty pony besides. When has what you wanted ever mattered, and why should it begin to now? The world doesn't care, and it never will. Why do you?

You know better than this, damn it, you think to yourself as you gaze into the bath's still water. To the Black Guardian with what you want; busy yourself with what you have. You have a roof over your head, you have someone watching your back, you would have food in your stomach if you hadn't been a moron, and you have a damn bath to take.

You've clawed your way out of the Corpse Pit, fought your way through the arena, with nothing but determination and the willingness to face pain. This is nothing compared. So your flesh is artificial? Boo fucking hoo. At least it's there. Every last one of the fleshmaggot sufferers lining the caves would give life and limb to be you. You have two working arms and legs, two lungs and ears and eyes, ten fingers and ten toes and ten unfractured pairs of ribs, a head mostly screwed on straight and only five broken teeth besides. You're doing great, by all standards. You hadn't even noticed the body was fake until today. Why would you break down over this?

You're no longer young, frail, and weak. You no longer cough your lungs out everytime the seasons turn. What does it matter if that's because of the Father, sheer dumb luck, or Malphas and his so-called gods playing yet one more joke on you? You are a grown man, for fuck's sake. You can fight this the same way you fought your way out of everything: by gritting your teeth, steeling yourself, and choosing to move the fuck on.

Your mind is sound, and the vessel is functional. That's all that matters in the end.

You're not your vessel, anyway.

"...Yeah," you speak up, meaning the word both for both the woman and yourself. "You're right. It doesn't matter."

The woman's smile becomes a touch more genuine, for all that it still appears nervous around the cheeks and the eyes. You sigh and turn back to the— to your hands. Clenching and unclenching them, watching the way phalanges bend, muscle tightens and relaxes, skin wrinkles over pale blue veins.

It's still the same as yesterday, you remind yourself. Still the same as twelve years ago. Not Tharaêl Narys of the sewers and the Refuge, perhaps, but still Tharaêl anyway. The Tharaêl of the Corpse Pit, the Dust Pit and the Rhalâta. You can be certain of that much. It's not a comfortable truth, let alone a comforting one, but you are quite simply going to have to fucking deal.

You could handle being thirteen and covered head to toe in blood. You can handle being twenty-four in a synthetic vessel.

"Fuck this," you proclaim to the room, hauling yourself back to your feet, taking care not to slip on the still-soggy floor. You let out a long breath, step over the edge of the washtub, and sit yourself into the water, grasping for the white reflection of what you know must be the soap. You clench it between your knees, leaving it aside a moment more, electing to begin your task with a more familiar gesture: cupping your hands to hold water, and raising them to your head to let it cascade over your scalp. There is no shorn hair to rinse off, but the motion remains soothing.

"If I can do anything to help," the mercenary says, "just ask."

"No, there's no— actually, yes," you change your mind halfway through wishing that the woman would shut up. "There is something you can do. Babble. I'm told you should manage."

"Sure," she snorts, turning back within the armchair to face the wall once more. "What do you want to hear about?"

"Anything," you answer. "Something I don't know. The more of my brain is busy keeping track of what you're saying, the less will be free to ruminate on old bullshit I can't change."

"Like a mantra," she says, and you feel surprised that she even knows the word, until it dawns on you that she spent time in the Temple as well. Diligently listening to the Seers' sermons, at that.

"Exactly like a mantra. So do your thing," you tell her. "Ramble ever on. Distract me."

"I can do that," she agrees, and you practically hear her smile.

You inhale and exhale slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. You let your eyes fall closed, shut them tight, concentrate on your breathing. Then you grasp for the soap, wrenching it from between your knees, and set yourself to the newly-unfamiliar task of washing.

Once upon a time, there was a castaway — a black-eyed woman from Nehrim, gone overboard while out at sea.

She'd had very little before, the mercenary says of her, and she'd had nothing afterwards, save for eerie visions and a bout of arcane fever strong enough to fall an Ogre. A passing sellsword rescued the poor woman from bandits, shared his work with her for a time, and then off to Ark she had been, in search of an explanation for her sudden arcane talents. The Order had offered some hints, but the woman had been distrustful, unwilling to tie herself to a creed she disapproved of.

And so she'd left, to remain free. For the woman was not only poor and black-eyed, but quite naïve.

Freedom did not fill her stomach, nor did it buy her Ambrosia when arcane fever came calling. She'd tried to gather some pennies, but Ambrosia was expensive — as were equipment and shelter, when one came with nothing but the clothes on their back. And soon, in a story that you know all too well, the woman had found herself stuck between the rock of the fever and the hard place of the Dust Pit.

She'd rebounded, after it all. Motivation could move mountains, more even than hunger at times. She had been so angry at the Masked Men of the Buried Temple, so disgusted by their request that she go and slaughter the lost, so desperate for a salary not filched from the hands of the poor, that she'd gone back to the Order. She'd thought to garner support there, naïve and foolish as she was. It never could have worked, of course; Enderal was no fair kingdom, and Tealor Arantheal not the wise king stories spoke of. But somehow, the woman's strange visions garnered her their attention — and a few weeks later, by the grace of the Sea, she'd found herself exalted Keeper of the First Sigil, in possession of enough goodwill and funds to buy her own house.

Then the castaway-turned-Keeper had been told the world was at risk, and sent forth on a mission as crucial as there had ever been: one meant to rid Vyn of the evil that had borne the Red Madness.

And she had told the world to wait, to come chase the Father with you.

For some fucking unfathomably stupid reason, you presume.

Reconciling the tale with your own experience proves quite daunting. Not because of lack of detail — the mercenary's prattling more than takes care of that issue — or because of the drain on your mind that the washing proves to be, but because of the insanity of the sequence of events. You walked down into the Dust Pit, found yourself looking on the fights of a competent Sinistrope, decided it was she you would try and hire into your cause. But then, some-fucking-how, you walked out of that very same Pit in the company of a Keeper. A Phasmalist Keeper at that, trailed by an ever-increasing army of dead souls, who could prophetize the future by seeing echoes of the past. Then you'd set out to take down the Father, took down the animate but soulless remains of Letho instead, and discovered yourself to be some sort of — some sort of construct. And, last but not least, you found yourself invited to come live in the aforementioned Keeper's own house.

Just like that. Wherever the woman came from, Rhalâim of eight years moving in with Keepers appeared to make sense over there. With not a single question asked, not one guarantee provided.

All because you had volunteered to go hound Rasha that morning.

You have no idea how to feel about any of it, so you decide not to. You take the woman's story as the sequence of sounds it is, file them as pure information, and store them well away in that part of your mind where you keep the Rhalâs and Tharaêl Narys. Once you are fed and rested and as safe as you can ever be, then you will dig through the story again, try to excavate motes of sense from pile upon pile of chaos. You have enough incomprehensible things on your plate for now.

Regarding the woman herself, you only feel more and more torn. You are not so proud as to think yourself above all assistance; nor are you so daft as to spend too much time hesitating. But the lack of demand for reciprocity unsettles you. No one ever gives so much of anything for nothing. No one. That the woman appears to do so means you are blind to the cost — and the last time you were so blind, you woke atop a pile of corpses.

You stare at the backside of the mercenary's head, still reclining against the back of the armchair. You tell yourself that she would not betray you in such a fashion, that the woman has spent too much effort on keeping you alive to wish any harm upon you. But then you remember Sha'Gun standing by your bed and watching, and you remind yourself even years of kindness can hide treason.

By the time you leave the washtub, clean and all too glad to be done, the water is so cold and brown it could have come from the sewers.

You can't help but imagine it to be some sort of metaphor.

It's a matter of mere minutes, albeit quite a few of them, to leave the room as you found it and prepare to leave the Tavern. You get rid of the bathwater by way of bucket and window, while the mercenary makes the bed, sweeps the floor, repacks her bags. You help each other carry washtub and buckets back down the stairs, and, as promised, spend the next hours using it to launder linens, working in companionable silence by the kitchen's fire.

You worry, for a time, that laundry will see you leave late, but the woman explains that lateness is the purpose of the task. She is not eager to see you striding a Myrad's back, she says, so you will be leaving by scrolls — scrolls whose teleport runes lead right into Ark's bustling marketplace. Better to wait for late evening and for the streets to be empty. Less people to see you, less unfamiliar noise to stress you, less chances that the bright sky overhead might trigger your migraine.

You're unsure whether to feel grateful for her concern and foresight, or disgusted all over again by how fragile she thinks you are.

Once all the laundry has been hung and sunlight has left the windows, the mercenary gives your shoulder a tap — for courage, she says — and leads you outside Frostcliff Tavern to pass you a tightly-bound scroll.

"I'll go first and wait for you there," she tells you, giving your shoulder another tap. "Take a moment, if you need to."

You don't need to take a fucking moment to use a fucking scroll, you think, but you simply nod in response. No reason to be abrasive. You've done enough of that these days, and she is attempting to aid you, however clumsy her methods. What manner of fool would you be, if after so much time spent angered by the lack of help, you pushed its belated provider away?

You take a step back as the woman unrolls her own scroll, watches it consume itself in her hands as the magic takes hold, and smiles as her shape scatters into sparks swept by the mountain winds.

"See you at home," her afterimage says, vanishing into light.

You stare at the spot of thin air where the woman was just standing, then let your gaze wander about, taking in the Tavern, the snow, the jagged teeth of the mountains encroaching on the starry sky. You don't imagine you will ever see the place again. The cold and snow may be soothing, but there is nothing for you here. Only remorse, bad memories, and a grave so unbearable to dig you wiped it from your mind.

Letho's head rolls across the tiles, as if it was a ball that had fallen from his shoulders.

You shake the image from your head, like the dozens of times you've done so in the past handful of days. You take a few steps through the snow, hearing it crunch under your feet, feeling the wind prickle your eyes. It takes but a minute for you to reach some sort of outcropping, a ledge of snow-dusted rock jutting out high over the valley. The borders of the mountain range stretch out right underneath your feet, turning first into a forest, then the Dark Valley, further south. All of it hidden by the blanket of night and a sea of fog.

The world always seems so fucking big, seen from outside of the caves. An arena so long and wide, and so littered with obstacles, that there is no hope of flushing out every hidden opponent. No ways to avoid being flanked. No solid walls to put one's back to or to barricade between. No certainty of payment and food at the end of each battle. No formal rules of engagement, no announcer to warn of fights. No arbiter to call their end. No end to the fighting at all.

And there you are, empty-handed. No weapon at your hips, no armor on your back. Not even so much as a reason to defend yourself at all.

You throw a glance at the starry sky, the peaks it frames, the woods below. You set your gaze onto the ground, breathe in and out, steel yourself. You clench your hands into fists, straighten your shoulders.

Two hundred feet, or maybe three. Not quite as high, but high enough.

Last chance to jump.

...But what is it that happens to souls, once bodies shatter on the ground?

You close your stinging eyes, let a shaky breath out, and untie your scroll with trembling hands to let the spell do its work.

Once gravity resumes its pull, leaving you stumbling to your knees on cobblestones sprinkled with dust, you feel, for an absurd moment, as if you have just walked right back into the Dust Pit's ring. The darkness, anxious dizziness, the dry dust against your bare hands, all of it feels so familiar — almost achingly so, after so many years spent kneeling and lying on Temple floors. The Dust Pit had been home, in a disturbing way. More than the Temple ever was, and in the light of retrospection, perhaps more than even the Refuge. The one place where you'd been celebrated as a godsend, rather than seen as a burden best cast aside and left to die.

For a ridiculous, irrational second, you find yourself missing Rasha. Her stilted attempts at concern each time you walked into the ring. That beaming grin across her face each time you made it out alive. The look of surprise in her eyes when you first came to claim her tax — and the fear that grew in its place, when you proved just as concerned with her welfare as she'd been with yours.

She never said a thing, of course. Dog ate dog, when coin was at stake. She'd taught you that lesson herself, each time you'd looked up from a kill to find her collecting her bets.

Your hands clench on the cobblestones as you will the memories out.

"Well, welcome home," a voice exclaims, and raising your head brings into sight the mercenary's pale face, smiling in the flickering light of an arcanist's will-o-wisp.

She does not mention the shudders running through your breath and your hands, so you ignore the way light glints in her suddenly wet eyes, and let her weak arms fail to help you up as you haul yourself to your feet. Your gaze wanders, following the wisp as it circles to and fro, illuminating here a stall, there an old tree, elsewhere some shrubs. Garlands of colorful fanions hang over the plaza like cobwebs, stretch from stone wall to chimney to greet an occasion you can't name.

Barely two hundred feet upwards, and it's already so different. Bright garlands in place of clotheslines. Cobblestones rather than cold mud. Moonlight in place of Starling lamps. Twenty years of soul-crushing work, and not a single thing had changed — but two hundred feet up or down, and there the entire fucking world went and shifted on its axis.

You'd expected as much, of course, but seeing low expectations turn into depressing truths never became any easier.

"The house is just a few yards west," the mercenary interrupts your thoughts, as she seems wont to do. She taps your shoulder once again, with much more assurance this time, even pulling on it a little as she begins to walk. "Come on. Let's get you settled in."

You follow her out of the plaza, distractedly, passing between a pair of buildings to access a stall-lined street. High wooden walls frame it much as they would in the Undercity, but here the road is wide and dry, paved just like the plaza had been, and most importantly of all open to the skies overhead. It seems bright even in darkness — even discounting the pallid light cast by the wandering wisp — and infinitely less cluttered than the main cavern's alleyways.

Had it already been like this, when you came up back then to try and plead with those two guards?

...You don't know. You can't remember.

The woman takes a turn left down the cobbled road, her hand still held against your shoulder. Smiling all the while, she points to a narrow house nestled under a tree, framed by an old smelter and a sharpening wheel. Perhaps a weaponsmith's workshop, before the woman had bought it. Useful to keep your own swords sharp, if nothing else.

Letho's head rolls across the tiles, and you remember, vividly, why you are never going to sharpen your swords ever again.

"There we are," the woman says, happiness dripping from her voice. It mixes with your memories of blood on slate and cobblestones like oil with water, leaving you staring at a fractured image — half bloody corridor to the Room of Paintings, half quiet cobbled street at night. You tear your eyes from the sharpening wheel, willing the thought away like you did those of the Dust Pit, just as the mercenary pulls a key out the lock. You hadn't even noticed her bring it out or put it in.

"It's a bit on the small side as houses go," the woman continues, "but it's really easy to find. If you get lost wandering town, just keep an eye out for the smelter, or ask people to direct you to the old market smithy. Everybody knows where it is."

She turns back to you, smiling still, standing atop the three stone steps of the house's threshold.

"Guests first," the woman proclaims, sweeping her arms in a flourish in the direction of the door.

You cast an uncertain gaze at the door, but shrug your doubts aside. Whatever this may be, you have done, and have survived, worse. Yes, it may be a trap, or a deception of some sort, but this is not the Rhalâta or the Refuge. You can change your mind. You can leave.

Decision made, you grasp the doorknob, push the gate open, and walk in.

From the moment you step indoors, you find that a lot of things change, some of them rather brutally. Most of all your understanding of what the woman means by 'small'.

Her house being 'small' means that it could hold three families, with room enough to spare for the children of a fourth one. A floor with a wide hearth and covered in carpets. A separate chamber, if one without a door. And shelves, so many shelves, all of them stocked with a moon's worth of grain and various pickled foods. What had seemed from the outside to be a narrow abode is also a long one, and what you'd thought a mere high roof turns out to be harboring an empty mezzanine, wide enough to be its own floor. One with a proper flight of stairs rather than a simple ladder, solid floorboards and airtight walls, and even its own small window.

A second floor which is now yours, you vaguely hear the woman say; to be handled as your own house and furnished at your convenience. You wish she would pause there so you could address your returning doubts, but the words keep coming, commenting on the sight from the window and on the banister. She'd offer you the room downstairs to give you privacy, she says, but cannot afford to do so: nightmares and sleepwalking have plagued her her whole life, and make railings and heights — not to mention staircases — a poor choice of environment for her to spend nights in. You can borrow it and her bed until you buy your own, she adds, but it must be available for her when she is not working.

She says even more afterwards, speaks of where to buy clothes and furniture fit for an Aeterna, but you barely listen, still lost in the concept of having your own floor.

You even take a moment to rest your hand on the banister, purely to reassure yourself you are not hallucinating.

The woman fills you a 'small' purse of gold from a casket by the chimney, to buy your furniture and clothes and other such necessities. You start to count the coins and trade bars as soon as she has her back turned, but find yourself stopping once you reach three hundred with pennies left to spare, a sinking feeling in your gut.

Those are likely not the same coins, but you gather the amount is more than simple coincidence. Four hundred pennies, all in all. You would bet your left hand on it.

The advance you'd paid her so she'd join your crusade.

You can't make yourself ask, and so you say nothing; you merely stand, back to a wall, watching as the woman smiles and prattles about her furniture. She lights a fire with a spell and prepares each of you a 'small' dinner of a bowlful of oats, practically overflowing, topped with a boiled egg and a thick slice of salted lard. She has to ask you to sit down before you can force yourself to, joining her at the, for once, truly small table that the room is centered around. Cutlery in hand, you find yourself wishing the bowl was smaller; used as you are to the fasting that the Rhalâs demands, you're quite certain your stomach will not manage to fit it all in, even as empty as it is.

"...Alright, so I may tend to hoard and overeat a little," the woman mutters when you point it out, sounding somewhere halfway between ashamed and grudging.

You take it 'little' too must be put up for amendment.

Not that you don't understand it — not the quantity, but the drive. It took the Rhalâta to wean you off of rationing, of stockpiling all you could find and eating only that which was on the verge of spoiling. Not even the regular meals of the orphanage had managed. You had always kept stashes, hideouts, small corners you would fill to the brim with dried mushrooms and stale bread. A true sewer rat, through and through.

But the amount of stored food is not the part that unsettles you. Nor is it the pile of linens the woman threw over whatever she keeps under the stairs while you'd wandered above, unwilling to trust the reality of 'your' floor until you'd walked on it. You can guess what that must have been — either some manner of religious memorabilia, or whatever tools she plied her Phasmalist's trade with. No, the unsettling part is how prepared everything is. There are two sets of plates and bowls, two sets of silver cutlery. Two mugs, two goblets and two chairs, even as the rickety table barely fits a single person. An upper floor kept clear and clean while the lower drowns in clutter, most of it bags and crates one would expect to find in an attic.

Has the woman been expecting you would need a place to hide? Did she join you on your quest while anticipating failure?

But then why—

"—I'm glad you didn't jump," the woman suddenly tells you, cutting short both your train of thought and your attempts to dent the mountain of oats in your bowl.

I know, you think. The woman wants you on your feet, that much is glaringly obvious. She is as daft as sellswords can be while still staying out of the grave, but she does not strike you as likely to trek down mountains for fun, let alone in the company of helpless, half-blind Rhalâim. Clearly, for whatever reason, she thinks she can draw benefit from your continued existence.

"Why do you care," you ask, bristling at the thought. "You won't take the money. I've brought you nothing but corpses. What do you get from this?"

What do you get from me, you studiously leave unsaid. But even unspoken, the words still hang thick in the air.

The woman looks up from her meal to stare at you, brows furrowing in that way you know to mean puzzlement. She sits almost unnaturally still for a moment, then hastily swallows the oats she had still been chewing.

"I'm just glad you're alive is all," she says, wiping her mouth. "I wasn't going to say it, but you keep looking at everything like you're not sure if it's real. I thought you might need to be told. You didn't jump. You're here. I'm glad."

You feel your hands clench the silver fork and knife as they would your swords, and force them to relax, to put the cutlery aside. The woman, oblivious, returns to her own bowl, the question seemingly resolved to her satisfaction.

Why? Fucking why? Where is the anger, the resentment for the mess you dragged her in? The demand that you quickly find a way to provide for yourself? The reminders that this is just for now, that you must soon be gone? Where is the trap? Is there a trap, or is she truly that naïve? And if she is, then how did she carve her way through the arena? Why did her naivety somehow shield her, when yours had left you drenched in blood and murdered Letho twice?

Why is she so fucking lucky? Why are you? Why is Sister Pride to be killed, Brother Hatred to be stepped over, but Brother Wrath to be brought home and fed and given his own floor? Why couldn't it be Letho living to share a house in the sun, instead of the murdering piece of garbage you've let yourself become?

Letho's head rolls across the tiles, and you can almost imagine the mercenary's by its side, dull black eyes unseeing, sallow skin flecked with red. You stare at the too-full oat bowl, the overfilled shelves and cluttered floor, trying to will consistency into your surroundings, to derive some reason, some meaning, out of the last twenty years.

You find none whatsoever.

"I would have shot you," you state as calmly as you can make yourself. "If that woman hadn't been there, I would have shot you. I would have opened that gate with your corpse and wiped the splatter off my face."

The woman's gaze returns to yours, as unreadable as ever.

"Maybe you would have," she answers, putting her spoon down with irritating calm. "You know, everything that can happen will happen, so if you—"

"I would have shot you, damn it," you snap at her, willing her to make sense.

Your voice echoes, vague and blurry, bouncing under the high roof and the empty upper floor. You instinctively cringe back at its sound. Habit. Useless habit, now. Sound does not carry as far up here as it does in the tunnels, does not risk calling the attention of patrolling Rhalâim. Does not risk drawing the ire of the First Seer upon you.

The woman only tilts her head, crosses her arms on the table.

"You think I don't already think about this all day long? Yes, Tharaêl," she says, looking you in the eye, her expression serious yet on the verge of pitying. "You would have shot me, and on some wave of the Sea, you did. I know it, because I saw it. In perfect colorful detail. Do you know what else I saw? That on some other wave, I defended myself, and you fed the temple instead. And then on yet another wave, we struck each other at the same time, and died bleeding out on the floor while feeling extremely stupid. I presume the Father found it very funny."

You open your mouth to retort, but she forestalls you, raising a hand, refusing to let you interrupt.

"But here," the woman continues, "on the one and only wave of the Sea that matters, you didn't shoot me. I didn't burn you. We walked our way down Northwind Peak carrying each other's baggage. We shared a room, we shared a tent, we shared a bed, we shared a pile of coffins of all things, and we even shared a bath. Since in spite of it all we both seem to still be alive and in each other's company, I think we may as well admit we make a pretty decent team, and let the Sea of Eventualities handle the shoulds and woulds."

...A team.

Has the imbecile even been listening to you?

"Alright," you pretend to concede, unwilling to argue the point with a wall any further. "Let's say we're a team. What now?"

"Blazes, Tharaêl," she chortles, that moronic smile returning to her lips. "Which part of 'don't think through it all at once' is it that you don't understand?"

"What now," you yell at the infuriating mercenary, forcing yourself past your urge to cringe at the increased volume — and you can almost feel satisfaction flow through your veins as the woman's smile fades and she backs into her chair. "What's the plan, huh? What does a reformed Rhalâim do in the Upper City, exactly? I can cut throats and break fingers, but I don't figure that's what Sunchildren look for in their employees. What happens when no righteous man will hire some Pathless Aeterna with scars all over his face? Should I just sit pretty like some prized hound on your oh-so-fancy carpets, while you dump some gruel in my bowl and pat my shoulder every once in a while? What about when you go and get yourself killed playing hero for the Order? What happens then?"

The woman stares at you a while, hands nervously grasping at her elbows. Taken aback by your anger, clearly, in a way she hadn't seemed to be before.

Good. Maybe reality is finally beginning to sink into her.

"...Thanks for the vote of confidence," she quips in a deadpan voice, and you find your hands clenching all over again, nails biting into flesh, pulse echoing through your fingers. "Look, we'll figure that out when I come back. First, I have to check in with Grandmaster Arantheal as soon as I can, and—"

"You're a fucking sellsword of three moons out to fight transcendent beings," you interject, quite done with the woman's nonsense. "You think I need coddling?! Alright. Fine. Fuck you," you snarl to punctuate the idea, "but fine. But do me the fucking courtesy of not making shows of promising grand tomorrows when you don't even know if you'll survive today."

"What? No," the woman practically exclaims. "Tharaêl, no, you're taking this the wrong way, I didn't mean—"

"None of this is mine," you continue, undaunted by what would no doubt be yet another attempt to drown you in false reassurances. "Not the food, not the house, none of it. I can't count on any of it. Stop pretending I can. Just— just stop."

"Tharaêl—"

"—I said fucking stop!"

She does.

...You didn't quite expect that. You thought she would — well, do what she always does. Poke and prod. Insist on ramming herself through doors, barging into corners of your mind where she hasn't been invited. But she merely stays sat, hands resting atop each other on the very edge of the table.

"...Sorry," she mumbles, looking as downcast as you've ever seen her. "You're right."

You practically deflate as she says so, and so does your anger, letting your hands hang limp at last.

The woman sighs, seemingly as drained as you are. She looks to her left, and you follow her gaze — past the chimney and into the shelves, through the rows of fruit and herbs pickled in small glass jars. She stares at them, at the much-too-many baskets of potatoes, the pot of aging vegetables and the sacks of wheat and oats.

Her head slowly comes to hang, and you almost feel guilty.

"Look, I don't have the slightest clue how to manage any of this either," the woman finally admits, and you can hear your breath come more easily as she does, feel some of the ever-building tension leave your shoulders. "I'm making shit up as I go along. I know it. You know it. And I know you know it. I just — I want this to go right, so I'm trying my best, and—"

"—It makes you sound either delusional or blind as a cave fish," you interrupt her half-apology half-explanation. "You want to help me. I understand that. I appreciate that," you emphasize, lest you come to sound like an ingrate. "But I need to know where this field's obstacles are to maneuver around them, and I can't do that if you keep blindfolding me with pretty words."

The woman lifts her head back up to look straight into your eyes, and sighs a second time, nodding.

"This next part is all true," she says, looking much more reliable with that fake smile wiped off of her face. "You're not pressed for time. Not that much. It's like you said: there's enough food in here for weeks. And you have the purse; you can save some and find some place to hide it, if you want. Take some of both, make them last, and you can find some inn room or shack and hunker down for a while. That'll see you through if... if you can't trust me."

By the name of the Sun, finally. Finally, the girl is beginning to talk sense.

Would that it didn't take yelling at her to make her speak in plain Inâl.

"Yeah," you answer her as you ponder her words. "I can probably do that, but only once I know the place enough. You don't improvise stashes of food and money. Unless you want them to be filched by the nearest rat or lowlife."

"I don't figure you'll accept 'open an account at the bank' as good advice?"

Your brow reflexively creases as the woman smiles, but the quirk of her lips is wry and sarcastic this time. Sincere.

A joke.

"No," you say through your own small, faint shadow of a grin. "I won't."

"Well then," she continues, lying back into her seat once more. "If you're determined not to trust local establishments, a day or two should suffice for you to find some sort of backup plan. Shave, buy some clothes and a hat, and wander a little to get the lay of the land. Just... ask people if they have anything they need done for a few pennies, enough to reliably pay for a room at an inn. Carts to load or unload, floors to clean, anything. Be patient, be polite and mindful of people's faith, and you'll find some odd jobs here and there. I did."

It would be a start, part of your mind concedes. A foundation to build on.

The rest of your mind, however, is not so easy to persuade. Working out and about in Ark, provided you even manage to find some work in the first place, means being in sight of the guard. Unable to retaliate, be it against word or blade, without bringing yourself to their attention. No weapon at your hips, no armor on your back, no weapons in your hands but discipline and temperance.

You sigh, eyes lost into the thick oat sludge that still sits in your bowl.

"I can't convince you I mean any of what I say with words, can I."

You blink at the sound of the woman's voice, and let your gaze return to her. She remains sat on the other end of the small table, head tilted to the side, a pensive frown on her face.

"No," you agree. "You can't."

It doesn't particularly please you to admit it. For all that you can never attest to her true motives, the woman has, at the very least, acted loyal so far, if in sometimes perplexing ways. You don't want to compromise it any more than you did in Frostcliff Tavern or the Temple. Not while you have so little else to rely on, so few options to look into.

Not with the cliff so close and the climb so daunting.

"Alright," she answers, nodding to herself. "So I have an idea. How about this." She straightens in her seat, looking into your eyes. "Pick yourself a new name, and I can get you added to the title deed of the house."

The muscles of your back tense all over again as the enormity of the offer sinks in. No one ever gives so much of anything for nothing. No one. Not Sha'Gun, not the apothecaries, and certainly not some random mercenary from the Dust Pit.

You open your mouth to argue, to try and find the secret flaw, the hidden cost of the proposal.

"Why do you want to take my name," is what comes out instead.

You freeze at the sound of your voice, stunned by the sudden gap between your thoughts and words. How...?

"I don't want to," the woman replies to the question you hadn't meant to ask, forcing you to focus on her rather than on your racing mind. "But you're the only Tharaêl I've so much as heard of in my whole life. I've been dealing with the idiots in charge here for a while, and if there is one thing I know for sure about this city, it's that shady fuckers flock together. The Rhalâta deals in loans and in dirty money," she says, raising her left fist. "The folks at the bank, where you'd have to fill the ledgers, deal in investing and laundering," she continues, raising the other. "Tell me the twain never meet in back alleys and cushy rooms," she concludes, clapping both hands together in front of her face, "and I have sunlit fields in Thalgard to sell you. And with you saying the First Seer has ears everywhere..."

She shrugs.

It makes sense. You don't like it, but it makes sense. You've always been free with your deadname, convinced as you were it would never matter again. No doubt someone somewhere, some informant or spy, has heard of Tharaêl Narys, Voice of the Father.

"It's the middle of the night," you say. A weak retort, perhaps, but all you can manage, just as lost in the concept of having property to your name as you had been in that of owning an entire floor.

"And I'm a Keeper of the First Sigil, the Prophet of the Order," the woman shrugs. "What use is having rank, if I can't pull it on Samael Silren? Pick a name, any name, and I can promise you this. I can walk out this door and bring this house back to you, ink on paper and seal of the bank at the bottom. Right now."

You want to feel angry, somehow. To rage and rant at her as you had only mere moments ago. But the offer is more than fair, and well-trod ground besides. It isn't as if you've truly worn the name since the orphanage; only a litany of Dust Pit titles and nicknames, themselves soon discarded in favor of becoming Brother Wrath. You haven't been Tharaêl Narys in over a dozen winters. Haven't ever been him at all, really. Just a construct of the Father's, borrowing his name and memories.

You want to feel angry, but all you feel is numb.

"Letho," you murmur to the woman, hoping you will not have to explain your answer.

Not that you could, if she asked you to. There is no logic to the choice. Only the need to pull the name out of the void gnawing at you. To snatch it away from the Undercity and the Father and let it be spoken under the sun where it belongs. So what if you are not Tharaêl? Letho still existed, still deserved remembrance. And with the true Tharaêl gone, with Letho's body lost to the Father and to Wrath both, who will honor him, if not you?

You expect the woman to question, to argue, to call the choice a bad idea. But all she does is rise from the table and walk into her room without a single word. You hear her pull and rummage in her drawers for a while, even leaving something to clatter loudly on the floor; then she returns, inkwell, quill, and parchments in hand, as if nothing was amiss.

Perhaps she'd expected this choice just as much as your choice to pull back from the cliff.

"Letho it is," she says as she puts down the inkwell and quill by your hand. She unrolls the two parchments side by side on the table, and points to their bottoms, where what you guess to be her own signature lies. "Can you write 'read, agreed, and accepted' and sign these for me?"

You attempt to read the scrolls, but find the task impossible. The words are but lines of nonsense, letters refusing to coalesce into a coherent whole. Migraine? No, your head does not hurt. That... thing the Father called strangeness, perhaps? Wasn't it supposed to affect faces, not words?

Not that the words matter at all. You have no leverage with which to argue the terms of the contract.

No motivation to do so, either.

You sigh and simply sign the damn things, improvising some swirling curls to adorn Letho's name, then hold the parchments out for the woman to take. She does so with a slight frown, but does not comment, praise the Sun.

"Well, there it goes," she says, eyeing your cramped, uneven script. "These should be enough, as long as I'm the person bringing it to them." She shakes the parchments a little, takes a few seconds to blow the ink dry, then carefully rolls them back upon themselves. "We can go there together to discuss specifics when I'm ba— if I'm back. Or you can sort them out with Silren by yourself. Preferably soon. The bank is on the marketplace. Right at the opposite end of the central plaza, coming from here."

You understand the words. Intellectually, at least. You could define each and every last one of them, if asked. And yet somehow, to a degree, none of them register. As if the void had seeped out of you to sap them of their meaning, leaving only husks in its wake.

You look at the woman, for lack of better things to do, and the two of you find yourselves staring at each other, her standing, you sitting. Neither of you appearing to know how to proceed from this point.

A minute passes.

A second.

"Um," the woman eventually says, seemingly first to recover from your mutual lapse of consciousness. "Is there anything that would help right now?"

...Good question. You don't know. Probably nothing. What possibly could help, short of erasing all that happened since your tenth winter?

"Just some quiet," you try to answer the woman, more out of rote than out of any actual desire. "A lot of quiet. For quite some time."

She looks at you again, still frowning, and her mouth opens and closes in silence a few times before she shakes her head and sighs.

"Alright," she answers you. "Fine by me. The spare key is on a nail above the front window. If you need anything, anything at all, you can ask Mimi, right out the door. She's there every morning, brown hair, blue dress, you can't miss her. I'll let her know my outlander Aeterna friend could use some help with directions. She'll take a message to me in the Temple if you need. You'll have to pay, but she's reliable."

You let the words run through your head, wringing what meaning you can out of them. Keys above window. Ask the woman in blue. Outlander friend. Why not. You suppose it could make a good cover story. You certainly feel out of place enough to be an outlander, and it would serve to excuse inevitable cultural gaps.

It could work. It would work. It would provide a few tangible ways of handling your situation.

And you don't care.

Weren't you upset about this only moments ago?

You try to roll the minutes back, to retrieve the annoyance from out of your sudden numbness, or even simply remember why you had been upset at all. What words or poor turn of phrase could have possibly triggered it.

Nothing registers.

You turn your head to the mercenary, thinking to ask her, only to find that she has retreated back into the room. You can glimpse her, or at least her back, clad in the white and reds of the Order and the Guard. Changing to make her words to the Bank carry more weight, you presume.

Funny, when you think about it. Only three moons ago you would have laughed at the thought of ever associating with a Keeper. And now here you are, dining — and presumably soon living — in the abode of one you've known for but a scant few weeks, most of them spent fully unaware of the woman's rank.

"Tharaêl?"

You blink out of your thoughts to find the woman standing next to you again, looking like any other Guard if not for her black eyes and her diminutive stature. A Starling parent in her ancestry, perhaps. She raises a hand towards your arm, then seems to think better of it and lets it fall back down, letting her hands clench together over her stomach instead.

"I'm not Yesha Sha'Gun," the mercenary says, and the words clatter in the void that has been settling over you like a chime thrown into a well. "I have no idea what else I will or will not do, but I'm not going to sell you out. Not to the Rhalâta, not to the Order, not to anyone. I'm going to do my best to do right by you. Please trust in that, if nothing else."

She looks at you, steadily, clearly expecting some form of response. But what can you even say to that? 'I know' ? You don't. 'I believe you' ? You don't even know if the woman believes herself.

"I'm sure Sha'Gun thought the same thing," you answer her, numbness making a mild rebuke of what you would ordinarily voice as violent retort.

The woman's eyes lower, leaving yours to settle somewhere around your clavicle. She nods, quiet, almost somber, and leaves the tableside, grabbing her pack from a spare chair on her way to the door. She opens it and slips outside without any more words, locking the door behind her with two turns of her key in the lock.

You can hear the sound of her boots down the three steps of the threshold, faint echoes in the night, taking your name with them.

You'd only just gotten it back.

A weary sigh escapes your lips, and you push your still half-full bowl aside to lay your arms on the table, then lay your head on top of them. Finally, some calm. Some time to rest, to think without a pair of eyes hovering over your shoulder. The woman feels like nothing so much as a new Seer at times. A kinder one, perhaps, but just as omnipresent in her oversight and her disapproval.

Pushing thoughts of the woman to the side much like you did your bowl, you allow the void and its numbness to blanket you in blissful silence.

You don't know how long you've sat still, head buried in your arms, by the time the sound of paper brushing on wood catches your attention. You jerk back reflexively, head swishing to the side to locate the origin of the sound — and you find it, innocently laying on the floorboards. A letter, slipped under the door.

You stare at it like you would at a dog, half upset by its noise, half pondering its provenance. Still, in time, you manage to push yourself to rise, and cross the room at a brisk pace to pick the letter from the floor. A simple bit of clear parchment, wrapped around other ones — a small note from the bank, demanding a meeting 'within the week', and one of the two deeds the woman has asked you to sign. Now amended with a few lines specifying your ownership of 'the attic', a new seal, and what you guess to be Samael Silren's signature.

Well, there it is. You now own an entire floor.

Just like that. Because.

You keep staring at the house deed as you return to the table, uncertain how to feel about the parchment's existence. You are about to sit back down, hopefully to resume basking in the silence for quite some time, when you notice that the wrapping of the deed and note is not as clear as you had thought it to be — two lines adorn its other side, ink slightly smudged by your fingers.

Keep these safe, says the first one, written in what you guess to be the mercenary woman's hand.

Please still be home when I come back, says the second, more haphazard.

Something in that second line settles uneasily in your gut, tearing a hole there not even the void had managed to open. You try to will it closed, but only find its breadth spreading, leaking into your chest, your arms, the tips of your fingers. You can feel your anger bubble back up from the void at long last, and you kick at the chair, frustrated beyond words.

The force sends it skidding right into the table, and the rickety mess of course picks this time to tilt over, taking its contents with it in its fall. You stand and watch, silent, as the pots and pan spill over, glass jars and earthenware crashing into shards all across the floor. The sludge of the leftover oats splatters the carpet and floorboards, leaving wet, greasy stains in its wake.

Congratulations, Tharaêl, you tell yourself, instinctively sickened by the sight of the wasted food. Five minutes into your tenance, and you've already wrecked the house.

What a fine piece of work you are. Letho would be so proud.

Letho's head rolls across the tiles, and you press the heels of your hands against your eyes, rubbing as strongly as you can. The memory fades back, but the feelings remain — rage and regret in equal measure, wrath and shame and longing and wishing that for once, just fucking once, the arena would let you go.

Well. What did the woman expect? You warned her. This is what you do. You break things for stupid reasons, then you regret it afterwards. And what did you expect, anyway? You knew you should have jumped. Then neither of you would be dealing with any of this.

You sit down on on your haunches, observing the result of your latest outburst. Glass liberally dusts the oats and the lard once held by the pots, making them inedible even if you scooped them up. The pan is unsurprisingly unharmed, and one of the pots seems to have survived the fall intact, but the bowls are thoroughly shattered, as are all three of the jars. At least they were empty, you comfort yourself as you think of the pickled meat lining the shelves. Wasting the lard is bad enough.

Letting out a long, tired sigh, you set yourself to the slow task of picking up your own damn mess, fragment after fragment, one small piece at a time.

There's no saving the broken things, but you can probably wash the stains out of the carpet.

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