#so it'll probably read terribly in the morning

[mayhaps-a-blog]

Day 13: 30,225 words! As I suspected, working on something else gave me more power to work on this project, and while I didn't get much actual job work done, I did write another 4,000 words of RP backstory that will probably never be used. But it was fun, and it gave me a creative boost, and that's what matters, right?

Last line: “Kings and chiefs of the Trinovantes, the Corieltauvi, the Catuvellauni,” she said. “You say I have no victories, no stories, and no horse. I stand before you now, with my victory, my story, and, most importantly, my horse. So I ask you again, kings and chiefs: will you ride beside me into battle against Rome, the traitor, the usurper? Or shall I leave you behind to drown in your foolish pride? I ask you this now,” she finished, baring her teeth. She caught their eyes widening as they looked past her, and knew Avon was doing the same. “I will not ask you again.”

#more of a last paragraph #but i like it #and it's nice to end on a section break for once #i did write it at 3am #so it'll probably read terribly in the morning #but whatever :) #mayhaps a novel #boudica story #nanowrimo 2023

[scoonsaliciousupdates]

5.3 Lily

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Lily McIntyre, trainer for new SHIELD recruits at the Avengers Tower, has been in love with her best friend, Bucky Barnes, from the moment she met him. She's been content with her role of the #1 girl in Bucky's life, even if it means she has to sabotage a romantic relationship or two. It'll be worth it when he realizes that they're meant for each other, right? There's just one small problem: Lily McIntire never expected Bucky Barnes to fall for You.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language,

Word Count: 500

Previously On...: Bucky got a call from Lily, wanting to know where he was. He lied to her, of course. That definitely won't come back to bite him in the ass.

A/N: Sorry this is so late going up! Had a last-minute Mother's Day dinner with the family, and then some quality time with @cazellen, and when you add on an hour+ drive each way, it ended up eating my entire evening. But! I wouldn't leave you hanging, so here is today's update, just... six hours late :(

Also, PLEASE NOTE: There is one more section of Chapter 5 to go up tomorrow, and then I will be taking a one-week break from posting so I can focus on writing. So, Chapter 6 will start on Sunday, May 19th. I probably will not be as active on here as I normally am, so if you send me a message and I don't respond right away, it's because I'm busy making more content for you!

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Lily clutched her phone to her chest, shocked. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He had lied to her. She couldn’t believe it. Her best friend had lied to her about what he was doing and who he was with. 

She hadn’t planned on coming to the Compound that night– she’d realized she’d forgotten some files in her office that she needed to look over before she went back to work on Monday, and had just stopped in to pick them up. She figured, since she was there, she might as well go see what Bucky and Sam were up to. She didn’t want to crash their boys’ night, per se, but if they happened to invite her to join them? Well, how could she refuse such an invitation?

That’s why it came as such a shock when she rounded the corner to the rec room and saw Sam and Steve, in front of the large television, watching football together, and Bucky nowhere in sight. She hung back for a few moments, giving him the benefit of the doubt, that maybe he’d been in the bathroom, or in the kitchen grabbing snacks. But when fifteen minutes went by, then thirty, and Bucky still hadn’t shown himself, she began to worry.

She was about to barge into the room and demand answers from Sam and Steve, when she heard them talking during a commercial break.

“So, how do you think the date’s going?” Steve asked Sam.

“Knowing Tin Man, I’d usually say ‘terribly,’” Sam said with a laugh, “but this girl seems to actually like him, so who the hell knows? I guess it depends on what time he comes home tonight… or tomorrow morning, doesn’t it?” 

Lily brought a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp as she backed away from the entrance to the rec room. 

No. No, no, no, no, no, she thought. He wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t just start seeing someone without telling her, warning her, would he? 

So, she’d called him. 

“I promised Sam we’d do guys’ night,” he’d told her at brunch, the lie coming so smoothly off his lips. But she’d heard a woman’s voice on the line with him.

Lies.

And then, he’d snapped “I already told you what I was doing… You don’t have to keep checking up on me.” He’d never used that exasperated tone with her before. Never. And to just hang up on her, without even a proper goodbye?

She felt hurt. She felt betrayed. In their years of friendship, Bucky had never lied to her before, had he? And why? Why now? Who was this girl, and what was so fucking special about her that Bucky felt the need to lie to his best friend about her? 

Lily felt like she was going to be sick.

She needed to find out who this mystery woman was, immediately. And she needed to do everything in her power to make sure Bucky never saw her again.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

[steviewashere]

Let Me Make You Soup, Let Me Show You That I Care

(also on ao3)

wc: 4,149, Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Post Season 4, Sick Steve Harrington, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting (Though Not Extreme, For I am Emetophobic), Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve's Sucky ass Parents

(Also, I hope y'all don't mind me cross-posting some of my favorite one shots that I've put up on ao3. Figured I could push them to a bigger audience, especially those who don't use ao3).

--------

Steve gets sick often. Small colds, allergies, the dreaded flu. Maybe it doesn't help him that he's had so many concussions and injuries on top of that too. Left with debilitating migraines and aching sides and muscles that become overexerted too fast.

Safe to say, his immune system is now a pile of steaming dog shit.

He's become good at attempting to "take care" of himself. With his parents being absent nearly all the time, much of the recovery process and gentle care was left to Steve. His hands don't have the same soft and slim quality as his mother's did, though. Even if she doesn't make the effort to shove his hair from his sweaty forehead or massage vapor-rub onto his chest or squeeze his shoulders as he dry-heaves into the toilet. He can miss that.

It's also safe to say that Steve Harrington, best babysitter and lesbian protector, is absolutely terrible at asking for help. His idea is, Got myself into this mess, I can get myself out. His other idea is, I don't want to burden anybody; I've been that too many times.

He suspects that's why his parents aren't there now to tuck him into bed and check his temperature and read him a bedtime story. Even though, now, he's a nineteen year old "man." More like a bruised child trapped inside the buff body of an even more injured adult, left to his own devices and decisions.

Steve is miserable today. Woke up with a knocking headache, an itch at the bottom of his throat, tingly fingers, shivering limbs, and the need to massage his abdomen to elicit the vomit to come up sooner.

It's barely nine in the morning. Just cracked his eyes open. Which, are heavy with crust and too much sleep, yet not enough.

It's barely nine in the morning and all Steve wants to do is lay stiff on his mattress, a trusty tried and true trashcan on the floor, curtains closed, a heavy duvet draped over his legs, and the A/C set to sixty-eight degrees. That's what he does. Doesn't have the appetite for breakfast or water or Tylenol. He doesn't have the energy to lay on a towel on the bathroom floor, body curled around the base of the toilet bowl. And, he doesn't have the confidence to plead with somebody over the phone to "Take care of me, just this once and I'll repay you."

He's done that before to Tommy. The bastard never showed and Steve sobbed so hard at the thought of being left alone, that he hurled right onto the beige carpet of his bedroom. That's why the desk is stuffed into the corner. To cover what he couldn't even take care of.

Steve has decided to lay in bed today. Has already used the trashcan. Kicked off the duvet then whined then brought it back to his sweat drenched t-shirt hem, then said fuck this and ripped the shirt off his body.

The silk sheets against his rapidly heating body feels nice. Like laying on the kitchen floor, Steve surmises. And that makes him think of soup.

A hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Something he's made himself countless times before. A recipe that his mom never perfected. It's just Campbell's, the instructions are on the label, yet it was never made correctly.

She'd do that. When her motherly instincts were at an all-time high. That had to be when he was probably five? Six? His mom would make a bowl of soup so warm and soothing that she would have to warn him about touching the ceramic. She would bring him a glass of orange juice and say, ever soft and comforting, "It'll help you. Mommy promises."

The juice would sting his throat and he would cough so hard she would start to worry about doing the Heimlich maneuver.

That's what his mother's "sick care" turned into. A glass of orange juice that only hurt, never helped, just made him think about swallowing glass.

Soup turned into a heat-until-lukewarm situation. Juice wasn't bought for him. His parents elected to buy "fancy juice" instead. Another descriptor for Mommy's self-healing alcohol problem, Steve began to substitute. He remembers the last time she ever made him anything or gave a shit about his weakened body.

Steve was eleven years old.

He eventually learned where to buy the Campbell's stuff. From Mevald's. Now he keeps a hefty supply in the back of his family's pantry. Ready for a day like this.

A day where at eleven, before noon, Steve has a sudden mouth watering appetite for measly chicken noodle soup.

He hefts his body into an upright position, feet planted onto the carpet, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the mattress, a quick glance thrown at the trashcan, and a heavy breath burrowed into the stale air. Right before he scoots to stand, he hears the telltale sound of Eddie knocking on his front door. A simple three pattern.

The rapping startles Steve slightly. He forgot that Eddie was supposed to come over. I'll have to send him away, he thinks solemnly.

"Coming!" Steve croaks to the bathroom floor. With whatever strength the knocking has given him, he tucks the trashcan under his right arm, creeps to the top of the stairs, and ever so carefully floats down them.

The can is set off to the side before he opens the door.

In the glow of the daylight, energized and cheery, is Eddie Munson. Wrapped in a leather jacket, hair tied up into a bun, jeans replaced with jorts, and a grin the size of the moon.

"Hey Stevie," he drawls as his lithe frame leans against the doorjamb.

"Hey man, listen..." Steve begins before being interrupted.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Eddie shoves into the house. His grin is set into a small frown and his eyes are glazed with concern instead of the excited energy equal to a golden retriever. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You could've called me if you had a nightmare."

That's something him and Eddie do. When one has a god awful nightmare about floating bodies and squelching flesh and sterile hospital walls, they call each other. Sometimes to just hear that the other is alive. Other times for a trip to one another's house. The phone calls could be Eddie recapping a campaign storyline or Steve bemoaning over a wretched, hag of an old woman that demanded a refund on an R rated movie her grandson finagled her into renting. Or just breathing. Steve's fond of the soft puffs of air that signal Eddie finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep.

"No, weirdly enough I slept way longer than I was supposed to. I'm just sick today. But, I'm fine. Or at least I will be, got a good grasp on this. Y'know, trashcan, soft bed, canned soup. Was actually coming down here to send you back home," Steve rushes out. He's out of breath and feels lightheaded. The headache has turned into a pulsating mess and his stomach churns violently. Before he can warn Eddie again to go out the front door and leave him be, Steve finds himself hunched over his trashcan at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with the force of his grip. One hand on the edge of said bin. The other, wrapping tendrils of hair around his fingers and pulling with enough force to surely rip out some of his luxurious hair. Which, really, is a sweaty disgusting mop today.

He feels the hand in his hair loosen. A smaller, slightly cold hand replacing it. But this time, the fingers work carefully to sweep back any loose strands. Another hand joins the mix. This one squeezes at his right shoulder.

Eddie is behind him, whispering and shushing, "You're alright. I got you, let it out." His cold skin feels amazing over Steve's damp forehead. And equally, his touches are soothing.

Steve coughs once, twice, spits the same amount, and then leans against Eddie with a heavy sigh. "Thanks," he mutters. He shutters at being oddly exposed. Now that he's realized his torso is bare and he probably looks as awful as he feels and now all of his guts are in a bin in front of him.

The bin gets shoved over to the left and Steve starts to get up from the hardwood floor. Eddie lifts him up and leans him against his side. "How about this? I'll make you something mild, get some water into you, and divvy up a couple Tylenol tablets. Your skin is hot and not in the sexy way," he chuckles.

They make their way to the living room. Steve is deposited onto the couch with a cushion shoved behind his back and the can placed appropriately at his feet, within arm's reach. Eddie adjusts his hair again, this time with the tie from his own hair, and leaves to the kitchen.

Steve is dazed. Hot all over. Itchy in some places. Runny nose, aching stomach, watering eyes, and throat so itchy he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin on his neck. This predicament almost makes him embarrassed, more ashamed than anything. He gets his ass handed to him annually and has to have people take care of him during the concussions, until he's given the okay to go home and grovel in silence. And he puts himself in situations he can't get himself out of. He's tired of it, he realizes. Feels the need to apologize to Eddie, make him cookies or something, promise to never make him do anything like this ever again.

When said man comes back into the room with three extra-strength Tylenol in his palm and a cold glass of tap water, Steve wants to cry. It's not until Eddie is setting everything down to pet at his hair and shush him again doe he notice, he is crying.

"Sorry," Steve's voice rasps. He takes a gasping breath before choking out another nasty, wet sob.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's what your body has to do," Eddie coos.

"No, I'm sorry you have to take care of me," he breathes. That's tally number two for decisions Steve is making today. Some miserable, lonely, somewhat pathetic decisions.

Then, Eddie pulls back. His eyes are the size of saucers. And that small frown from earlier has turned into a deep-set, terribly worrying downturn. "You don't have to apologize for that. Not at all. You need help, I'm here for you. It's what we do, okay?" he murmurs. Steve cries some more at that. Choking on his tears, practically. Enough for Eddie to say, "Hey, breathe with me. I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

So they sit for a few minutes. Breathing. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie's mouth, watching him count. And Eddie stares at his eyes. Trying to piece together all the little details about this version of Steve. The one not picking fights and towering over unlucky underclassmen and spitting venom instead of backing away when he's supposed to. This Steve that looks like a small, terrified, lonely little boy. Who feels the need to apologize for being a human being. Somebody that makes sure everybody is better off and happy and swooned over before taking an assessment of his own body, the injuries stitched into his side, and the possibility that someone also wants to make sure he's doing alright.

God, who is Steve Harrington, Eddie questions to himself.

Once the tears have subsided and breathing has been placed under control, Steve feels exhausted. Eddie seems to notice because he suggests, "Why don't you lay down for a while? Maybe snooze some while I make soup?"

Steve nods with slight hesitancy. "Can I—" he stutters, "Can I lay down in my room?" To Eddie, this is the quietest he's ever heard his friend. And that doesn't sit right with him. A man—bulky and toned, loud and sassy, bark with no bite—now sitting with his shoulders slumped, skin blotched in various shades of pink and red, breathing ragged, and looking at Eddie with terribly timid eyes. He's just a little boy, some part of Eddie whispers.

"Yeah man. 'Course you can. How 'bout you get yourself to bed, I'll follow behind with your can, give you your medicine, and leave the door open just in case you need something?" The nod Eddie gets back is so energetic, it's as if Steve wasn't sick to begin with. That part of him that's been whispering and wondering is now aching. All he wanted was to be looked after.

Where are your parents, Eddie wants to ask aloud. Who was here to take care of you, Eddie wants to dig.

In mere moments, Steve is tucked back into bed. The curtains are drawn to be almost completely closed. His door is left unlocked and gaping. There are soft snuffles drifting through the house. And Eddie finds himself in front of the Harrington's fancy electric stove.

Before he came back downstairs to cook, Steve whispered something about there being Campbell's in the pantry. "If you want to heat it up on the stove, that's what my mama did when I was really little. It's what I do now."

Eddie glances at the cans and makes a decision for Steve, He deserves better than a piss poor attempt. Homemade it is.

When he was little, Wayne used to make soup on sick days. Still does. During the recovery time when Eddie's sides were still sore with stitches and itchy with stretch, Wayne would bring him a bowl of soup and a tall glass of orange juice on a little tray. He makes a mean bowl of tomato. "Something my mamaw taught me and now I can show you," he had told Eddie.

As much of a bare wasteland as Steve's kitchen is—What does he eat, Eddie wonders—he manages to find all the ingredients necessary. After a couple cupboards are ripped open and some miscellaneous drawers sifted through, he finds himself stirring a simmering metal pot of something he hopes Steve can keep down.

Eddie wants to chastise Steve for even thinking about being sick alone. What a misery sentence. Was probably going to call Robin and say something about, "You don't need to worry. It's not bad. I'll just be out of work for a couple days." Then he would've trekked back upstairs, slow like molasses, and locked the door behind him. Would've laid in bed shivering and crying and barfing. Probably would have passed out by the time he was finally hungry.

Steve even apologized earlier for being taken care of. As if he was a burden. Made himself smaller and tighter and quieter, that's for sure. So Eddie won't do any form of chastising. That'd only make him disappear on himself more.

As the soup is being dished up with plain toast and a cup is being filled with pulpy orange juice, Eddie hears Steve startle awake upstairs. Goes from snoring almost as loud as Wayne in the winter to dry heaving, hard.

Eddie sets the made tray down onto the counter. He makes his way back to the front door and chucks his shoes to the side and hangs up his jacket. Then, tumbles upstairs just as Steve is breathing raspy again.

One. Two. Three knocks on the open bedroom door. And in the blink of an eye, Eddie is over at Steve's side. He's crying again. Nothing like the nauseous sobs from earlier, but sniffles and silent watery blinks.

Steve's hair is pushed back again. "What's goin' on Stevie? What happened?"

"N-nothing," he spits frantically into the air. Like a kid trying to hide a lollipop behind their back. A teenager caught with a lit cigarette in hand. The family dog with a sneaker in it's mouth being told to drop it.

"Okay. Okay, I won't push. But I brought you some soup and orange juice. It's not the best because there's so much pulp in it, but it'll do for now. Oh, and—" Eddie sings. He digs around in his jorts pockets for a small container. As he brandishes it just in Steve's line of sight, he says, "Found some vapor-rub in the medicine cabinet downstairs. Now it is a few months out of date, but that just means more will need to be appl—honey, what's goin' on?" he questions softly.

Steve's sniffles have turned into thin-lipped, eyes glazed and bloodshot, muffled sobs. He has a streak of snot dripping down on his upper lip and his chest keeps stuttering. Eventually, he chokes out, "You brought the soup to me."

And what a statement.

The sentence slaps Eddie across the face, causing his head to rear back. It confuses him, that's what it does. Obviously I brought him soup, what the fuck, he asks himself incredulously.

"Wha—of course. That's what you do when somebody is sick. You help 'em out, bring soup or crackers or whatever and make sure they're better," Eddie supplies as he wipes away the sweat and snot with his banana. There's a brief moment where the only sound is Steve crying. The room is dim and he seems more comfortable than when the door was initially answered.

Eddie thinks back to the apologizing. The making himself smaller and quieter. His hesitancy about wanting to sleep in his own bed. How his mom used to make soup. And the statement, "Got a good grasp on this." Pieces start to click, sirens sound off, door number three has opened and behind it is a shiny new car.

A horrifying realization. The easy solution to Eddie's childlike curiosity over where Steve's parents are. And that in itself makes him want to hurl into the trashcan or pull full force at his hair or sob.

His parents aren't here and haven't been in a long while, Eddie accuses.

"Oh, Stevie." He pets again at his drenched hair. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? You don't have to worry about that with me. Let me do what I need to do, but I'll be right here if you need anything."

"Okay," Steve whispers.

Within just a couple minutes, Eddie has Steve propped back up on a mountain of pillows. Some from the hall closet, the stale bedroom of his parents, and the ones from his own bed. He's changed the bag in the can with a call of, "It's alright, no big deal," after Steve's cry that Eddie didn't need to do that. A bedside lamp has been turned on. An ice cold wet rag has been situated over his neck. There's a thick layer of vapor-rub in his chest hair.

Then came the aforementioned lunch. It smells divine. As if God himself started a soup kitchen in the Harrington's desolate house. What's even better is that it's definitely not chicken noodle.

"I don't remember there being any cans of tomato in the pantry," Steve notes.

"Oh, well. I thought you deserved better than that crap. Made something Wayne usually serves up. Family recipe," he sings again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. His eyes feel wet again, but he fights every part of him that says to cry. He's done enough of that. "Y'know, you didn't have to," he says quietly.

Eddie makes the wounded sound of a shot dog. He finishes setting up the tray on the stiff mattress. Then, situates himself to sit on Steve's left, rubbing down his bare back. "I wanted to. That's all that matters. Now eat up before it gets cold."

And he does just that. The bowl is hot to the touch. Its contents still fresh from being boiled. Even the gulps of orange juice don't burn as bad as when he was little. Steve feels five years old again. He's anticipating the late afternoon lunch from his mom where she'll show him vapor-rub and a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. In the living room, she's going to lay down, with him on top, and they'll watch reruns of his favorite cartoons. The curtains are closed and she hums lullabies as he drifts off to sleep.

Eddie rubs his back and hums songs and kisses his forehead gently. Which, Steve hasn't been given that amount of affection in a long while. And he honestly doesn't mind.

There's something that's been sitting between the two of them, a thing the size of a ten pound medicine ball. A word shaped like love and comfort. The space where Eddie shares stories about Uncle Wayne and his hibernation snoring when the temperatures drop and how he acquired every single mug on their wall. And in response, Steve listens and drips a couple droplets of how his mom would read Goodnight Moon and kiss him on his cheek or on summer days where they'd splash each other in the shallow depth of the pool. Before it became a graveyard. Or the loosely sketched outline of a mom and her child. His dad wasn't as close, but he'd play catch when Steve was still learning about baseball or share facts about his car that intrigued little eight year old Steve in a way no sport has ever done before. How he acquired the bowling pin from the one time his parents took him out for his birthday. The car painting being something his dad did in his spare time, not bought from some general store in the next town over.

Even in his sick state, Steve thinks about pecking Eddie on the lips. Wonders how smooth they are. If he uses chapstick. What flavor it could be. His mind supplies days in the future where they make soup for each other and shout about how excellent Hellfire was or Lucas' basketball game had been. Mornings shaped by soft snores and gentle touches and steaming cups of coffee. Nights wrapped around each other, cooing sweet nothings when the nightmares become bloody again, and sex that's slow and drawn out. Or the quiet moments where Steve needs a shoulder to cry on. And open arms so that Eddie is encased in comfort, even after everything.

At his final spoonful and dip of toasted crust, Steve whispers, "I love you." As treacherous as his mouth has been in the past, this final decision isn't as daunting as the rest from earlier today. Some part of Steve knew that it would come to a head and the words would spill from his lips like the soup on his chin.

Eddie hums beside him. He kisses Steve one. Two. Three times on the forehead. Then he sets the tray aside with all the empty dishes and the vapor-rub with three finger divots. He strips down to his boxers and a simple t-shirt. And he tucks Steve in as he scoots on top of the duvet to hold him.

"I love you, too," he responds. "And I'll be here when you get up. So get some rest and the next time you're awake, I'll go get some new orange juice and more ingredients for tomato soup and a container of unexpired Vick's."

Steve drifts off to sleep with his body curled around Eddie's side.

In the morning, the curtains are open and soft sunlight streaks in the bedroom. Eddie has left the house to do a quick grocery run, leaving behind a note of "Just lay back and relax. I brought the phone upstairs if you want to keep yourself entertained."

He calls Robin to muse aloud how excellent Eddie is. Their dance around each other now concluded over a simple bowl of soup. How nice it is to finally get the care he wish he had when his mom started to go away. Him kissing a guy before she could kiss a girl and her shriek off, "The next time I see you, I'm gonna give you the nastiest, biggest wet willy this world has ever seen. Trust in it, Steve Harrington."

The threat isn't an empty one, but it makes Steve chuckle anyway. Even though he still feels that encroaching violent twist of his stomach and a cough that could send him flat on his ass.

And when the phone call ends and Eddie is back inside with soup being made on the stove? Steve feels like maybe it's alright to rely on his true family when the time comes. He makes a promise to himself too that he'll learn how to make the best goddamned chicken noodle soup this world has ever tasted. All so that he can dote over Eddie the same. Make sure that he really knows just how much Steve loves him.

"I love you," Eddie breaths into his tussled hair later on the couch, where they're watching cartoons.

"Love you, too," Steve slurs as his body becomes heavier with sleep.

#stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #post canon #post season 4 #angst and hurt/comfort #sick steve harrington #sick fic

[difeisheng]

for the last first time

A sequel to @ilgaksu's ficlet, which you can read here. We're both terrible enablers of each other, which results in things like us spontaneously deciding to start a fic series at a time when both of us should have been asleep. You can also find both our ficlets on Ao3 here.

This investigation should have proceeded like any other. Or at least what Di Feisheng would consider any other, with precedent set by all the cases he's been dragged into solving: make observations on your own as much as possible, be discreet, then ask around for clues if necessary. By simple inquiry or by interrogation, whichever is required. Being at Fang Duobing's side, day in and day out, means that Di Feisheng is expected to try the former first, excruciating as it is. Fortunately he doesn't often have to make conversation himself, not when Fang Duobing has enough words for both of them, and probably one person more. 

    There's nothing much left for Di Feisheng to do, in such cases, but wait until he's done. Standing in contentedly threatening silence, while Fang Duobing's pleading dark eyes work to whatever confession-eliciting effect they seem to have, alongside the charm of a person who acts like they have patience for other people and genuinely seems to mean it.

    And this is where today deviates from that standard of 'any other', because asking around for clues, more often than not, demands venturing into places where lips are likely to loosen with wine, or food, or money. These Di Feisheng can tolerate, the hazy chatter of a tavern or anonymous sea of a marketplace. The disappearance of this particular local aristocrat Fang Duobing is looking into, however, has led them somewhere else, areas in which the man liked to spend his time. As it turns out, brothels draw everyone from the peasants to the magistrates, and so there information can be traded for alongside pleasure.

   For some, anyway. Di Feisheng straightens his posture, grips his blade more tightly, and shuffles his stance to look out at the bustling street. The lanterns strung between buildings, casting a warm glow over the city as dusk crests over the horizon. The sky, settling from blue to inky violet. The calls of street vendors and clusters of people finding their way home or out of it.

    Essentially, facing anywhere that isn't the sweet-faced girl outside the door of the brothel behind him, probably no more than twenty and, based on her expression and the lilting beckon of gongzi when Fang Duobing parted with Di Feisheng here, wanting more from him than as much indifference as he can politely project.

    Why did Fang Duobing insist on paying a visit during the evening? Oh, he knows— It'll be easiest to find information when it's busy, and we'll be less conspicuous, he'd said to Di Feisheng's blank stare that morning— but really, they couldn't have tried for before every courtesan had settled into their evening routine?

    You're not shy about this, are you, A-Fei? Fang Duobing had smiled then, as though he wasn't still half-draped over Di Feisheng with the sheets a tangled mess, the underrobe sweat-clinging to Fang Duobing the only clothing on either of them. And Di Feisheng had turned over in demonstrative answer, had bitten another blossoming mark into Fang Duobing's clavicle that was only barely hidden by his collars when they rolled out of bed—

    And apparently his plan for Di Feisheng's reluctance was to let him stand outside this pleasure house by himself.

    (No, he's not shy. It's simply that this many years on, Di Feisheng has never known need to navigate an establishment like this. For all that Fang Duobing never seemed to grow close to them, women still have a better chance at turning his head. Or at least of him being able to convincingly pretend as such.)

    (Only a single instance of life and death could draw that act out of Di Feisheng. He would, to the point of being poisoned instead, rather not relive that again.)

    "Gongzi, wouldn't you like to come inside and warm up?" the girl at the top of the steps calls, presumably to him. "I'd hate for you to catch cold. Winter will be here soon, you know." Di Feisheng closes his eyes, and bites back clipped words, about how he's faced things far worse than autumn wind. Even while making a quiet joke of himself lurking outside a brothel. What's taking Fang Duobing so long?

    From behind him comes the gentle clink of stone jewelry, soft, light footfalls along the ground toward him, and it seems this time Di Feisheng can't use mishearing the girl as an excuse. What can he think of to say, as a soft rejection, between this moment and the one when she'll approach him? Too late, that instant approaches; Di Feisheng turns, readies something (nothing) on his tongue—

    And it's Fang Duobing who's there, a whirlwind in the next breath, grip like iron landing on Di Feisheng's forearm. "A-Fei," he says, half-breathless, eyes wide in the dawning dark like he's seen a ghost. Before Di Feisheng can form a single sentence he's being hauled up the steps, past the startled form of the girl, stumbling after Fang Duobing by instinct.

    "What are you doing?" he manages to get out, stopping before he's pulled through the doors. Only years of balancing in far more precarious situations keeps Di Feisheng from tripping over the threshold. The sign above declares this place the House of Scarlet Delights, in well-kept paint. He glares at Fang Duobing, trying to shove the boy's arm off of him.

    "A-Fei," Fang Duobing says, again, more insistently and this time tinged with the inflection of every bit the heir to a wealthy estate, one that signifies he expects to be listened to. Because he seems to have forgotten any other way to communicate, apparently.

    Di Feisheng, for his part, had forgotten that Fang Duobing is comparable to himself in stature and strength, and so it only takes one off-guard yank with renewed vigor for him to nearly fall forward through the doorway.

    The noise of laughter and music crashes over Di Feisheng, from a gentle ebb outside to being struck by a wave. Everywhere in this place is colour, in clothes, lights, art and hangings along the walls, but none of it is of interest to himself. Nor to Fang Duobing, who pulls him through scattered groups of other customers as soon as Di Feisheng is steady on his arm, without time for surprise to settle. His grasp slides down Di Feisheng's wrist, then laced with his hand, in his hasty steps a pace ahead.

    Later, Di Feisheng won't be sure if it is the people around him who part in his path, or whether it is the first caught sight that urges him forward without thought through everyone else, until he stands before a low dais at the opposite end of the hall. And there, a slim figure kneeling with a flute in his hands, jade-green and vaguely familiar, is... is....

    "It's him," Fang Duobing says, faraway sound like Di Feisheng is underwater along with the rest of the room, and he doesn't need Fang Duobing to state the obvious, anyway. Not when Di Feisheng would know the set of those shoulders, the wear of the hands that wield the flute like they once did a sword, anywhere, draped in black and green silk though they are. Not when he would be able to recall the amused smile of his eyes, and the shape of his mouth when it held some unasked-for remark, even if he were without his memories, and knows for a fact that he did once. The unfamiliar rouge touched to his lips, the fall of his hair, snow-white like the morning after a winter storm, could never distort any of that.

    The musician tilts his head, a charming performance calculated, and at his sight brushing across Di Feisheng's, time seems to freeze.

    All that's left in the world is Di Feisheng, and Fang Duobing's hand a lifeline aligned with his own, and relief-joy-relinquished grief all at once, at someone who is dead twice and somehow alive before him again.

    Li Xiangy— Li Lianhua, Di Feisheng tries to speak, or whichever one it is. No sound works its way from his throat.

    The figure kneeling before him glances forward, gaze falling level with Di Feisheng's own, holding him there. Fox to prey.

    There is nothing, in this moment, he truly needs to say at all.

#mysterious lotus casebook #difang #liansanjiao #fic #ashton writes fic #di feisheng #fang duobing #li xiangyi

[obey-me-headquarters]

Because I'm currently dealing my own case of insomnia these last few days, I give you:

How the demon brothers deal with an insomniac Mc.

Lucifer:

• Ah, he knows exactly what that's like....

• Even though he's also a terrible insomniac on account of how little he sleeps, he still scolds you when he sees that you're still up.

• What a hypocrite.

• After he scolds you he's still making you tea or something else soothing if you don't like tea.

• He'll push his work to the side for now as he puts on one of his relaxing records.

• The two of you can sit in silence and listen or talk about RAD.

• When you finally do fall asleep he gently carries you to his bed.

• If you're unable to fall asleep he makes sure that no one bugs you at breakfast and tells you that if you're feeling tired at RAD you can go home and rest.

Mammon:

• He's actually a bit of an insomniac himself.

• When his mind starts to race with money making schemes he can find it difficult to sleep.

• Hence his habit of hitting up the casino late at night.

• When he notices you're up late he scolds you (Big Brother instincts popping up).

• But he still leads you into his room for a movie night.

• Picks out movies that are slow paced in the hopes that it'll lull you to sleep.

• If they do then he quietly turns off the TV and drapes a blanket over you.

• Whispers "Good night Mc" before cuddling up on the other side of the couch and going to sleep.

• If you don't and you're still awake come morning, you'll probably have to wake him up for breakfast.

• He definitely fell asleep during the movies lol. He tried to stay up for you but couldn't.

• Asks if you were able to fall asleep and when you say you couldn't he makes sure no one bothers you during breakfast or at RAD.

• He wakes down the hallways demanding that people be quiet and get out of your way.

Levi:

• Has a terrible sleep schedule himself.

• Since he does online school he can do his schoolwork whenever. So it doesn't matter if he wakes up at 8am or 8pm.

• He often tries to force himself to stay awake so he can continue to watch anime/play games even though his eyes are burning.

• But when you are unable to sleep he suggests reading manga because blue light can make it harder to fall asleep.

• The two of you end up reading mange together while watching Henry swim around in his tank.

• It's actually really relaxing and has a good chance of lulling you to sleep.

• If you're able to fall asleep Levi will verrrrrrry carefully wrap a blanket around you. He's terrified of accidentally waking you up.

• If you stay awake he tries to convince Lucifer to let you say home. Saying that he'll make you two will do schoolwork together.

• (You two don't to schoolwork, you two game instead.)

Satan:

• Ah, he read how to cure insomnia in this book! Let him just find it!

• ..... it's somewhere around here....

• .... no matter, he memorized what was in that book anyway!

• He makes you tea and other home remedies to help you fall asleep.

• He also heard reading to someone can help them asleep - it's not like he wants to read to you with your head in his lap! He's just trying to help!

• Yes, Satan will read you a bedtime story.

• Yes, he will tuck you into bed too.

• Satan actually picks out a mystery to read to you before bed, so now you don't actually want to fall asleep. You want to know what happens.

• The two of you spend the night on the edges of your seats as Satan reads you the novel.

• When your alarm for RAD goes off you two realize that you spent the night reading and not sleeping.

• ....oops.

• Now you're both dead tired going to RAD.

• At least Satan keeps anyone from bothering you, as he snarls at anyone who gets too close to him when he's cranky.

Asmo:

• Oh no, don't you know lack of sleep is terrible for your skin!

• It's not like you chose to be an insomniac, Asmo.

• He fully believes that a lack of a proper nightly routine is what's causing your insomnia.

• Prepares a full nighty routine for you, from drinking relaxing tea to a bath to face masks Asmo prepares it all.

• Does not allow you to use your phone an hour before bed as bluelight is bad for you.

• You two end up chatting as he puts skincare products on you.

• He definitely has a whitenoise machine. He says it helps "block out the chaos" (aka his chaotic brothers) before bed.

• If you're still unable to sleep Asmo is willing to stay up and chat.

• But Asmo does need his beauty sleep so he ends up falling asleep pretty quickly.

• When he wakes up he asks you if you were able to fall asleep last night.

• If you did then congratulations! You now have a new nighty routine that Asmo insists you do every night!

• Good habits create good skin!

• If you didn't then he'll pout, but say that nobody finds their perfect shade on the first try!

• He's willing to try out a new routine tonight! He heard all about this new trend where people work up a sweat before going to bed...

• .... oh no, you may have created a monster. Good luck trying to fall asleep normally now.

Beel:

• Pouts when you tell him that you're an insomniac and sometimes can't sleep no matter how hard you try.

• He understands, sometimes he gets so hungry that he finds it hard to sleep.

• Suggest eating before going to bed with a full stomach as he always feels sleepy after eating a big meal.

• Thank Diavolo Asmo didn't overhear this, you're not supposed to eat before bed!

• After raiding Hell's Kitchen (Thank Diavolo it's open 24/7) you two lay down in Beel's bed and try to sleep.

• But the food doesn't exactly help with falling asleep, and Beel notices that.

• He offers to go on a run because he always feels tired after exercising!

• Yeah, so now you're running around the Devildom while Beel leisurely jogs next to you.

• When you return to the House of Lamentation you can't feel your legs anymore.

• If you pass out from exhaustion Beel counts this as a success. Until you tell him you're unable to walk when you wake up because your legs are too sore.

• Well, now you'll get a lot of rest?

• If you're still unable to fall asleep when you return from your run Beel offers to stay awake to keep you company.

• But you shoe him into bed because both of don't need to go to RAD exhausted tomorrow.

• At RAD he offers to carry you around everywhere and glares at anyone whose being too loud.

Belphie:

• I headcanon Belphie as being able to magically put people to sleep because he's the Avatar of Sloth so your sleep problem gets fixed pretty uneventfully.

• But if he can't do that Belphie will try to get you to sleep by taking out his most comfy bedding and offers to sleep next to you.

• Body warmth is supposed to lull people into sleep, don't you know? So why don't you two cuddle up together?

• Trust him, he's the Avatar of Sloth, he knows what he's talking about.

• If you're still unable to sleep he'll talk to you about stars and constellations, hopefully, that his calm and steady voice will lull you into sleep.

• If it does then he's extremely smug and wraps an arm around you before going to sleep himself.

• If you don't? Well....

• .... snore, mimimi

• Yeah sorry, but Belphie accidentally falls asleep. Hey, don't blame him! The bedding he picked out is really comfy!

• He was genuinely trying to stay up to keep you company but after a while his own voice lulls him into sleep.

• When you wake him up for RAD and he finds that you couldn't sleep he suggests pretending that he fell asleep on top of you and wouldn't wake up. So you're forced to stay home from RAD.

#obey me #obey me nb #obey me nightbringer #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beel #obey me belphie #i cant believe i didnt make a counting sheep joke in this lol

[artemispanthar]

Since I was talking about Roger earlier I thought I'd share this old 30-page comic I drew back in 2011 where Roger fights a deathclaw. It meant to serve as a prologue to my Fallout story to explain why two wanderers like Magpie and Roger were looking to settle down in New Vegas. I only fully completed 20 pages but had all 30 outlined. I figured I'd share all of them, the completed and the roughs, just for fun. I'm honestly still pretty proud of it as I'd never drawn something so actiony before and I liked how it turned out. It's also a pretty good depiction of their personalities.

Since the last few pages are just my awful handwriting and thus illegible, I figured I'd transcribe them here (since miraculously I can read my handwriting lol)

Page 24

Roger: I told you to stay in the CAVE

Magpie: Yeah, well... if I did you'd be dead so-

Roger: IRRELEVANT

Magpie: Well, it is(n't) to me... and will you drop that? It's so gross

Roger: Come on, let's (didn't finish this sentence)

Magpie: Good idea

Page 25

LATER

Magpie: Anyway, so I raveled with this doctor for, like, months, right? He was pretty nice and I think he wanted me to be his... proofjay or something. He taught me stuff but science ain't really my thing so I kind of forgot most of it. Luckily, I remembered the basics, right?

Magpie: Best I can do 'cause we're out of doctor stuff. Pretty good considering. Still, we should probably see a doc (in the) next town.

Magpie: But we should be fine. Just a few scars. But that's good, chicks dig scars, right? Well, I don't know about bear-chicks, but I figure with those claws they need to be into something kinky.

Roger: ...

Magpie: Uhm...

Page 26

Magpie: Anyway, we make a good team, right? That deathclaw was a tough nut but we cracked him. Bet there's some kind of bounty to collect or something so...

Roger: It was barely a year old. Practically a baby.

Magpie: ...

Roger: Probably on its first hunt alone... a weakling. There's no excuse for it getting the drop on me. If I can't even kill a young deathclaw without injury and HELP I may as well...

Page 27

Magpie: Roger... It's ok, really. Most people would die fighting that thing.

Roger: Right. People.

Roger: I can't be doing this anymore. It's too tiring. I can't be responsible for you.

Magpie: Who asked you? Besides, you worry too much. We'll go find a place with no deathclaws or any of that bad stuff and then you don't need to worry so much.

Roger: Pah! No such place exists.

Magpie: Sure it does! We just haven't gone there 'cause I thought it'd be boring! But if it'll make you feel better we can start heading there in the morning.

Roger: Whatever.

Page 28

Roger: Now if you'll excuse me, it's been a horrible day and I'd like to go to sleep. We may die tomorrow, but I'd like to be awake for it.

Magpie: ...

Magpie: Hey, Roger! Tell me a story.

Roger: No, Magpie. I'm tired and in no mood to-

Magpie: PLEASE

Roger: No.

Magpie: ... Fine, I'll tell it myself.

Roger: Knock yourself out.

Page 29

Magpie: Once upon a time there was this bear. He was a pretty awesome bear, you see. He fought off a whole army, all by himself.

Magpie: Not just an army, though, oh no, it was an army, a vertibird, and two tanks.

Roger: Three tanks.

Magpie: ... right, three tanks. Those were the easy part. First, he broke into the first tank.

Roger: The tanks don't come in until later.

Magpie: Well, damn, you want to tell it? I thought you were too busy being all old man tired.

Roger: Well, if you're going to tell it wrong.

Page 30

Magpie: Well, if it's so important to you, maybe you should tell me the right way.

Roger: *sigh* Well, first of all, you don't explain the plot at the beginning of the story like this. It is far better to leave you audience in suspect, not know the obstacles the hero faces. Second, don't start with "once upon a time," that typically begins fairy tales and is terribly cliche. Try something more like...

Roger: The compound was built like a fortress, not that he'd ever seen one. Populated by no fewer than 50 armed guards and countless war machines, his escape seemed doomed from the start...

END

#artie art #artie's ocs #magpie #roger #comics #fallout #fallout new vegas #blood #there was also a cover image but I can only upload 30 pics #I remember I was particularly inspired by a comic called Age of Reptiles #which was a beautiful dinosaur comic with no dialogue #long post

[deathfavor]

genuinely irl serious topic / heads up (? ) under the read more. death tw applies

I don't quite know how to say this. So some of you know one set of grandparents has been living in my bedroom for the past 3 months, almost 4. That grandmother and i have years of bad blood between us & her being cruel towards me and my sisters ( but adores my little brothers - very traditional like that). But she's taken a very sharp decline this morning, and it's not looking very good. So the next few days / week might be rather random with activity as I'm going to be putting a lot of effort to supporting my grandpa and my parents - esp my dad since its his mother. I'll still probably be around regularly, and on discord as per usual, but it is a heads up for the change up.

I know I don't owe anyone an explanation per se, but I consider you guys friends and don't want anyone to worry. I am doing okay, and i hope that doesn't come off terribly because by no means am I happy about it, I'm not. But it doesn't...really affect me as much. We've never been close and she's never been frequently in my life, and like I said above, not kind when she was most of the time. At least it'll be peaceful for her & she has family around her.

#death tw #do i need any more tags? #lmk if you need me to tag it another way #but yeah i just...wanted to fill you guys in #᛭ — [OOC] angst is the game and tears are the currency

[fandomregression]

umum. regressor jon is so good. headcanons um maybe?

regressor jon is the best boy yes

Regressor Jon Sims Headcanons!

okay, jon? mr orphan? mr raised by grandma who didn't wanna raise another kid? mr spider book trauma sufferer? yeah he regresses very often, and he is terrible at hiding it

he discovered agere in uni, and he kind of realized like "oh that explains so much..." and then deep-dived into the whole concept and maybeeeee ended up sitting in his room that night very small and watching cartoons oopsie

georgie found out pretty soon after that. she went to wake jon up after realizing he was going to be late for possibly the first time since she'd ever known him to class. she opens up his door and looks inside and jon's still in bed with his thumb in his mouth and a stuffed animal georgie had never seen in his arms

jon tries his best to hide it from her, but he does eventually just give in like "okay fINE YES I AGE REGRESS" and georgie takes care of him 🥰 shes never really like a full-time "come to me any time" caregiver, but if she's there she plays with him and fills his sippy and gives him plenty of cuddles

flashforward a few years to jon being a researcher at the magnus institute. he's the quiet one who barely looks up from his desk from the moment he gets there in the morning to the moment he leaves in the evening. there are some who say that he never even takes a lunch break. the only time he looks up is when he has to leave to go do field work.

that is, of course, until he meets tim stoker. tim is just supposed to shadow jon, just to learn the ropes, but he quickly weasels his way into jon's life and *gasp* actually gets him talking!! soon the two are joined at the hip and where one is, you'll quickly find the other. then sasha comes along when she transfers to research, and tim and jon are quite happy to add her to the mix

theyre just supposed to be out in the field getting some notes for a case one day when it happens. jon's gone ahead first because. its jon. he goes into the creepy abandoned house that is supposedly haunted, and while he doesnt find ghosts or demons, he...gets a spider web to the face...and he has a panic attack

tim and sasha rush in when they hear jon in distress, and he's hyperventilating, shaking, he can't really move at this point...so they calm him down, they get him back down to earth, and jon just clings so hard to tim. he just latches on for a hug, and he's crying, and tim feels so bad for him so he just ends up carrying jon

its probably about two weeks of tim and sasha asking before jon explains anything. but, he tells them he regresses and that he's sorry and it'll never happen at work again (liar) and that they don't need to worry about him. they of course ignore that last part and make it their purpose to fuss over and worry over him profusely

jon does cave, because yeah okay he does like it and he does feel safe with them and yeah okay maybe he IS a cute baby like sasha says

jon doesn't have a specific age he regresses to, but he has differing needs. sometimes he can't speak and he can't remember how to even hold a spoon or if he needs to go potty. sometimes he's talking a mile a minute and he runs around and wants tim to chase him and he's just having a great time lol

hes the Most Spoiled baby ever. he has a big toy box that is stuffed full of plushies, dolls, blocks, action figures, whatever cool toy he saw at the store and begged for

hes not super messy or anything, unless he thinks it'll get him attention. he doesnt make a huge mess with his food, cleans up after himself when hes playing, those sorts of things, but you can bet that if he sees a giant mud puddle he is jumping in before sasha can say no. and now he's covered head to toe in mud, and he's got a big grin, and tim jumps in with him. sasha holds out a little longer, but FINE she'll jump in too

that trait of his when it comes to reading comes right back when hes regressed, too. sasha loves to take him to the library to pick out whatever he wants, and she reads with him. this is one of jon's favorite things to do is just cuddle beside sasha and let her read to him. sometimes tim joins in to do funny voices

jon calls the two of them mama and dada, and yes they cried the first time he said those titles

by the time they transfer to the archives, jon has moved in with them and the three of them are completely comfortable with each other. so when the martin curveball happens...jon is not a happy camper. and he has a fit when they get home, a full-blown tantrum because this was NOT supposed to happen

it takes a few months before martin finds out, and once he does...jon suddenly realizes that martin has a very good caregiver voice and he's very gentle and kind. oh no

now he has THREEEEEE cgs and he is more spoiled than ever

martin is just perfect for cuddles, and jon sometimes just decides It Is Cuddle Time whether martin knows it or not. he suddenly has a lap full of Baby and yeah he's not mad about that

jon ends up calling martin papa, and sasha and tim are the ones crying while martin is trying not to explode from cuteness

jon has no idea how cute he is, all he knows is he's getting tons of hugs and lil kisses on his forehead and thats a good thing ☺

can you tell i love jon? i also have a second fic for agere jon up on my ao3 that i desperately need to update

#fandom agere #age regression #sfw agere #🧸headcanons #tma agere #agere jon

[astarsol]

ch. 2 - truce

    "you don't have to do it. you know that, right?" washio questions akaashi, his fingers forming a triangle as he sends the ball over the net. the soft grass hitting the sides of hit feet. 

  akaashi shakes his head, passing it to bokuto who stands feet away from him. "i do though, to gain a writing job with them. to finally write a novel that matters to me, not another 'l/n romance novel'," he watches as bokuto spikes it down next to washio.

  it slams into the grass, rolling away until it reaches the end of the makeshift court. washio raises his eyebrows at akaashi, "they aren't terrible novels... from what i've heard at least."

  "you've totally read them, haven't you?" 

  washio clicks his tongue, "hey, girls like a sensitive guy. what's more sensitive than reading their favorite romance novel?" 

  he walks off to grab the ball, leaving akaashi to roll his eyes. bokuto slaps the editor on the shoulder, his strong, volleyball playing, arm leaves a sting. "at least you'll be in italy, home of the leaning tower or pizza."

  "pretty sure it's pisa, as in the city," akasshi gives bokuto a questioning look. 

  "pizza, pisa, same difference! you'll be in a new country, maybe your writer will finally be able to show you that she's not just an annoying writer," bokuto shrugs his shoulders, washio giving him a nod in agreeance. 

  akaashi motions for washio to throw the ball again, wanting to end the conversation as quickly as possible. he never hated you or anything, he just knew the public version of you (and the times you've emailed about the novel). the one who appears as artificially nice.

    you open up your arms, accepting a sweet hug from kiyoko. then from ryūnosuke, and lastly from shoyo. "you guys have no idea how much i missed this," you sigh into the last hug, shoyo's hair sticking out a little. 

  "yeah, but don't you love all of the writing stuff?" kiyoko asks, looking out at the line of people outside of the store. she looks back at you, a soft smile still lining your face. 

  with a quick nod, everyone can already tell you're overwhelmed, "absolutely. everyone is so great, it's just a lot. my first book wasn't popular or anything, but the second one... it just changed everything. i feel like i'm constantly trying to keep up. which is why i'm even going on this stupid trip."

  "hey, why didn't you just say you couldn't do it? we would've helped as much as we could," shoyo raises his arm, his hand clinging to your shoulder. 

  you lean into his soft touch, finally feeling at peace now that you were with loved ones. "i wanna prove that i can be cooperative, that they can trust me. i've only done this one book with them, and so getting this second one done will help," you shrug, giving the group a lopsided grin. 

  ryū interlocks his hand with kiyoko's, looking between you and shoyo, "well maybe we can visit or something! a bit of an italian get together. you'll probably see yū too! it'll be okay dude, trust me."

  the warm smile on his face reminds you of all the nights you guys comforted each other. how no matter what you guys went through, you went through it together. you look back at the window of people, the dark clouds creating the perfect backdrop to this slightly dreary morning. that would be such a good description for chapter twenty.

masterlist / previous / next

fun facts: - akaashi thought of going into photography but changed his mind due to a coin flip - different face claims will be used for reader - reader doesn’t have many friends but loves spending time with other readers - bokuto has also read your second book

taglist: @merofvenus, @existential-traveller, @kurenix, @reveusecherie, @thechaosoflonging

synopsis: you’re struggling to write a new book for your publishers. especially since it’s a romance novel, and you’re short on romance. what’s even worse is that your editor is terrible at communicating. so your boss sends the two of you on a ‘vacation’ of sorts. get the two of you to work out your differences and get you writing. what’ll happen to the two of you and how will your friends react through the short bursts of information you give them?

if you’d like to be put on the taglist, lmk!

#haikyuu smau #haikyuu x reader #keiji akaashi x fem!reader #keiji akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji #amorist duos smau #amorist duos #smau #haikyuu social media au

[quinloki]

Some Direction

Fem Reader x Roronoa Zoro

CW: Language, stalking, violence, sexual themes and situations, ptsd 18+ only

Chapter 1 - Table of Consent -

Chapter 2: Directionally

"Let me get this straight," you say, your hands pressed together in front of you as you sit in the backroom with Zoro. You had forcefully, and angrily, kicked everyone else out. "You left the dojo with the intention of walking to the main branch, so you could go through your Match Book in peace, and somehow you ended up here?"

Zoro, previously picture-perfected scowl and all, is sitting across from you, and just grunts in response.

"... Which direction did you go when you left the dojo?" You're almost afraid to ask.

"West."

"Okay, but..." No, no you weren't going to say it, never mind. Let's just put the fact that the Main Branch was north of the dojo off to the side for now. He could've actually gone north, thought it was west, and yet somehow ended up taking a large curve to the south and ended up in your library. "How can you be so bad at directions?"

Zoro's tongue clicks in irritation, and you realize you had said the last part out loud. No sense in apologizing, you had meant it and objectively it was true, and you felt like if you were overly concerned about his feelings he'd just get more irritated.

Sighing after a few moments silence, you set your Match Book off to the side. "Do you want to set up a meeting for tomorrow then?" You question. First meetings technically had to be witnessed, and were often attended by at least one family member from each side. You weren't breaking any laws by meeting accidentally like this, but it wasn't going to count for meeting within 48 hours if it wasn't properly witnessed.

"Sure." His face had been in a scowl for the last few minutes, but something about his tone made you think he wasn't angry, just uncomfortable.

"I'll... come to the dojo then. Your father's there, right? It'll be easier for both of you. I'm sure Brook will give me tomorrow off, so I can be by, uh, 1pm? If that's not too early?"

"It's not."

Well, it was a good thing you were used to having quiet nights. This man was certainly the laconic type. You wondered idly what topic of conversation you could get him on that would have him talking, even better - talking with a smile on his face. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't imagine him with a big smile on his face, and some part of you thought that was a shame.

Everyone should be able to smile.

"Alright then, I... uh... look forward to it." You smile, but it probably looks as awkward as it feels. This whole arranged marriage stuff was even more uncomfortable than you had expected.

He grunts, but doesn't argue. "Are you only bringing one more with you?"

"Eh?" You question, stopping in the middle of getting up.

"Tomorrow. Bringing your mom or dad or both."

Oh right, he didn't get a chance to really sit down and read his Match Book before you interrupted him. Well, he'd have some time to read over it today and tomorrow morning. You finished standing up and nodded to his Match Book.

"It'll just be me," you say, and this time your smile is well-practiced. "Let me walk you out."

He grunts again, but doesn't question your or argue. Not that the poor guy had much room to argue, you just hope he was truly thrown off by the Match Book, and not actually that terrible at directions. Otherwise, you might beat him back to the dojo tomorrow.

You get him through the library without incident, and without running into Nami, though you were pretty sure that was thanks to Robin. When you get to the door you hold it open for him.

"Sorry again for just uh, coming up behind you like that." You apologize as he steps past you.

"It's fine, it worked out." He replies, nodding his head slightly, and walking away. You saw him drifting to the left down the wide staircase.

"Ah, Mr. Roronoa?" You call out, causing him to turn around. You smile and point to the right. "Unless you're running errands, the dojo's that way." You didn't stick around to see if he needed the help or not, stepping back into the library quickly.

You spent the rest of your shift distracted, but no one held it against you. Brook hovered around you a little, but he didn't pester you with questions. He spent most of his time intercepting people who came up to you with questions and directing them on your behalf. The old man was surprisingly quick when the occasion called for it. He had even told you to take the next day off before you had a chance to ask for it.

Such accommodations were to be expected, but the whole thing still felt a little surreal to you. Ever since the World Government had implemented arranged marriages, there had been a slew of TV shows and Movies that had depicted how awkward first impressions could be. Inevitably the two people would come to an understanding, given enough time and communication. It was, at its core, propaganda for the masses, to smooth over the whole situation.

Still, you found yourself replaying sitcom episodes in your head and listening to songs about enemies to lovers as you went about your evening once you got home. You weren't put off of Zoro entirely, but you felt apathetic toward things so far. You didn't really want to spend your life going through a routine that just happened to have someone else on the edges of it.

What unsettled you was that your first impression of him was that he would, like you, allow that very thing to happen. A listless life, with no direction and no momentum. The only saving grace would be the government's insistence that you have at least one child, and the energy and chaos of a child was enough to throw any family into motion.

Wild, unstable motion maybe, but life wouldn't be listless.

You soaked in the tub until the water started to cool, tossed on an old over-sized shirt and drifted off to sleep.

. . . . . .

The next day you let your day start slowly, had a light breakfast, and put on a simple dress before doing up your hair a little. You wanted to look nice, but you didn't want to go to the nines and show up to find everyone else in t-shirts and jeans. You slipped on a pair of smooth-fabric tight shorts under your dress, which made walking more comfortable and saved you from any embarrassing moments if your skirt went rogue. Plus, there was just enough pocket space for a bus pass, your id and house key.

Instead of heels you opted for what were essentially leather-topped sneakers. They looked nice enough for work, but they were delightfully comfortable. Most of your wardrobe was practicality over fashion, but you could still manage being fashionable. You made sure your socks were a little on the thicker side, if this was happening in a dojo, you'd need to take your shoes off and still keep your feet warm.

With one last check to make sure you were presentable you caught the bus to cover most of the distance to the dojo. You could feel someone staring at you while you were on the bus, but you did your best to ignore it. It was a short ride between your home and the dojo, but it would've been a long walk.

The grounds of the dojo were walled off, which meant the entire block was. It was more likely that, as the city had developed around the dojo, the wall had been raised to minimize distractions within. This led to there being a large entryway, enough for cars to go through when needed, with a side door for people to come and go through.

It was done well, honoring the origins of the dojo while still having a clean modern sense, as though it was welcoming the city instead of trying to reject it.

Standing outside the main entrance, looking horribly uncomfortable in a suit and tie, was a grumpy looking Zoro. You did your best to suppress the amused smile that was tugging at your lips as you got close enough for him to turn toward you. He seemed a little embarrassed that you'd caught him grumbling about the suit. In some ways, it looked good on him, in more ways though, it looked awkward on him.

"It seems you're more for function than fashion as well." You muse, trying to help ease the tension with levity.

He grunts, but his silence was a surprising response.

"If you want to lose the tie at least, I didn't exactly stick to tradition either." You admit, lifting up your skirt as he turns to face you. His face twists in shock for a split second before he realizes you were wearing shorts under your skirt. You couldn't help the small laugh that escapes you as your let your skirt fall back down.

"Here," you say, reaching for the tie. "Let me wear it. Then your father won't be able to argue, right?"

"How?" He questions, stepping back from you and loosening the tie himself.

You shrug. "Your Match Book gave me some idea, but I did a lot of research when I was looking to learn martial arts, to make sure I had a good teacher." You take the offered tie and slip it over your head. "There's a lot of weight given to tradition and history, which isn't a bad thing, but that's why I assumed your father didn't leave you much room to argue."

You let your hair down, so that it covers the loop of the tie, and covers your shoulders a little. This way you look like you're wearing a tie, and not a noose.

"There! And look, it doesn't even clash with my dress." You offer a smile. "Problem solved, yes?"

The door beside the gate opened and a rather severe looking man came into view. He was wearing a suit, and unlike with Zoro, the look suited him in many ways. It was as tight and disciplined as you imagined he was. The man's face was wholly unreadable, but contained neither anger nor irritation.

You bow, ignoring the tie dangling from you, and straighten with a smile. "Mr. Dracule, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Miss (L/N), I'm glad you made it without issue." Mihawk's appearance and manner might be tight, but his voice was surprisingly smooth. "Please, come in."

"Thank you." You step inside as Mihawk steps aside. You turn to him after you've made room for Zoro to come in and smile as you hold onto the tie. "I hope you don't mind; I stole your son's tie when I arrived."

Zoro's ears went pink as he steps in and closes the door behind him, and the look Mihawk had been giving him melts away. He smiles at you, and the action is disarming, for the first time you think you might be able to imagine Zoro smiling.

"As long as it wasn't foisted upon you." Mihawk says pointedly, his gaze shifting to his grumpy son.

"Not at all," you assure him. "I was feeling a little under dressed and this simply makes us even."

Mihawk makes a noise that leaves you with the impression that he is simply accepting your explanation, despite not entirely believing it. You feel admonished, and almost start to apologize before he speaks up.

"Zoro, show Miss (L/N) to the tearoom." Mihawk prompts.

Zoro offers his arm to you without a word, and the level of etiquette brings a smile to your lips. You murmur a thanks and slip your arm through his. It was the most physical contact you'd had in years, and it was the first real contact you and Zoro had at all. He was warm, or you were warm, but there was no discomfort in that warmth.

Zoro leads you into the foyer, and you tuck your shoes away with the others you could see, putting on a pair of house slippers that had been provided, and stepping up into the hallway proper. You wait as Zoro does the same, and then leads you to the tearoom.

You were simultaneously relieved and disheartened to see a full table set up in the tearoom, western style chairs and all. It had been a long time since you attended a proper tea ceremony, and you were no longer as practiced at sitting properly for one. You could probably manage, but you'd be sore after. It would've been nice to get into the practice of it, but a first meeting wasn't the correct time to do so anyway.

The tea was delicious, and there was plenty of polite small talk. The whole point of a witnessed meeting was to try and shake off the awkwardness of first-time meetings. Generally, there were more than three people at the first meeting, but three was the minimum. You had no doubt that Dracule Mihawk was capable of keeping you and Zoro in check, no matter how things went.

After tea, Mihawk had Zoro take you on a small tour of the property. The landscaping was beautiful. There was a Zen Garden, a small western style flower garden in another area, and a green house in another location. You and Zoro opted to skip the green house, it was warm enough outside, the green house would just be humid on top of it all. There was a study and a small library, you were already in love with the place before that point, but the library was very well organized, and you gave your praise to whomever maintained it.

"A properly organized library is just relaxing." You muse as you leave the library behind and continue the tour.

"You sound like Mihawk-Sensei." Zoro replies, and you weren't sure if it was a compliment or not. He slides a door open, and it gives way to a large open room lined with tatami mats. No part of the property had been, by any stretch of the definition, messy, but the dojo proper seemed extra immaculate.

"Oh wow. Can I go in?" You question.

Zoro nods. "Sure."

You automatically slip your house slippers off before stepping onto the mats and walk slowly around the large open room. There are traditional burned wood planks that denote the Master, his assistants, and the students. The dojo is doing well, given the length of the roster. There are practical displays for shinai and bokken, and a few ceremonial displays that are likely true steel katanas.

Zoro is leaning in the doorway, just watching you move around the dojo. You're too absorbed in all the details of the room to notice anything more about him, but his gaze isn't making you uncomfortable.

"Is it rude to ask how old the dojo is?" You question, keeping your hands laced behind your back as you lean forward to read an inscription under a set of three katanas.

"The millennial celebration is in nine years." Zoro answers. "According to the official records."

"Mm. It's probably older than that then," you state straightening up. "It's good to celebrate what you can though."

Zoro grunts in response. You're starting to get used to it. It's his way of acknowledging that he's listening without prolonging a conversation he doesn't think needs to be prolonged. Time would tell if your assumption was correct, but there was nothing about him that made you feel he was duplicitous. He seemed like someone who didn't even want to waste time with the obvious, never mind wasting energy trying to hide who he was.

"Are you accepting new students?" You question half idly, half curiously, catching Zoro flinching slightly.

Mihawk answers, stepping into view, and entering into the dojo with you. "Are you interested in learning?"

You nod. "I haven't learned a weapon-centric style of martial arts before, but there's a practicality in getting back into the practice."

"Oh? What have you studied before?" Mihawk prompts.

"Tai-chi and Judo. The former more than the latter." You admit, walking over to two of them. "When I was completing my education to become a librarian, I didn't have the time to continue consistently, and after that I fell into my new job and hadn't looked for a new place to get back into things."

"Did you ever compete?" Mihawk asks, and you were starting to get the distinct impression he was asking on Zoro's behalf. Maybe everything he'd done today had been on the young man's behalf. As far as you were concerned that made him a good dad.

You shake your head. "I learned for self-defense and to keep in shape. Admittedly, the idea of hurting someone on accident during a match made me too nervous to try, and yeah I get that if I'm going to use it as self-defense someone is going to get hurt. But that's... different."

"Mm." Mihawk acknowledges shortly. "Your assumption being that in a match, your opponent doesn't mean to harm you."

"Yeah... Ah, I hope that's not rude of me?"

"To some, maybe. To others, no." He answers honestly. "It depends on the ideology of the person in question."

"Then... how would each of you take it?"

Zoro clicks his tongue and looks away with a scowl, and that was really all the answer you needed from him.

Mihawk offers you a small smile. "We are of a similar mind on this, but I don't begrudge you for your feelings."

"If he has learned his lessons well, then he doesn't either." Mihawk adds after a moment's pause.

Zoro grunts but didn't say anything else on the topic. "You've seen everything, are you hungry?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble. I had a small breakfast and the snacks from the tea seem to be wearing off." You answer with a strained smile, putting the house slippers back on.

The rest of the afternoon went well enough. You learned that Zoro wasn't much of a cook, but the meal of the day was a joint effort between him and his father. It was good, you weren't a picky eater, but it was as good as you could do, you were sure.

Light conversation continued, and things started to get a little more personal at the end of it.

"If it's uncomfortable Miss (L/N), you don't have to answer, but you brought neither family nor a friend with you today." Mihawk begins, "According to the Match Book, I can understand the former."

You nod, your practiced smile covering your face as you respond. "I'm sure the details were a little vague in the book, but I don't mind explaining." You take in a breath, no matter how often you told this story, it was always at least a little uncomfortable. "My biological parents were murdered by Kuro when I was five."

There was a lot hanging in that sentence, though neither Zoro or Mihawk reacted. Kuro had been a prolific serial killer 20 years ago, and everyone who had survived his bloody assaults had been believed to be cursed. It was simply referred to as being Kursed when people wrote it down, but the heavy emphasis on the word made it remarkable when spoken as well.

Kuro slaughtered nearly 100 people during the decade he was active, but he had double that in actual victims. The people who survived his attacks seemed to have a terrible aura of bad luck surrounding them, and people around those survivors seemed to die at an abnormally high rate. Sometimes accidents, sometimes disease, it wasn't like people around the survivors were murdered, but someone made a connection at some point and the idea of the curse was born.

You were, frustratingly, part of that statistic. "I was adopted some years later, and when I was sixteen my adoptive parents died in a car accident. After that I kept to myself. I petitioned the courts and was able to have myself marked as an adult at 16 and now here I am."

"I see." Mihawk says evenly, after a moment's quiet consideration.

You kept your same practiced smile. "I'm sure you can petition for a Rematch because of this, if you want."

Zoro's default scowl deepens, and you were surprised how neutral his original expression was in comparison. "Rematch? Over some stu-."

"Roronoa." Mihawk interrupts forcefully.

Zoro looks away, seething quietly.

"I doubt such action will be necessary." Mihawk responds. "My apologies for causing you discomfort Miss (L/N)."

"Oh, no apology needed." You assure him, and it was true. You had been dealing with the plethora of ways that people reacted to you being a survivor of Kuro's rage. 

The man was still on the loose, though most assumed he was too old to continue, since it had been some years since the last confirmed victim.

Next Chapter

#Some Direction #Roronoa Zoro x Reader #Zoro x Reader #one piece fanfiction #arranged marriage #reader insert

[sevengraces]

someday I'm gonna be somebody people want

You, ch2, Title Card

AO3 Link

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Tim slowly stiffened as he came back into himself. He was curled up in Jasons lap, with his head shoved under the older mans’ chin and his face buried in his neck. His hands were gripping the back of Jasons’ jacket like he belonged there and there were half dried tears all over the both of them. Jason had his arm wrapped around him and his other hand was running though his hair. Casually, he pressed a kiss onto the top of Tims’ hair, still speaking softly throughout it all.

-or-

Nobody ever deals well with loneliness, but certain people are probably worse at it and certain people probably deal with it more often. Tim is of course both of these people.

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Hello, this is complete and I might just post it all at once, we shall see lol. First DC post at all tbh, and I've read exactly one comic in my life and am not likely to read more so if you are a canon type of reader then you might not wanna be here. All character and such choices come from the first Red Robin comic and fanfiction, that is it. The fic title is from Noah Kahan "Come Over" and the chapter title is from Dodie "All My Daughters" - I picked the songs and lyrics for the titles from a playlist I made abt Tim Drake and these were the best fits for the fic lol, lemme know if you want more Tim Drake song recs cause I've got a shit ton.

(also if you're here for my series in progress I'm sorry- I promise it'll happen just maybe not for awhile, it hasn't been my special interest in a hot minute so this is what you're getting rn lol)

CW's/TW's:

panic attacks negative self talk/low self esteem swearing vomit mentions of canon typical violence suicidal thoughts --- that should be all but as always let me know if I missed something

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Chapter 1- I'll grow the bones myself then, on my own again

Tim has pretty much always known, in the way that clever children tend to know things, that there is possibly something wrong with how his parents raised him. Objectively an eleven year old shouldn’t know to lie about who is and isn’t home to avoid trouble, but being alone suited him. It was convenient and necessary and normal and understandable and utterly, utterly miserable. But growing up a lonely child suited him in the same way that grief suited Batman, terrible but necessary.

Batman has only gotten better at grief and Tim thinks, as an emancipated minor in the silence of his blank apartment with big windows and echoey walls, that perhaps he has perfected the art of the lonely child.

Regardless of how suited he is to isolation, he knows he grows maudlin the longer it lasts. It’s a poor excuse for his weak will, but as he stands in his sparkling penthouse kitchen silently making his third cup of coffee this morning he considers.

Tim braces his elbows on the solid marble countertop with his eyes closed to the harsh fluorescent lights and the echoes of his mothers’ sharp nails in his arm and he considers picking up the phone. He could call someone- anyone at all, in an effort to avoid this sinking sensation he’s fled from since he was nine years old with nothing but everything he’d ever needed and a camera to keep him sated. Someone might even answer, depending on who he called.

It is ten in the morning on an entirely unremarkable Saturday. The sun is resting comfortably in the sky, his phone is fully charged, he knows where everyone he has ever cared about is, and he could call anyone.

Tim opens his eyes and stretches out an arm across the countertop towards his phone, hesitating slightly before making contact but pushing through nonetheless. He flicks it on and ignores every single notification with the heavy awareness that not a single one of them is from anyone who actually wants to talk to him, he taps through the apps before reaching the dial screen and he places the phone face up on the countertop and breathes.

He stands straight from where he had been bent over, carrying his coffee with him through the rest of the kitchen. He doesn’t open the fridge, there’s nothing in there anyways. Tim takes even steps until he reaches the far window of the living room where he leans against it and slides down slowly.

Once he’s rested against the floor with his fresh coffee cradled in his hands he leans his head against the cool glass and considers his options.

He could call Cass, she’d probably answer him. Mostly because he never calls unless there’s a world ending disaster, but she would answer him. After the hurried reassurance that “No Cass, nothings wrong- I just wanted to talk” she would probably let him ramble on about whatever he could come up with for awhile before she pointed out in that simple, honest way of hers that they didn’t talk like this and she knows he didn’t call just to make small talk. She would stare at his face through the screen and wait for his explanation, she would stare and wait for him to lie. Once he did, because he always did- what else could he even do? She would watch his body tense, she would follow the lines of anxiety like a roadmap, until every petty insecurity was written plain as sin on his face. And then she would accept the lie like it didn’t hurt, like she didn’t know. They would talk and maybe even have an okay time, then something would happen in Hong Kong and she’d have to go or WE would explode in some new way and he would have to go. Either way the call would end and Tim would be alone again in his pristine, lifeless apartment except this time someone else would know how badly he wanted to claw off his skin in the hopes of finding whatever was deeply wrong with him.

Tim laughed like a rusty hinge and took a sip of coffee. To no fault of her own, Cass couldn’t help him- he ignored the fact that the only solid feeling he’d had in days was that nothing and no one could help him.

There was always someone a little less discerning, like Dick. The man could flay him alive, but it would be entirely unintentional and oblivious on his part. He could call Dick and he might answer. Of course it was a Saturday morning so he was probably either asleep or with Damian, and Tim didn’t want to wake him up or deal with the building tension as he waited for Dick to hang up because the demon brat needed something at that exact minute. There was the chance he was hanging out by himself at his own apartment in Bludhaven, but even Tim could only intrude on the older mans’ personal space and time so often. No, Tim knew with a bone deep certainty that he could not handle this call going to voicemail or being cut short because Tim was the easiest burden to leave behind.

He carefully placed his coffee mug on the floor next to him and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, watching the spots burst into being and fade out slowly.

For obvious reasons he wasn’t going to call Damian. For all that he was eleven years old and impossible to deal with, Tim didn’t want to be the type of person who needed a teenager to regulate his emotions for him. The boy knew how that felt first hand- and even if he’d walked into Robin with his eyes open to the consequences, he’d been pushed out with his eyes a little wider and his chest a little hollower for more reasons than most wanted to believe. No matter how snot nosed the demon brat was, that kid had spent too long playing at being an adult and he deserved better than that from Tim, at least. Tim doggedly ignored the fact that he himself had only been a little older than Damian is now when he’d yanked on the mantle with two hands and the determination of a desperate child, he also ignored the fact that Damian would skin him alive for thinking such thoughts even tangentially to thoughts of the boy himself.

The seventeen year old grabbed blindly for his coffee and took a long drink. He had a feeling he knew exactly where this thought exercise was going, but Tim had never been one to give up. Not when he really should, not when it would’ve been easier for everyone involved, and not when it was pointless. He had been good at the suspension of disbelief long before he’d joined the crusade, and he was loathe to break a bad habit.

If not Cass, Dick, or Damian to call- there was always Jason. Tim choked back a snort and stared at the empty wall next to the front door, yes there was always Jason. It was maybe a little unfair to think so poorly of the older boy, but it was too easy for Tim to think highly of him and he had fallen from those heights a few times more often than he’d care to admit. It wasn’t that Jason wasn’t kind or even that he was unwilling to talk to Tim these days, it was more-so that he’d never stopped trying to impress the older man and peeling back his flesh to show Jason the slimy, unlikable parts and then ask to be coddled was a level of desperate that he shuddered to think of reaching. Of course Jason had never been one to coddle Tim in general, which was a generous way of putting it. But despite it all, Jason was a good person and lately seemed if not interested in Tim then vaguely affectionate towards the concept of him- he would probably answer on principle. But how was Tim to even start that conversation? “Hi Jason, I know we literally only talk when we’re working or when Dick gets it in his head that all of us being Robin at some point means something, but I was wondering if you would talk with me about something that wasn’t either mutually traumatizing or how much you hate me. Why? So that I can pretend that someone would choose to be around me, that’s all.” Yeah probably not the best idea he’s had to date.

Tim chewed his lips and pretended that his breathing wasn’t getting heavier the shorter his list of options got. He barreled forward with his mug between his feet and his head between his knees.

Alfred had never once refused a call, with the only recompense being the subtle implications that he really ought to join them for dinner more often. Tim could call Alfred and the man would answer. He would answer and reserve judgement, even more- he would be perfectly willing to bring Tim up to speed on everything he’d missed since the two had last spoken. He would fill him in like it was nothing and with no disapproval to be heard. Alfred was really his best option but nonetheless the boy refused to move towards his phone, still face up and turned on across the room. Alfred had never turned down any overtures of companionship, at least not since Tim had been allowed into the circle as Robin, but he’d also never really reached out to him of his own volition. Tim had always told himself it was the older mans sense of propriety, but what if it was that same sense of propriety that kept him on the line? Tim was lonely, sure, but he didn’t want to take advantage of the fact that Alfred had been attached to the Wayne name for longer than even Bruce had been alive and Tim had latched onto the family like a burr or a mold. The boy wasn’t sure he could handle being placated either, he’d met plenty of people employed under his parents and if today was the day Tim noticed how similar their vacant indulgence was to Alfreds’ steadfast professionalism he would probably break in irreparable ways.

He forcibly calmed his breathing and glared at the mug between his ankles. He ignored how that feeling from earlier had strengthened and barricaded itself in his chest and was making it hard to focus on his heartbeats.

There was Stephanie, one of his oldest and long-lasting companions. He could call her but she was pretty likely to be busy and thus not answer or be rightfully angry and thus not answer. He would have no way of knowing except that he knew which one was most likely if only based on historical precedence. He had been a bad boyfriend but a better friend- that of course didn’t mean much, it wasn’t a particularly hard bar to clear after all. Even disregarding all of their history, Tim hadn’t really spoken to Steph since blowing into town with ninjas on his heels and animosity between them a mile wide. They still hadn’t really sat down and talked about everything from her death, the gang war, and his radio silence during his search for Bruce. It felt wrong to call her up like none of that had happened and she still wanted him around as anything other than a competent yet obnoxious coworker.

The thought of Steph ached like a bruise and that pain only compounded the marching drumbeat in his chest that called out in gleeful tones "Not wanted, not wanted" and so Tim snuffed it like the wick of a bomb and moved onward once more.

Babs was always available, somehow. She made a point to keep a line open for any capes in the Gotham area no matter how frosty the personal relationship had gotten. But that was for professional things, and Tim didn’t know if he could deal with reaching out to her for comfort only for her to remind him exactly how they’d left things. He’d had a case related theory- Bruce wasn’t dead. Dick had disagreed, Barbara had disagreed, everyone had disagreed. Tim had pushed and Dick had taken it both personally and poorly, that moved things from a professional dispute between allies to a personal spat between the nosy neighbor and her long time closest companion. There was no version of reality where Babs chose Tim over Dick, honestly there probably wasn’t a version of reality where anyone chose Tim over anyone they even vaguely liked- let alone loved. It would be absurd to expect her to push past how he’d hurt Dick, even though he’d been right, and it was impossible for Tim to push past how she’d left him to fend for himself out of spite despite the fact that he should’ve expected it and known better.

Tim was trying hard not to catastrophize, he knew that was what it was actually called when he came up with one thousand plans with ten backup versions each, but it was so tempting to script his conversations so that nothing could go wrong. It was nearly fool proof and most of the time it felt like it was almost worth the consequence of looking in the mirror and having his gaze drawn to how his mothers eyes and bone structure fit comfortably on his face. There was always the chance that someone would see his railroading for what it was, but Young JustUs and Steph had been the only people to do so in any meaningful way.

There was nothing stopping him from call Kon, Bart, or Cassie. Well, that was almost true- Kon would answer but he had better things to do than hold his hand through the consequences of his self-imposed isolation. The super was just barely on good terms with Clark and testing the waters of a brotherly relationship with Jon- he had actual, real problems to deal with that didn’t have anything to do with the sort of best friend that had gone insane when he died and tried to clone him back to life. Bart was in a similar boat in that he definitely shouldn’t have to help someone who was somehow less emotionally adjusted than him handle reality. The speedster was beginning to settle back into this time period, and seemed to be believing in the permanence of it in a way he hadn’t before he’d died. Tim didn’t need to shake that up just because he was coping poorly with his own decisions. Cassie was an entirely different situation that Tim was in no way equipped to handle with competency. How do you ask your ex-girlfried/bestfriend/group life partner to tell you she still cares about you when your last proper conversation was her telling you how insane you’d gone and you telling her that you didn’t need her anymore- you don’t, that’s how.

Even though Young JustUs had been prepared to be together until the heat death of the universe, Tim should’ve known better than to hang his hopes on something as flimsy as that. People simply didn’t stay with Tim, which was something he’d learned at the age of ten when his parents had skipped every holiday that year (and his birthday) without comment or apology, he just knew that ten year old would be embarrassed at how far he’d fallen just because some people had been nice to him for a little while. He should’ve known better then and he did know better now.

Bruce was alive and in the correct time so he should be an option, but even Tim wasn’t that delusional. The man was still settling into the modern day and his new family dynamics that had changed without him. True, he was Batman again and Damian was his Robin- but the demon brat still deferred to Dick more often than not and Dick was a little too smug about such preferential treatment to discourage it in any meaningful way. Not that Dick was particularly good at discouraging the boy of any behaviors even when he didn’t enjoy the results but, water and bridges and such. Bruce was chafing under his performative authority and thus going on some sort of family building kick as a consequence. He would definitely answer, but Tim wasn’t sure he could withstand any sort of relationship they built getting thrown to the side once this little tantrum ended. This call would mean too much to Tim and be nothing more than bragging rights or blackmail for Bruce, there was a reason he was the bottom of the list.

Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne was sitting on the floor of his perfect apartment with his head between his knees and a recently emptied coffee mug next to him when he realized, with a sharp exhale like a punch to the gut, that it didn’t matter.

He shot up from his perch, kicking the mug across the room to shatter against the wall, and he laughed. He laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. He laughed so hard he choked and shook and began to sob. Here he was, freaking out in his stupid apartment in ways he hadn’t since the first time his parents left him home alone for more than a week, and for what reason? He had known this little spectacle wouldn’t mean anything but tears in the end, what was his fascination with self-torture that he’d needed to break it down on a person by person basis like it wasn’t a foregone conclusion as of four years ago when he’d wedged his way into this doomed mission with nothing but empty hands and spite. His sobbing picked up volume and his breathing got sharper.

In some distant way Tim was aware that he was having a panic attack. A pretty bad one, if the crying and shaking had anything to say about it. But in that same distant way he didn’t really care. He was watching himself choke on his tears so hard that he had to curl over and vomit on the hardwood floors and he couldn’t bring himself to feel any type of way about it. What did it matter if he choked to death on his vomit in this perfect, sterile penthouse all by himself? Wasn’t it a little poetic, in a morbid sort of way?

If it wasn’t for the fact that Janet Drake had no physical choice, she would’ve skipped his birth just like his father had- she probably would’ve avoided his birth happening all together if they’d had their way. They’d left him alone as soon as they could get away with it, and he’d wasted away his years waiting for them to come back and acknowledge that they had a son. Wouldn’t it be ironic if he died choking on the physical manifestation of his loneliness in an apartment that reminded him too much of his childhood home to ever be comfortable?

Tim- not Drake or Wayne, just Tim-Nobodies-Son, spread out on his freezing floors and tried to breathe through the suddenly overwhelming urge to see if a second fall from a window would do the job. He tried to beat back the echoing voice that seemed to emanate from the middle of his chest, that had graduated from “not wanted” to “never wanted”, because he could see the next escalation coming from a mile away and he knew there was nobody there to stop it but him- like always. And ever so slowly his tears dried, tacky and embarrassing, and his shame returned to him like his coffee had just a moment ago.

He sighed loud and long, “What am I even doing? I’m lucky dad is dead- at least he doesn’t get to see exactly how right he was.”

As the boy kneaded the tension from his forehead he noticed a clicking sound that, in hindsight, had been echoing around his walls for quite awhile.

And then Jason Todd, in all his murderous glory, was standing in his doorway with lock picks in hand and an unreadable expression on his face.

#fanfic #tim drake #dc universe #batman #red robin #Jason Todd #mentioned batfamily #hurt/comfort #grace is writing

[pareidoliaonthemove]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last ten people however many you want who reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals & followers!! <3

@astranite Sorry this took so long to get to, but this required an actual keyboard to answer, and some thought.

So here, in no particular order, is five things that make me happy:

1 Coffee. I'll put my hand up and admit that, yes, it is an addiction, but it also, genuinely makes me happy. One of my favourite things in the world is spending a morning curled up on the lounge in my pjs and blankets, reading with a coffee, or two, or three ...

2 Reading. I love the written word. I'm not terribly fussy, and read fiction and non fiction equally. I am known at the local library, and book stores. Ebooks are practical, but paper is better. If you get it, you get it, don't ask me explain why it is. Also: All Hail FanFiction Writers! You're saving both my sanity and my bank account!

3 Learning. Probably sounds lame, but I love learning new things, and again, I'm not all that fussy. It's rarely formal education. I favour reading on a subject, and have been known to randomly email strangers to ask questions. Sometimes I even get an answer. At the moment, it's 'human factors' and railway engineering, because I've been going through the reports on train crashes for work, and want to make sure I'm understanding what they're saying. Who knows what it'll be next?

4 Making things. Embroidery, jewellery, knitting, woodwork, sewing, whatever it is that takes my fancy. Busy hands is happy hands. Being good isn't required. Doing is. (Housework isn't making things. Housework does not make me happy.)

5 And this one was hard, but: My Job. Don't get me wrong, most days I'll bitch and whine and moan and complain. Too hot, too cold, too wet, too much dust, flies, stupid hours, long hours, stupid people, creepy gunzels. But ... I drive TRAINS. And that is cool. And every so often, I get a reminder of that fact. People waving at you, the sheer delight when you blow the whistle for them. The way total strangers eyes light up when you're talking and they ask what your job is. Yeah, I love my job.

Thanks for the opportunity to talk about these things!

#ask #astranite #things that make me happy #happiness

[deldeldel90]

warning for grief, death, seclusion, angst, and derealization/dislocation (not sure if it fits, but I think it does, better be safe than sorry)

I need to stop coming up with aus that I'm probably never gonna get the chance to write but

- modern/non-royalty au where maria is the daughter of famous (really famous) film "director" (he usually just stands around and everybody else ends up doing the work) Jack. she's been hidden away from the public eye since she was born, homeschooled and , until she was twenty, lived with her siblings.

- everybody else seems to be going about their daily life, yknow, until... gwen dies.

- and it shatters everyone.

- their father is sobbing. Jamie's lost, staring blankly at the casket of his twin, crying quietly, his other half. Lorena's screaming, throwing up, babbling. Maria is.... silent.

- she stays silent, quiet. As if she's in a trance, as if she's seeing nothing, hearing nothing. In another world.

- (she wants to be in another world, a world where her sister is alive, where she's six and her sister is afraid of the thunderstorms and they're together, hugging, telling stories. she wants to be in that world.)

- at age twenty-one, the media slams her, the blonde ice queen, the heartless sister, the terrible, no good daughter who couldn't force a tear out her eye on her littlest sister's funeral.

- articles are written. Maria impulsively reads every one, not skimming for a moment. She hangs on every word, every rumor.

- she needs to know, if this is real or not. It doesn't feel so.

- over the course of five years, five years of what feels like everyone moving on, flourishing, Maria falls apart. She decomposes.

- she's a reculse who stays in all day, not going outside for even groceries. She lives in an apartment away from her family. She doesn't talk to them. At all.

- she's not completely alone, however, she's got her childhood pet cat Colonel Snuggles and her birds that wish her good morning everyday.

- and, you know, maybe if she pretends Gwen's alive enough, then it'll make everything ok. Maybe if she beings breakfast to an empty seat everymorning it'll be ok. Maybe if she talks to gwen a little more, it'll make her alive again.

- she hasn't visited her grave since the funeral. Hasn't seen the body, ever.

- is she really dead?

- (she is)

- Maria is perfectly content on living like this, sees no point in doing anything, being anything. she's fine with this.

- sometimes, she writes songs. About birds and dreams and faraway places. Places Gwen would go onto when she's gone (well. she's already gone but-)

- one day, however, Colonel Snuggles yowls with on his might, and suddenly, when Maria opens her door, shaking, trembling, she's met with her new neighbor.

- his name is Beckett. A single father who's the member of every parent group there is. Hes reliable and honest and a tad brutal when she catches him off-guard.

- after a few weeks of knowing him, of accidently sharing things, he frowns. Saddens. And, pulls her into a hug.

- Beckett, gentle as ever, he invites her to.. therapy. Group therapy.

- Maria goes.... because... um... well.

- (gwen would want this, wouldn't she? And, Maria... Shes missed the sunshine on her skin. She missed talking to people. She missed-)

- she goes.

- its an odd group of people: the mother of one of the sons she was supposed to marry, Mrs Isolde, a nurse named Asa, a girl named Renée, a loudmouthed gardener who seemed to only be here for the free gluten-free muffins than anything else (Saffron, his dumb name, and Maria found him quite annoying...), and a twitchy nineteen year old named Monika (who Saffron supported at every opportunity). Between both Maria and Beckett's entrance, it was seven people in a circle.

- and they were all looking at her.

- oh, no.

- Maria used to love her siblings' attention on her as she sang her heart out, childish concerts where gazes were glued to her perfermance... now, as a freshly twenty-six with no prospects over than living the rest of her days on a hefty trust fund, it doesn't feel so good.

- Maria stammered,

- cursed under her breath,

- and she shook her head wildly. "Um.. can I get a moment?" She asked timidly.

- "no," the supposed leader, Saffron, says, deadpan. "If you don't answer now, I'm afraid to say you're kick-"

- "Saffron!" A woman cuts in. The real leader. "Sorry 'bout him. You give him five minutes of being in charge and suddenly..."

- saffron pouts, sitting back in his seat, crossing his arms.

- She shakes her head, laughing, before offering a kind smile to Maria. "You don't have to introduce yourself right now, if you're not ready."

- Maria looks at her, a warm feeling bubbling in her stomach uncomfortably. It sorta feels like just before she's about to throw up. "Thank you."

- a couple of minutes of chatter passes by before the woman (Prez, her nametag says) gets to the point.

- "I think the first exercise of today is saying the first thing that comes to your mind when you think about guilt."

- Mrs Isolde closes off even more. Monika shifts in her seat. Asa's eyebrows furrow in thought.

- "I murdered my fiance." is not what she expected to hear, especially not from Prez.

- that gets a startled laugh out of Maria. Then, suddenly, everyone's eyes are on her.

- (it reminds her of the media. It reminds her of Gwen's last stare as she asks which colleges Maria will go to. It reminds her of Mrs Isolde from so long ago. It reminds her of people watching and looking and judging. Maria can't stand it.)

- (she wants to hide again.)

- "Oh, um."

- her turn, it's her turn. She can think of a million things when she thinks about guilt. She didn't (doesn't) talk to Gwen enough. She hasn't kept in contact with her family. She doesn't deserve to. She can't finish her songs. She forgot to buy bird food when getting her groceries delivered. She accidently stepped on Colonel Snuggles' tail two days back.

- she can't say anything of that because its too pathetic and too personal and she can't get any of it off her tongue but everybody keeps looking at her and-

- "I haven't washed my hair in two weeks."

- silence.

- utter. Silence.

- "really?" A murmur from Saffron, his long dyed-green hair swishing as he shakes his head. "How the hell does it look so shiny then..."

- "good conditioner," Maria answers instantly, forgetting her worries for the moment. "Its from Switzerland."

<3

#cursed princess club #cpc au

[thefisherqueen]

I'm reading Letters from Watson's The Veiled Lodger today on this cloudy, quiet saturday morning. I'm so ready for the coming autumn! Give me rain, cold, long dark evenings to cuddle up in blankets and just do quiet things by myself. But I'll have to wait a while, it'll be sunny and warm again next week here in the Netherlands

When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice for twenty-three years Wish I could retire after only 23 years. I'd be halfway there already

There is the long row of year-books which fill a shelf, and there are the dispatch-cases filled with documents, a perfect quarry for the student, not only of crime, but of the social and official scandals of the late Victorian era. My librarian and social historian and archivist heart is fluttering at this

I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes's authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will understand. A very politely worded threat. Tread carefully, unknown citizen, I don't think that Watson will take kindly to any kind of danger regarding his dear Holmes. I do want to read about those buglary attempts, though. And certainly about the trained cormorant

But the most terrible human tragedies were often involved in these cases which brought him the fewest personal opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record. So I'll need to prepare for a tragedy today? *grabs some tissues*

an elderly, motherly woman of the buxom landlady type What does that mean? *googles buxom landlady* Oh. Pretty much the only results are literal porn videos and erotic fiction novels. Not what I expected. Did Watson really just call her the victorian equavalent to a milf?

"This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend, with a wave of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if you wish to indulge your filthy habits. I hope Watson told Holmes to shut his nicotine stained mouth after this

Mrs. Merrilow has an interesting story to tell which may well lead to further developments in which your presence may be useful." "Anything I can do——" It's probably just a result of me looking up 'buxom', but this reads like the start of a porn script. Fucking hilarious

You say that Mrs. Ronder has been your lodger for seven years and that you have only once seen her face." "And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow. "It was, I understand, terribly mutilated." Now that switches the mood around really quickly. Who did what to this poor lady's face

She seems to be wasting away. And there's something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries. 'Murder!' And once I heard her, 'You cruel beast! You monster!' she cried. It was in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers through me. So I went to her in the morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says, 'if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there's the clergy,' I says, 'and there's the police. Between them you should get some help.' 'For God's sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the clergy can't change what is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease my mind if someone knew the truth before I died.' I will really need those tissues, won't I? I like that women go to Holmes with their troubles, probably having heard from other women that he will be sympathetic and respectful and willing to help

Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room—no other verb can describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression Very, very unnecessairy addition, Watson

For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all round him, and one open upon his knees. Holmes has the best poses

The caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small village in Berkshire England really has the funniest place names

He was the rival of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day. There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he and his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy. A case of abuse in the world of show business, then

"They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion. Sahara King was its name *does some reasearch* I learnt a new Thing. Apperently lions used to be quite common in north Africa. Since the 60's the local population is considered extinct in the wild. I guess, then, that it was the lion who attacked this woman

There was no other point of interest in the evidence, save that the woman in a delirium of agony kept screaming, 'Coward! Coward!' as she was carried back to the van in which they lived. Now that is curious. Did mr. Ronder assault the lion in some way, maybe, upon which it turned against them?

"I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the other points, I think I could suggest a solution." "I should be glad to consider it." I think it is the first time so far that Watson comes up with his own theory? Keep doing that my dear :)

I fear I lied to him. Perhaps it would have been wiser had I told the truth." "It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?" "Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction upon my conscience. We had been so close—so close!" Is she talking about her husband, which would make not much sense as he was already dead, or about someone else?

"You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I may not myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police." Refreshing honesty from Holmes here

Reading is the only pleasure which Fate has left me, and I miss little which passes in the world. :(

"Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the story. I think I know where this is going. Did ms. Ronder have an extramarrial affair with the strongman?

When I became a woman this man loved me, if such lust as his can be called love, and in an evil moment I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the devil who tormented me. Husband was an abusive asshole

"Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he was like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in that splendid body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the Angel Gabriel. He pitied me and helped me, till at last our intimacy turned to love—deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had dreamed of but never hoped to feel. So they did have an affair. But he was abusive, too. This is a very sad story

One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our van. We were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I understood that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to live. We planned that he should die. Murder! And then, after, the strongman also attempted to murder her? Oh, no, I think the lion was seen mauling her face. Something clearly went wrong

Leonardo could have saved me. If he had rushed forward and struck the beast with his club he might have cowed it. But the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror, and then I saw him turn and fly. That explains the shouting of 'coward!' Can't really blame the strongman for freaking out, though, that's a natural reaction

Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me and I was hardly conscious of pain. I think that was the adrealine, madam

When I came to myself, and saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion—oh, how I cursed him!—-not because he had torn away my beauty, but because he had not torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough money to gratify it. It was that I should cover myself so that my poor face should be seen by none, and that I should dwell where none whom I had ever known should find me. That was all that was left to me to do—and that is what I have done. A poor wounded beast that has crawled into its hole to die—that is the end of Eugenia Ronder." Very tragic. Cruel world, making her feel like she like she had to cover her face and hide away. The misogyny of it all. Is it really the worst thing that can happen to a woman, to get visible scars and deformities? Are our appearances really our whole worth? Men with scars are at least considered heroes. Women are just 'ugly'

But what of this man Leonardo?" "I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one of the freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the lion had left. She speaks with such loathing of herself. Horrible of Leonardo to abandon her

"Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it." "What use is it to anyone?" "How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world." I will not cry I will not cry

Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest What would that look like? I can't picture it

Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up. There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I opened it. "Prussic acid?" said I. "Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will follow your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we can guess the name of the brave woman who sent it." She didn't! I'm so relieved. I need to believe she keeps in touch with Watson and Holmes and someday feels free to go outside unveiled

I made it without crying. Well, that was certainly a different kind of story than most of the other ones. Quite beautiful, though, it evoked some deep thoughts. I loved the ending

#letters from watson #sherlock holmes #the veiled lodger

[mugiwara-no-toshokan]

Some Direction

CisFem Reader x Roronoa Zoro

CW: Language, stalking, violence, sexual themes and situations, ptsd -- surprisingly fluffy despite it all. 18+ only

Chapter 2: Directionally

"Let me get this straight," you say, your hands pressed together in front of you as you sit in the backroom with Zoro. You had forcefully, and angrily, kicked everyone else out. "You left the dojo with the intention of walking to the main branch, so you could go through your Match Book in peace, and somehow you ended up here?"

Zoro, previously picture-perfected scowl and all, is sitting across from you, and just grunts in response.

"... Which direction did you go when you left the dojo?" You're almost afraid to ask.

"West."

"Okay, but..." No, no you weren't going to say it, never mind. Let's just put the fact that the Main Branch was north of the dojo off to the side for now. He could've actually gone north, thought it was west, and yet somehow ended up taking a large curve to the south and ended up in your library. "How can you be so bad at directions?"

Zoro's tongue clicks in irritation, and you realize you had said the last part out loud. No sense in apologizing, you had meant it and objectively it was true, and you felt like if you were overly concerned about his feelings he'd just get more irritated.

Sighing after a few moments silence, you set your Match Book off to the side. "Do you want to set up a meeting for tomorrow then?" You question. First meetings technically had to be witnessed, and were often attended by at least one family member from each side. You weren't breaking any laws by meeting accidentally like this, but it wasn't going to count for meeting within 48 hours if it wasn't properly witnessed.

"Sure." His face had been in a scowl for the last few minutes, but something about his tone made you think he wasn't angry, just uncomfortable.

"I'll... come to the dojo then. Your father's there, right? It'll be easier for both of you. I'm sure Brook will give me tomorrow off, so I can be by, uh, 1pm? If that's not too early?"

"It's not."

Well, it was a good thing you were used to having quiet nights. This man was certainly the laconic type. You wondered idly what topic of conversation you could get him on that would have him talking, even better - talking with a smile on his face. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't imagine him with a big smile on his face, and some part of you thought that was a shame.

Everyone should be able to smile.

"Alright then, I... uh... look forward to it." You smile, but it probably looks as awkward as it feels. This whole arranged marriage stuff was even more uncomfortable than you had expected.

He grunts, but doesn't argue. "Are you only bringing one more with you?"

"Eh?" You question, stopping in the middle of getting up.

"Tomorrow. Bringing your mom or dad or both."

Oh right, he didn't get a chance to really sit down and read his Match Book before you interrupted him. Well, he'd have some time to read over it today and tomorrow morning. You finished standing up and nodded to his Match Book.

"It'll just be me," you say, and this time your smile is well-practiced. "Let me walk you out."

He grunts again, but doesn't question your or argue. Not that the poor guy had much room to argue, you just hope he was truly thrown off by the Match Book, and not actually that terrible at directions. Otherwise, you might beat him back to the dojo tomorrow.

You get him through the library without incident, and without running into Nami, though you were pretty sure that was thanks to Robin. When you get to the door you hold it open for him.

"Sorry again for just uh, coming up behind you like that." You apologize as he steps past you.

"It's fine, it worked out." He replies, nodding his head slightly, and walking away. You saw him drifting to the left down the wide staircase.

"Ah, Mr. Roronoa?" You call out, causing him to turn around. You smile and point to the right. "Unless you're running errands, the dojo's that way." You didn't stick around to see if he needed the help or not, stepping back into the library quickly.

You spent the rest of your shift distracted, but no one held it against you. Brook hovered around you a little, but he didn't pester you with questions. He spent most of his time intercepting people who came up to you with questions and directing them on your behalf. The old man was surprisingly quick when the occasion called for it. He had even told you to take the next day off before you had a chance to ask for it.

Such accommodations were to be expected, but the whole thing still felt a little surreal to you. Ever since the World Government had implemented arranged marriages, there had been a slew of TV shows and Movies that had depicted how awkward first impressions could be. Inevitably the two people would come to an understanding, given enough time and communication. It was, at its core, propaganda for the masses, to smooth over the whole situation.

Still, you found yourself replaying sitcom episodes in your head and listening to songs about enemies to lovers as you went about your evening once you got home. You weren't put off of Zoro entirely, but you felt apathetic toward things so far. You didn't really want to spend your life going through a routine that just happened to have someone else on the edges of it.

What unsettled you was that your first impression of him was that he would, like you, allow that very thing to happen. A listless life, with no direction and no momentum. The only saving grace would be the government's insistence that you have at least one child, and the energy and chaos of a child was enough to throw any family into motion.

Wild, unstable motion maybe, but life wouldn't be listless.

You soaked in the tub until the water started to cool, tossed on an old over-sized shirt and drifted off to sleep.

. . . . . .

The next day you let your day start slowly, had a light breakfast, and put on a simple dress before doing up your hair a little. You wanted to look nice, but you didn't want to go to the nines and show up to find everyone else in t-shirts and jeans. You slipped on a pair of smooth-fabric tight shorts under your dress, which made walking more comfortable and saved you from any embarrassing moments if your skirt went rogue. Plus, there was just enough pocket space for a bus pass, your id and house key.

Instead of heels you opted for what were essentially leather-topped sneakers. They looked nice enough for work, but they were delightfully comfortable. Most of your wardrobe was practicality over fashion, but you could still manage being fashionable. You made sure your socks were a little on the thicker side, if this was happening in a dojo, you'd need to take your shoes off and still keep your feet warm.

With one last check to make sure you were presentable you caught the bus to cover most of the distance to the dojo. You could feel someone staring at you while you were on the bus, but you did your best to ignore it. It was a short ride between your home and the dojo, but it would've been a long walk.

The grounds of the dojo were walled off, which meant the entire block was. It was more likely that, as the city had developed around the dojo, the wall had been raised to minimize distractions within. This led to there being a large entryway, enough for cars to go through when needed, with a side door for people to come and go through.

It was done well, honoring the origins of the dojo while still having a clean modern sense, as though it was welcoming the city instead of trying to reject it.

Standing outside the main entrance, looking horribly uncomfortable in a suit and tie, was a grumpy looking Zoro. You did your best to suppress the amused smile that was tugging at your lips as you got close enough for him to turn toward you. He seemed a little embarrassed that you'd caught him grumbling about the suit. In some ways, it looked good on him, in more ways though, it looked awkward on him.

"It seems you're more for function than fashion as well." You muse, trying to help ease the tension with levity.

He grunts, but his silence was a surprising response.

"If you want to lose the tie at least, I didn't exactly stick to tradition either." You admit, lifting up your skirt as he turns to face you. His face twists in shock for a split second before he realizes you were wearing shorts under your skirt. You couldn't help the small laugh that escapes you as your let your skirt fall back down.

"Here," you say, reaching for the tie. "Let me wear it. Then your father won't be able to argue, right?"

"How?" He questions, stepping back from you and loosening the tie himself.

You shrug. "Your Match Book gave me some idea, but I did a lot of research when I was looking to learn martial arts, to make sure I had a good teacher." You take the offered tie and slip it over your head. "There's a lot of weight given to tradition and history, which isn't a bad thing, but that's why I assumed your father didn't leave you much room to argue."

You let your hair down, so that it covers the loop of the tie, and covers your shoulders a little. This way you look like you're wearing a tie, and not a noose.

"There! And look, it doesn't even clash with my dress." You offer a smile. "Problem solved, yes?"

The door beside the gate opened and a rather severe looking man came into view. He was wearing a suit, and unlike with Zoro, the look suited him in many ways. It was as tight and disciplined as you imagined he was. The man's face was wholly unreadable, but contained neither anger nor irritation.

You bow, ignoring the tie dangling from you, and straighten with a smile. "Mr. Dracule, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Miss (L/N), I'm glad you made it without issue." Mihawk's appearance and manner might be tight, but his voice was surprisingly smooth. "Please, come in."

"Thank you." You step inside as Mihawk steps aside. You turn to him after you've made room for Zoro to come in and smile as you hold onto the tie. "I hope you don't mind; I stole your son's tie when I arrived."

Zoro's ears went pink as he steps in and closes the door behind him, and the look Mihawk had been giving him melts away. He smiles at you, and the action is disarming, for the first time you think you might be able to imagine Zoro smiling.

"As long as it wasn't foisted upon you." Mihawk says pointedly, his gaze shifting to his grumpy son.

"Not at all," you assure him. "I was feeling a little under dressed and this simply makes us even."

Mihawk makes a noise that leaves you with the impression that he is simply accepting your explanation, despite not entirely believing it. You feel admonished, and almost start to apologize before he speaks up.

"Zoro, show Miss (L/N) to the tearoom." Mihawk prompts.

Zoro offers his arm to you without a word, and the level of etiquette brings a smile to your lips. You murmur a thanks and slip your arm through his. It was the most physical contact you'd had in years, and it was the first real contact you and Zoro had at all. He was warm, or you were warm, but there was no discomfort in that warmth.

Zoro leads you into the foyer, and you tuck your shoes away with the others you could see, putting on a pair of house slippers that had been provided, and stepping up into the hallway proper. You wait as Zoro does the same, and then leads you to the tearoom.

You were simultaneously relieved and disheartened to see a full table set up in the tearoom, western style chairs and all. It had been a long time since you attended a proper tea ceremony, and you were no longer as practiced at sitting properly for one. You could probably manage, but you'd be sore after. It would've been nice to get into the practice of it, but a first meeting wasn't the correct time to do so anyway.

The tea was delicious, and there was plenty of polite small talk. The whole point of a witnessed meeting was to try and shake off the awkwardness of first-time meetings. Generally, there were more than three people at the first meeting, but three was the minimum. You had no doubt that Dracule Mihawk was capable of keeping you and Zoro in check, no matter how things went.

After tea, Mihawk had Zoro take you on a small tour of the property. The landscaping was beautiful. There was a Zen Garden, a small western style flower garden in another area, and a green house in another location. You and Zoro opted to skip the green house, it was warm enough outside, the green house would just be humid on top of it all. There was a study and a small library, you were already in love with the place before that point, but the library was very well organized, and you gave your praise to whomever maintained it.

"A properly organized library is just relaxing." You muse as you leave the library behind and continue the tour.

"You sound like Mihawk-Sensei." Zoro replies, and you weren't sure if it was a compliment or not. He slides a door open, and it gives way to a large open room lined with tatami mats. No part of the property had been, by any stretch of the definition, messy, but the dojo proper seemed extra immaculate.

"Oh wow. Can I go in?" You question.

Zoro nods. "Sure."

You automatically slip your house slippers off before stepping onto the mats and walk slowly around the large open room. There are traditional burned wood planks that denote the Master, his assistants, and the students. The dojo is doing well, given the length of the roster. There are practical displays for shinai and bokken, and a few ceremonial displays that are likely true steel katanas.

Zoro is leaning in the doorway, just watching you move around the dojo. You're too absorbed in all the details of the room to notice anything more about him, but his gaze isn't making you uncomfortable.

"Is it rude to ask how old the dojo is?" You question, keeping your hands laced behind your back as you lean forward to read an inscription under a set of three katanas.

"The millennial celebration is in nine years." Zoro answers. "According to the official records."

"Mm. It's probably older than that then," you state straightening up. "It's good to celebrate what you can though."

Zoro grunts in response. You're starting to get used to it. It's his way of acknowledging that he's listening without prolonging a conversation he doesn't think needs to be prolonged. Time would tell if your assumption was correct, but there was nothing about him that made you feel he was duplicitous. He seemed like someone who didn't even want to waste time with the obvious, never mind wasting energy trying to hide who he was.

"Are you accepting new students?" You question half idly, half curiously, catching Zoro flinching slightly.

Mihawk answers, stepping into view, and entering into the dojo with you. "Are you interested in learning?"

You nod. "I haven't learned a weapon-centric style of martial arts before, but there's a practicality in getting back into the practice."

"Oh? What have you studied before?" Mihawk prompts.

"Tai-chi and Judo. The former more than the latter." You admit, walking over to two of them. "When I was completing my education to become a librarian, I didn't have the time to continue consistently, and after that I fell into my new job and hadn't looked for a new place to get back into things."

"Did you ever compete?" Mihawk asks, and you were starting to get the distinct impression he was asking on Zoro's behalf. Maybe everything he'd done today had been on the young man's behalf. As far as you were concerned that made him a good dad.

You shake your head. "I learned for self-defense and to keep in shape. Admittedly, the idea of hurting someone on accident during a match made me too nervous to try, and yeah I get that if I'm going to use it as self-defense someone is going to get hurt. But that's... different."

"Mm." Mihawk acknowledges shortly. "Your assumption being that in a match, your opponent doesn't mean to harm you."

"Yeah... Ah, I hope that's not rude of me?"

"To some, maybe. To others, no." He answers honestly. "It depends on the ideology of the person in question."

"Then... how would each of you take it?"

Zoro clicks his tongue and looks away with a scowl, and that was really all the answer you needed from him.

Mihawk offers you a small smile. "We are of a similar mind on this, but I don't begrudge you for your feelings."

"If he has learned his lessons well, then he doesn't either." Mihawk adds after a moment's pause.

Zoro grunts but didn't say anything else on the topic. "You've seen everything, are you hungry?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble. I had a small breakfast and the snacks from the tea seem to be wearing off." You answer with a strained smile, putting the house slippers back on.

The rest of the afternoon went well enough. You learned that Zoro wasn't much of a cook, but the meal of the day was a joint effort between him and his father. It was good, you weren't a picky eater, but it was as good as you could do, you were sure.

Light conversation continued, and things started to get a little more personal at the end of it.

"If it's uncomfortable Miss (L/N), you don't have to answer, but you brought neither family nor a friend with you today." Mihawk begins, "According to the Match Book, I can understand the former."

You nod, your practiced smile covering your face as you respond. "I'm sure the details were a little vague in the book, but I don't mind explaining." You take in a breath, no matter how often you told this story, it was always at least a little uncomfortable. "My biological parents were murdered by Kuro when I was five."

There was a lot hanging in that sentence, though neither Zoro or Mihawk reacted. Kuro had been a prolific serial killer 20 years ago, and everyone who had survived his bloody assaults had been believed to be cursed. It was simply referred to as being Kursed when people wrote it down, but the heavy emphasis on the word made it remarkable when spoken as well.

Kuro slaughtered nearly 100 people during the decade he was active, but he had double that in actual victims. The people who survived his attacks seemed to have a terrible aura of bad luck surrounding them, and people around those survivors seemed to die at an abnormally high rate. Sometimes accidents, sometimes disease, it wasn't like people around the survivors were murdered, but someone made a connection at some point and the idea of the curse was born.

You were, frustratingly, part of that statistic. "I was adopted some years later, and when I was sixteen my adoptive parents died in a car accident. After that I kept to myself. I petitioned the courts and was able to have myself marked as an adult at 16 and now here I am."

"I see." Mihawk says evenly, after a moment's quiet consideration.

You kept your same practiced smile. "I'm sure you can petition for a Rematch because of this, if you want."

Zoro's default scowl deepens, and you were surprised how neutral his original expression was in comparison. "Rematch? Over some stu-."

"Roronoa." Mihawk interrupts forcefully.

Zoro looks away, seething quietly.

"I doubt such action will be necessary." Mihawk responds. "My apologies for causing you discomfort Miss (L/N)."

"Oh, no apology needed." You assure him, and it was true. You had been dealing with the plethora of ways that people reacted to you being a survivor of Kuro's rage. 

The man was still on the loose, though most assumed he was too old to continue, since it had been some years since the last confirmed victim.

#Some Direction #Roronoa Zoro x Reader #Zoro x Reader #one piece fanfiction #arranged marriage #reader insert #x reader

[haejjoon]

jun henlo..!! i hope life's been treating you good <3 im nearing 2/2 in my p5r playthrough and the closer it looms the more reluctant i am to continue lol... so i pounced on ex machina as a very welcome distraction!! and also i missed sending you silly little asks haha

goro's terrible horrible no good very bad day huh! first he gets in a fight bc of being rightfully suspicious of akira, then he's hit with a panic attack in front of haru and panics more in its aftermath, then wildcard shenanigans, and then he has to deal with akira in person.... we all know he loves the last part though <3

i love seeing how the characters' relationships progress in ex machina!! it's like a very bumpy road. sometimes there are sinkholes and sometimes it's just a wheel track in the middle of a very dense forest. things will get easier for these kids i believe in them but for now oh, goro, you really are a very angry porcupine huh. you sure do love being mean. it's okay they still love you

ryuji sending goro good morning texts is absolutely sending ME. like omg. that's so on point. gm gobro let's hit the ball running today or whatever it is jocks say. never change ryuji you bestest boy. and also his bang-ass apology! so sweet and smart of him to acknowledge his wrongs. i still think goro was a touch too mean to ryuji during their argument but 1) it's goro yea he would be 2) ryuji would literally never hold it against him you're so right in that.......

the description of akira and goro's dialogue at the end..... chef's kiss <33 it's dancing it's sparring it's flirting even though goro probably doesn't quite realize the last part yet with how deep in denial he is. would be fun if akira treated him to sushi next chapter and goro fell back into his "kurusu is so suspicious actually" line of thought. also i uh really enjoy how akira's the one constantly seeking goro out bc honestly sometimes it feels like that's what i do when playing p5. i feel seen. thank you sksjsksk

anyway yea!! i really enjoyed the new chapter and i hope you had fun writing it <33 cheering you on from the sidelines!

HI NUGYLIEN i missed talking to you too!!! hope life's been treating you well

yep... been a pretty shit day for goro all around. agree on him being too harsh on ryuji, but it's just how he is—it'll take a long, long while before he sets his weapons down. right now he's around that stage where if he senses he said something too harsh/out of pocket, he'll apologize immediately (like when he snaps at ann for asking if he's okay), but his hackles raise QUICK when he feels threatened, i.e. haru.

RYUJI ABSOLUTELY SENDS HIM GOOD MORNING TEXTS EVERY DAY goro leaves him on read because man he just can't be assed.... on good days he'll reply with a "👍" and leave it at that LDMSKDJWK ryuji doesn't mind. he just likes showing off that he cares. he knows goro cares too.

im glad you liked their lil sequence at the end <3 because that's really what it feels like huh? wordplay in swordplay. even in canon everything they say to each other feels charged and filled with something More ... them dancing around each other is so, so much fun.

thank you so much for ur support man <333 hope you enjoy the rest of p5r.... 2/2 really does yank ur heart out and stomp all over it till its bleeding on the floor but man is it good.

#swap au asks